An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919

W >> William Orpen >> An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919

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About August, a burial party worked round Thiepval. Lieutenant Clark
was in charge of it, a sturdy little Scot. During the month or so they
worked there, they dug up, identified and re-buried thousands of
bodies. Some could not be identified, and what was found on these in
the way of money, knives, etc., was considered fair spoil for the
burial party.

Often, coming down Thiepval Hill in the evening, everything golden in
the sunlight, one would come across a little group of men, sitting by
the side of the battered Hill Road, counting out and dividing the
spoils of the day. It was a sordid sight, but for a non-combatant job,
to be a member of a burial party was certainly not a pleasant one, and
I do not think anyone could grudge them whatever pennies they made,
and most of them would have to go back in the trenches when their
burial party disbanded.

Down in the Valley of the Ancre, just beside the Thiepval Hill Road,
there was a great colony of Indians. They were all Catholics, and were
headed by an old padre who had worked in India for forty-five years--a
fine old fellow. He held wonderful services each Sunday afternoon on
the side of the Hill in the open air; he had an altar put up with
wonderful coloured draperies behind it, which hung from a structure
about thirty feet high. In the mornings, it was a very beautiful (p. 039)
sight to see these nut-brown men washing themselves and their bronze
vessels among the reeds in the Ancre; one could hardly believe one was
in France. And where was one? Surely in a place and seeing a life that
never existed before, and never will again. The rapidity with which
these Indians (they were a cleaning-up party) changed the whole face
of Thiepval and that part of the Ancre Valley was incredible.

[Illustration: XIV. _View from the Old English Trenches. Looking
towards La Boisselle._]

When working in the Valley of the Ancre region, coming home in the
evening, we would bring the car down to the water near Aveluy. It is a
long stretch of water, and the Tommies had put up a springboard. It
was a joy to take off one's clothes in the car and jump into the cool
water and watch all these wonderful young men stripping, diving,
swimming, drying and dressing in the evening sun, all full of life and
health. At one period, Joffroy, a very good French artist, who had
lost a leg, right up to his trunk, early in the War, used to swim
there with me. He had been a great athlete, and had a very strong
arm-stroke, and possessed one of the most beautifully-developed bodies
I have ever seen. One evening, after bathing, as we were driving back
to Amiens in the car, he stretched out his arms and said, "Orpen, I
feel like a young Greek god!" And, after a pause, added: "But only a
fragment, you know, only a fragment." He was a great man, and could
clamber over trenches with his wooden stump in a marvellous way.

I remember that summer a strange thing happened. One day I found, and
started painting, the remains of a Britisher and a Boche--just skulls,
bones, garments--up by the trenches at Thiepval. I was all alone. My
faithful Howlett was about half a mile away with the car. When I had
been working about a couple of hours I felt strange. I cannot say (p. 040)
even now what I felt. Afraid? Of what? The sun shone fiercely. There
was not a breath of air. Perhaps it was that--a touch of the sun. So I
stopped painting and went and sat on the trunk of a blown-up tree
close by, when suddenly I was thrown on the back of my head on the
ground. My heavy easel was upset, and one of the skulls went through
the canvas. I got up and thought a lot, but came to the conclusion I
had better just go on working, which I did, and nothing further
strange happened. That night I happened to meet Joffroy, and told him
about these skulls, and how peculiar one was, as it had a division in
the frontal bone (the Britisher's). He said he would like to go and
make a study of it; so I brought him out the next morning to the
place, I myself working that day in Thiepval Wood, about half a mile
further up the hill. I left him, saying I would come back and bring
him lunch from the car, as it was difficult for him to get about. When
I did get back I found him lying down, not very near the place, saying
he felt very ill and he thought it was the smell "from those remains."
He had done no work, and refused even to try to eat till we got a long
way away from the skulls. I explained to him that there was no smell,
and he said, "But didn't you see one has an eye still?" But I knew
that all four eyes had withered away months before. There must have
been something strange about the place.

Most of these summer months John Masefield was working on the Somme
battlefields. He preferred to work out there on the spot. He would get
a lift out from Amiens in the morning on a motor or lorry, work all
day by himself at some spot like La Boisselle, and walk back to the
bridge at Albert and look out for a lift back to Amiens. If we worked
out in this direction, on the way home our eye was always kept on the (p. 041)
look-out for him; but really it never appeared to matter to him if he
got back or not. I don't believe he minded where he was as long as he
could ponder over things all alone.

[Illustration: XV. _Adam and Eve at Peronne._]

The small towns and villages in this part of the country, behind the
old fighting line of 1916, were, for the most part, dirty and usually
uninteresting; but once clear of them the plains of Picardy had much
charm and beauty, great, undulating, rolling plains, cut into large
chequers made by the different crops. When a hill became too steep to
work on, it was cut into terraces, like one sees in many of the
vineyards in the South; these often have great decorative charm. A
fair country--I remember Joffroy sometimes used the word "graceful"
regarding different views in those parts, and the word gives the
impression well.

There is a beautiful valley on the left, as one goes from Amiens to
Albert: one looked down into it from the road, a patchwork of greens,
browns, greys and yellows. I remember John Masefield said one day it
looked to him like a post-impressionist table-cloth; later, white
zigzagging lines were cut all through it--trenches.

In the spring of 1917 it was strange motoring out from Amiens to
Albert. Just beyond this valley everything changed. Suddenly one felt
oneself in another world. Before this point one drove through ordinary
natural country, with women and children and men working in the
fields; cows, pigs, hens and all the usual farm belongings. Then,
before one could say "Jack Robinson!" not another civilian, not
another crop, nothing but a vast waste of land; no life, except Army
life; nothing but devastation, desolation and khaki.

CHAPTER VI (p. 042)

THE SOMME (SEPTEMBER 1917)

About this time I got a telegram from Lord Beaverbrook asking me to
meet him the next morning at Hesdin (Canadian Representatives' H.Q.);
so I left Amiens early, arriving at Hesdin about 11.45 a.m. There they
handed me a letter from him explaining to me that something very
important had happened, and that he had left for Cassel. Would I have
some lunch and follow him there? I lunched alone at the H.Q. and
started for Cassel, where I arrived about 2.30, and found a letter
telling me that he found that the aerodrome from which he wanted to
get the news he desired was not near Cassel, so he had left, but would
I meet him at the "Hotel du Louvre," Boulogne, at 4 p.m., as his boat
left at 4.20? Away I went to Boulogne, and walked up and down outside
the "Louvre." About ten minutes past four up breezed a car, and in it
was a slim little man with an enormous head and two remarkable eyes. I
saluted and tried to make military noises with my boots. Said he: "Are
you Orpen?" "Yes, sir," said I. "Are you willing to work for the
Canadians?" said he. "Certainly, sir," said I. "Well," said he,
"that's all right. Jump in, and we'll go and have a drink." So down to
the buffet we went, and we had a bottle of champagne in very quick
time, and away he went on to the boat, without another word, smiling;
and the smile continued till I lost sight of him round the corner of (p. 043)
the jetty. A strange day: I wondered a lot on the way back to Amiens,
where I arrived about 9.45. I never knew then what a good friend I had
met.

[Illustration: XVI. _A Grave in a Trench._]

As before, in Cassel, I first began to realise how wonderful the
workwomen of France were, so in Amiens I began to realise how
different the young men of France were to what one was brought up at
home to imagine. I had always been led to believe that an Englishman
was a far finer example of the human race than a Frenchman; but it
certainly is not so now. The young Frenchman is a keen, strong, hardy
fellow, and his general level of physical development is very high.

I remember this was brought home to me by having baths at Amiens.
There was one bathroom in the hotel, and it contained a bath, but no
hot water ran into it. So I told my batman to get hot water brought
there in the mornings. The bathroom was on the first floor of the
hotel, across on the other side of the courtyard from where I slept.
The assistant cook, a man six feet odd high, and weighing about
thirteen stone, a merry, jovial great giant, used to heat water for me
and put it into an enormous bronze tub, which held a whole bathful;
and he and my batman used to carry this upstairs; but if I happened to
come along at the same time, this great man used to bend down and pick
me up with his free hand and set me on his shoulder, and so to the
bathroom.

One morning, about a year later, he told me he was going to leave. I
asked him if he had got the "sack," or if he were leaving of his own
free will. "Neither," said he. "I'm called up; I'm of age." This
great, enormous man had only then reached the age of seventeen years. (p. 044)
It amazed me. I remember a sad thing happened. When he left I gave him
fifty francs and one hundred "Gold Flake" cigarettes. He had to go
through Paris to get to his regiment, and when he arrived at the Gare
du Nord they searched him, and found the cigarettes, took them from
him, and fined him two hundred and fifty francs. It was a sad gift.

About this time I painted de Maratray--philosopher, musician,
correspondent and clown.

Fane had gone, and Captain Maude was A.P.M. Amiens. Maude was a good
A.P.M. His police were well looked after and adored him. He never
wanted an officer or man from the trenches to get into trouble, but
did his best to get them out of it when they were in it. Often have I
been sitting at dinner with him at the "Hotel de la Paix" and one of
his police would come in and say, "A young officer is at the 'Godbert,'
sir. He's had too much to drink, and is behaving very badly." Maude
would curse loudly at his dinner being spoilt, but would always leave
at once, and would calm down whatever young firebrand it was, find out
where he had to go, and have him seen off by lorry or train to his
destination. All this meant much more trouble for Maude than to have
him arrested, and much less trouble for the culprit; but he always put
them on their honour never to do it again; and many are the letters I
have seen thanking him for being "a sport," and promising never "to do
it again"; and asking would he dine with them the next time they got a
night off? That was Maude's idea: he could not do too much for the men
from the trenches, and they appreciated it. Maude was loved all
through the North of France, except by a few rival A.P.M.'s. One (p. 045)
could easily judge what his character was like from his favourite
song:--

"Mulligatawny soup,
A mackerel or a sole,
A Banbury and a Bath bun,
And a tuppenny sausage roll.
A little glass of sherry,
Just a tiny touch of cham,
A roly-poly pudding
And Jam! _Jam!!_ JAM!!!"

[Illustration: XVII. _The Deserter._]

A lot of nice people used to come to Amiens at that period; Colonel
Woodcock and Colonel Belfield, the "Spot King," and Ernest Courage,
"Jorrocks," in particular. It all became one large party at night for
dinner. Maude was very popular with all the French officials, and
great goodwill existed between the French and the British, and
Marcelle's black eyes smiled at us from behind the desk, with its
books, fruit, cheese and bottles; smiled so well that had she been
different she might have out-pointed Marguerite as "Queen of the
British Troops in Picardy." But no, her book-keeping and an occasional
smile were enough for Marcelle, and she did them both exceedingly
well.

Poor Marcelle! Afterwards I was told that when the Huns began to bomb
Amiens badly she completely broke down and cried and sobbed at her
desk. She was sent away down South, to Bordeaux, I think, and we never
saw her again. It was sad. She was a sweet child, with her great dark
eyes, and the little curl on her forehead, and her keen sense of the
ridiculous.

The song of that time was:--

"Dear face that holds so sweet a smile for me.
Were it not mine, how 'Blotto' I should be."

But one night Carroll Carstairs of the Grenadier Guards breezed into (p. 046)
Amiens, bringing with him a new American song which became very
popular. The chorus ran something like this:--

"When Uncle Sam comes
He brings his Infantry;
He brings Artillery;
He brings his Cavalry.
Then, by God, we'll all go to Germany!
God help Kaiser Bill!
God help Kaiser Bill!
God help Kaiser Bill!

"For when Uncle Sam comes...." (Repeat)

One day Maude asked me to go to the belfry, the old sixteenth-century
prison of Amiens, a beautiful building outside, but inside it was very
black and awe-inspiring. The cells, away up in the tower, with their
stone beds and straw, rats and smaller animals, made one's flesh
creep. I am sorry I never painted the old fat lady who kept the keys
in the entrance hall, a black place, lit by an oil lamp which hung
over the stone fireplace. I put off painting her and her hall then for
some reason, and later she was killed by a shell at the door during
the bombardment. Here in the belfry the deserters were put, in an
endeavour to make them say who they were, and Maude asked me to go
this day because he had an interesting case.

A young man in a captain's tunic had been found in a brothel, and his
papers were very incomplete. He had no leave warrant. They found he
had been living at the "Hotel de la Paix" for about a week. He had
come to Amiens on a motor-bicycle, which he left in the street. They
telephoned to the "Captain's" regiment and found the "Captain" was
with his unit, but a tunic had been stolen from him at Calais. They (p. 047)
also found a motor-bicycle had been stolen from Calais, and that it
corresponded in number with the one found in the street.

[Illustration: XVIII. _The Great Mine. La Boisselle._]

We were given a candle, and climbed the black stairs to his cell. The
youth was in a bad state, sobbing. Maude told him how sorry he was for
him, and asked him not to be a fool, but to tell him the truth, and he
would have him out of that place at once. He agreed, and told a long
story, or rather--another long story. This was his third day and his
third story, and it turned out there was not a word of truth in this
one either.

He was one of the best-looking young men I ever saw, tall, clean-cut
and smart-looking. The next day Maude found out that most of his tears
were due to the fact that he was very badly diseased, and of course,
without any treatment, was getting worse daily. Maude could not stand
this, so he sent him to the hospital for treatment, from which the
youth promptly escaped, and was not found again for ten days. They
knew some one must have been hiding him, probably a woman; which
proved right. In ten days he was found, plus forty pounds, which the
lady had given him.

Maude gave him one more twenty-four hours' chance in the belfry; but
it was no good, only more lies. So he was sent to Le Havre, where I
believe no deserter has ever lasted more than forty-eight hours
without telling the truth and nothing but the truth. I presumed that
after that he was shot. The only thing I learnt for certain, was that
he was a Colonial private. Some time later I used to go very often to
a little restaurant in Paris, and became friends with one of the head
waiters. He said a customer had come in, giving the name of Lord
X----, and had engaged a table for dinner. He evidently had some
doubt about Lord X----, and asked me if I would know him if I saw (p. 048)
him. I said, "Certainly," as the name given was that of the son of
one of the best-known Earls in England. In he came for dinner, a very
good-looking man, wearing the Legion d'Honneur. Lord X----, the
deserter of the belfry!

The great mine at La Boisselle was a wonderful sight. One morning I
was wandering about the old battlefield, and I came across a great
wilderness of white chalk--not a tuft of grass, not a flower, nothing
but blazing chalk; apparently a hill of chalk dotted thickly all over
with bits of shrapnel. I walked up it, and suddenly found myself on
the lip of the crater. I felt myself in another world. This enormous
hole, 320 yards round at the top, with sides so steep one could not
climb down them, was the vast, terrific work of man. Imagine burrowing
all that way down in the belly of the earth, with Hell going on
overhead, burrowing and listening till they got right under the German
trenches--hundreds and hundreds of yards of burrowing. And here
remained the result of their work, on the earth at least, if not on
humanity. The latter had disappeared; but the great chasm, with one
mound in the centre at the bottom, and one skull placed on top of it,
remained. They had cut little steps down one of its sides, and had
cleared up all the human remains and buried them in this mound. That
one mound, with the little skull on the top, at the bottom of this
enormous chasm, was the greatest monument I have ever seen to the
handiwork of man.

There was another fairly large mine here, just by the Bapaume Road,
and there was a large mine at Beaumont-Hamel, and also the
"Cough-drop" at High Wood. These were wonderful, but they could not
compare in dignity and grandeur with the great mine of La Boisselle.

[Illustration: XIX. _The Butte de Warlencourt._]

Working out on the Somme, in the evenings as the sun was going down, (p. 049)
one heard constantly a drone of aeroplanes, which quickly grew louder
and louder, and before one could think, two of these great birds would
pass just over one's head, quite close to the ground. A couple of
minutes later, Bang! bang! bang! bang! and the boom and crash of the
guns. Presently you would see the two birds, high up, returning to
their aerodrome. They had gone up to the Boche trenches, in the eye of
the sun, machine-gunning them and dropping small bombs.

The Butte de Warlencourt looked very beautiful in the afternoon light
that summer. Pale gold against the eastern sky, with the mangled
remains of trees and houses, which was once Le Sars, on its left. But
what must it have looked like when the Somme was covered with snow,
and the white-garmented Tommies used to raid it at night? It must
surely have been a ghostly sight then, in the winter of 1916.

About this time I went to Paris several week-ends at odd times and
painted for the Canadians Generals Burstall, Watson and Lipsett, also
Major O'Connor. Poor Lipsett was killed by a shell later. He was a
thoughtful, clever, quiet man, and was greatly respected. Burstall was
a great, bluff, big, hearty fellow, and Watson was a fine chap, a real
"sport." O'Connor was A.D.C. to General Currie, and had been twice
wounded.

Paris! What a city!

"Paree!
That's the place for me.
Just across the sea
From Dover!"

CHAPTER VII (p. 050)

WITH THE FLYING CORPS (OCTOBER 1917)

About this time, the C.-in-C. was granted the Order of a Knighthood of
the Thistle. It was given to him by the King during his visit to
France in a chateau at Cassel. No one was present when he received
this honour. Just afterwards I did a little interior of the room.

General Trenchard and Maurice Baring chose out two flying boys for me
to paint, and they sat to me at Cassel. One was 2nd Lieutenant A. P.
Rhys Davids, D.S.O., M.C., a great youth. He had brought down a lot of
Germans, including two cracks, Schaffer and Voss. The first time I saw
him was at the aerodrome at Estre Blanche. I watched him land in his
machine, just back from over the lines. Out he got, stuck his hands in
his pockets, and laughed and talked about the flight with Hoidge and
others of the patrol, and his Major, Bloomfield. A fine lad, Rhys
Davids, with a far-seeing, clear eye. He hated fighting, hated flying,
loved books and was terribly anxious for the war to be over, so that
he could get to Oxford. He had been captain of Eton the year before,
so he was an all-round chap, and must have been a magnificent pilot.
The 56th Squadron was very sad when he was reported missing, and
refused to believe for one moment that he had been killed till they
got the certain news. It was a great loss.

The other airman chosen was Captain Hoidge, M.C. and Bar--"George" (p. 051)
of Toronto. Hoidge had also brought down a lot of Germans. His face
was wonderfully fitted for a man-bird. His eyes were bird's eyes. A
good lad was Hoidge, and I became very fond of him afterwards. I
arranged with Maurice Baring and Major Bloomfield that Hoidge was to
come to Cassel one morning at 11 a.m. to sit to me. The morning
arrived and 11 o'clock and no Hoidge. Eleven-thirty, 12--no Hoidge.
About 12:30 he strolled into the yard and I heard him asking for me in
a slow voice. I was raging with anger by this time. He came upstairs
and I told him there was no use doing anything before lunch, and that
we had better go down and get some food. We ate silently. I could see
he was rather depressed. About halfway through our meal, he said: "I'm
lucky to be here with you this morning!" "Why?" said I. "Oh," he said,
"I made a damned fool of myself this morning. Let an old Boche get on
my tail. Damned fool I was--with my experience. Never saw the
blighter. I was following an old two-seater at the time. He put a
bullet through the box by my head, and cut two of my stays. If old B.
hadn't happened to come up and chased him off I was for it. Damned
fool! But the morning wasn't wasted, afterwards I got two
two-seaters." I said: "Do you realise you have killed four men this
morning?" "No," he said, "but I winged two damned nice birds." Then we
went upstairs and he sat like a lamb.

[Illustration: XX. _Lieut. A. P. F. Rhys Davids, D.S.O., M.C._]

One evening, during the King's stay at Cassel, I was working in my
room about 7 o'clock, when a little scrap of paper was brought me on
which was written, "I am dining downstairs.--M. B." I went downstairs
and there was Maurice Baring, and, with luck for me, alone. We had a
great dinner. He was in his best form; for after dinner we went up to
my room and sat by the open window and talked and talked. Suddenly (p. 052)
Maurice stopped, and said: "What's that noise?" "What noise?" said I.
So we looked down into the courtyard--only about ten feet--and there
was "Boom," who had been dining with the King, and Philip Sassoon.
"What the devil are you two doing?" said "Boom." "We've both been
shouting ourselves hoarse for ten minutes. It's the last damned time
you dine with Orpen, Maurice!" It's true we never heard them--but then
Maurice was talking.

One morning, when the wind was very fresh, I got a telephone message
from Major Bloomfield telling me to come to the squadron at once and
see some "crashes." It was a glorious morning, blue sky, with great
white clouds sailing by. I got down to the squadron as quickly as I
could. A whole lot of novices from England had been sent out on
trials, and the Major expected "great fun" when they landed.

The fire was made big and a great line of blue smoke whirled down the
aerodrome to give the direction of the wind. Presently they began to
come back. Some landed beautifully--one in particular--and the Major
said to me: "Come on, I must go and congratulate that chap," and
started running for the machine. When we got closer, he stopped and
said: "Damn it! it's Hoidge, I forgot he was out."

I remember one poor chap in particular. He circled the aerodrome
twelve times, each time coming down for a landing and each time
funking it at the last moment. At last he did land, two or three
bumps, and then--apparently slowly--the machine's nose went to the
ground and gracefully it turned turtle. "Come along," said the Major,
and when we got to the machine the wretched pilot was getting out from
under it. "You unspeakable creature," said the Major. "Don't let me
see your face again for twenty-four hours." And away limped the (p. 053)
"unspeakable creature," covered with oil and dirt. I must add that
after lunch the Major went up to him and patted his back and said he
hoped he felt none the worse. But the thing that amazed me was, that
although the machine seemed to land so gently, the damage to it was
terrific--propeller and all sorts of strong things smashed to bits.

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