An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919

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

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[Illustration: XXI. _Lieut. R. T. C. Hoidge, M.C._]

Ping-pong was the great game at this squadron (56th), and I used to
play with a lot of them, including Hoidge and McCudden, but I did not
know the latter's name at that time. It was before he became famous.

One day I went there with Maurice Baring, and the Major was greatly
excited because they had just finished making a little circular saw to
cut firewood for the squadron for the winter. The Major had a great
idea that, as the A.D.C. to "Boom" was lunching, after lunch there
would be an "official" opening of the circular saw. It was agreed that
all officers and men were to attend (no flying was possible that day)
and that Maurice should make a speech, after which he was to cut the
end of a cigar with the saw, then a box was made with a glass front in
which the cigar was to be placed after the A.D.C. had smoked a little
of it, and the box was to be hung in the mess of the squadron. It was
all a great success. Maurice made a splendid speech. We all cheered,
and then the cigar was cut (to bits nearly). Maurice smoked a little,
and it was put safely in its box. Then Maurice was given the first log
to cut. This was done, but Maurice was now worked up, so he took his
cap off and cut this in halves. He was then proceeding to take off his
tunic for the same purpose, but was carried away from the scene of
execution by a cheering crowd. It was a great day. I remember Maurice
saw me back to Cassel about 1 a.m., after much ping-pong and music. (p. 054)
"I'll go back to the shack where the black-eyed Susans," etc., was the
song of the moment then in the squadron.

Shortly after this Major Bloomfield was ordered home, promoted and, I
think, sent to America. At this loss, a great gloom fell over the 56th
Squadron. I never saw any squadron in France that was run nearly so
well as the 56th under Bloomfield, nor any Major loved more by his
boys.

[Illustration: XXII. _The Return of a Patrol._]

CHAPTER VIII (p. 055)

CASSEL AND IN HOSPITAL (NOVEMBER 1917)

About this time I went to Paris and met several Generals and Mr.
Andrew Weir (now Lord Inverforth), and it was arranged that Aikman was
to go home to the War Office and that I, perhaps, might have my
brother out later to look after me. Aikman left, and I was very
lonely. A better-hearted companion and a kinder man one could not
meet, and regarding the intricacies of "King's Regulations" and
such-like things, he was a past master.

After this, whenever I went to Paris, the great thing was to stop on
the way at Clermont and lunch with "Hunchie." "Hunchie" kept the
buffet at the station. He had a broken back and had been a chemist in
Paris, but said he had come to the station at Clermont for excitement.
It was so exciting that Maude proposed stopping there for a rest cure!
But "Hunchie's" lunches were excellent. I remember one day on my way
to Paris, I asked him at lunch if he had any Worcestershire Sauce; he
had not. He asked me when I was coming back North again. I said the
next day, which I did, and stopped for lunch. He had the sauce. He had
been to Paris to get it. "Hunchie" was a wonder, so was Madame, and so
was their dog "Black."

One spot in Paris, the Gare du Nord, will always mean a lot to the
British Army on the Western Front. What sights one saw there!--masses
of humanity, mostly British officers and men, each with their little (p. 056)
"movement order": there they were in the heart of the Gay City. Yet
that little slip of paper would, in a couple of hours, send them to
Amiens, and a little later they would be at the front suffering Hell.
Laboreur did a wonderful etching of an officer bidding farewell to his
wife at the Gare du Nord. It gave the whole tragedy of the place--the
blackness, smoke, smell and crush. There, any night during an air
raid, one could not help thinking what would happen if the Boche got a
bomb on the Gare, with its thousands of fighting men all jambed
together under its glass roof in the semi-darkness. What a slaughter!
And yet through it all, if the old Gare could only speak, it could
tell some strange and amusing tales of that time--tales that would
make one laugh, but with the laughter there would be a catch in the
throat and a swimming in the eyes. It is extraordinary how funny
sometimes the most tragic things can be.

The weather had become very bad and cold, and I worked on all
impossible out-of-door days in my room in the "Hotel de la Paix,"
which was known as the "Bar." My only rule was that the "Bar" was not
open till 6.30 p.m. At times it nearly rivalled "Charlie's Bar." At
what hour the "Bar" closed I was not always certain, as, no matter who
was there, at about 10:30 I used to undress and go to bed, and so
accustomed did I get to the clink of glasses and the squirt of the
syphons that I slept calmly through it all. Among the regular
attendants when in Amiens were Captain Maude, "Major" Hogg, Colonel
MacDowall of the 42nd G.H., Colonel Woodcock, Colonel Belfield (the
Spot King), Captain Ernest Courage (Jorrocks), Captains Hale and Inge
(then of the Press), Bedelo (Italian correspondent), and Captain
Brickman--a merry lot, taking them all round, and that room heard some
good stories; some may have been not quite nice, but none were as (p. 057)
dirty or disreputable as the room itself, with its smell of mud,
paint, drink, smoke, and the fumes from the famous "Flamme Bleue"
stove. The last man to leave the bar had to open the window. This was
a firm rule. It sometimes took the last man a long time to do it, but
it was always done.

[Illustration: XXIII. _Changing Billets._]

By this period of the war nearly every French girl could speak some
English, and great was their anger if one could not understand them. I
remember a very nice girl, who worked at the "Hotel de la Paix," came
to me one day and said solemnly, "My grandfadder he kill him."
"Gracious!" I said, "whom did he kill?" "He kill him," was the furious
reply. Apparently the poor grandfather, living under German rule at
Landrecies, had committed suicide.

I went back to Cassel and began to itch, mildly at first, and I was
not in the least put out. My brother came to France, and I went to
Boulogne to meet him. His boat was to arrive at 6.15 p.m., but did not
get in till just 10 p.m. They had been away down the Channel avoiding
something. Driving back to Cassel we had a fine sight of bombing and
searchlights. Hardly a night passed at this period that the Boche did
not have a "go" at St. Omer. One night, just then, they dropped three
torpedoes in Cassel as we were having dinner, but Suzanne, the
"Peach," at her desk, never fluttered an eyelid. I believe afterwards,
during the summer of 1918, when things were quite nasty at Cassel, she
never showed any signs of being nervous: just sat at her desk, made
out the bills, and occasionally made some lad happy by a look and a
smile.

On some evenings we used to give great entertainments in the kitchen
of the "Sauvage." I would stand the drinks, and Howlett (my chauffeur)
played the mouth-organ, and Green (my batman) step-danced. It was an (p. 058)
amusing sight watching the expressions of those old, fat Flemish
workwomen of the hotel.

The itching got worse, so one wet, black evening I went to see the
M.O., took off my clothes in a dirty, cold, dark room, and he examined
me carefully with the aid of an oil lamp. "You've got lice," he said.
"Really?" said I. "Have you got a servant?" "Yes," said I. "Well, go
back and give him Hell, and tell him to examine your clothes." I asked
him about my foot, which had a hole in it about the size of a
sixpence. "That's nothing," said he. "Keep it clean." So back I went,
down the black cobbled street, called up my faithful boys, Howlett and
Green, and told them I was lousy. I took my clothes off, and they
examined them with electric torches and candles and oil lamps. Not a
thing could they find. "Do you mind my looking at you, sir?" said
Howlett. So he had one look. Said he, "If it were lice got you into
that state, you'd be crawling with them."

I stood the pain and itching another couple of days, and sent for the
M.O. to come to me. As there was more light in my room, he came and
had a look. "Ah!" said he, "I thought last time it might have been
that: you've got scabies. You must leave here for X---- in the
morning, and have all your bed-clothes sent round to me before you
leave."

[Illustration: XXIV. _The Receiving-room: 42nd Stationary Hospital._]

In the morning I broke the news gently to Madame that I was a "dirty
dog," and that my bed must go for a bit to be purged, and went round
to the A.P.M. to say good-bye. When I told him where I was being sent,
he said, "That place! Don't you do it. I was waiting there the other
day to see someone, and I counted ten bugs on the wall." That put the
wind up me, so I wrote to the M.O. and said I had an important (p. 059)
meeting at Amiens that evening at 6 p.m., and that I would report at
the X---- hospital immediately after that. He seemed rather hurt at my
getting out of his reach, but he let me go (as I mentioned having to
see the C.-in-C. on the way. It was wonderful what the mention of the
C.-in-C. did for one!). He gave me my slip for the hospital:

"Herewith Major Orpen, suffering from scabies. Please...."

and with this I departed for Amiens, where I reported to the Colonel
of the X---- Hospital. Over a whisky-and-soda I gave him the "slip,"
and he looked at my arm and said, "Yes, scabies," and I was put into
the isolation ward and treated for this disease. How more people did
not die in that hospital beats me. I personally never got any sleep,
and left in a fortnight nearly dead. Lights were out at 10 p.m. This
sounds good, but there were about eight of us in the ward. I had to
have my foot treated every three hours. The man in the next bed to
mine was treated for something every two hours; and nearly all the
other beds were treated three or four times during the night. For all
these treatments the lights blazed about twenty times each night, and
some of the treatments were very noisy. At 6.30 a.m., in the dark, the
nurse came round, and anyone who was not dying was turned out of bed.
Why, I know not: there was no heat in the place. If you were well
enough you went off to a soaking sort of scullery and heated some
water over a gas-jet and shaved. If you were not well enough, you sat
in your dressing-gown on a chair. You were not allowed to sit on your
bed. At 8 a.m. you were given an extraordinarily bad breakfast--porridge
with no milk, tea with no sugar, bread with--most days--no butter. (p. 060)
After breakfast you could go to bed again, but this was not allowed if
you were going to be let out during the day, as I was most of the
time. So there you sat again, freezing, till an orderly came and said
your bath was ready, usually about 9.30 a.m.--three hours after you
had left your bed. The bath was in an outhouse about fifty yards
across the yard from the ward. In hail, rain or snow, you had got to
go there. In it I was boiled in a bath, scrubbed all over with a
nail-brush, and then smothered all over with sulphur--wet, greasy,
stinking sulphur rubbed in all over me. I dressed by putting on a pair
of pyjamas first. These more or less kept this grease from getting
through to my other clothes, and I was allowed out to work--a sick,
freezing, wet individual. But my room at the "Hotel de la Paix" was
warm, and I sat over my "Flamme Bleue" all the morning. After I had
been treated with sulphur for "scabies" a couple of weeks, a hole came
in my throat just like the one I had on my foot--a white hole with a
black band round it, and all the flesh for about six inches beyond it
a deep scarlet. One morning the boy who washed me said: "I beg your
pardon, sir, but what are you being treated for?" "Scabies," said I.
Said he: "Don't say I said so, sir, but show the M.O. that thing on
your neck. You haven't got scabies, and this sulphur will kill you
soon." So I waited for the M.O. till he did his rounds. When he came
to me he said the usual, "Everything all right with you?" "No," said
I. "I've got a scabie on my neck that is worrying me." So he had a
look at it and said: "I don't think this treatment is doing you much
good. I shall get you dismissed from the hospital to-day." So I was
chucked out. I happened to have blood-poisoning, not scabies, and I (p. 061)
have it still. During the time I was in hospital, I got four very
amusing poems from a General at G.H.Q. They were the bright spots
during those days. I am sorry they are too personal to print.

[Illustration: XXV. _A Death among the Wounded in the Snow._]

About this time an officer told me a good story about my friend,
Carroll Carstairs. The Cambrai battle was on, and the Grenadier Guards
were advancing through a village. Carroll was with a brother officer,
and said suddenly, "Look at the shape of that church now! Isn't it
magnificent?" Another shell shrieked and hit the structure, and he
said, "Damn! the fools have spoilt it." I believe it was during this
battle he earned the M.C.

My brother became very popular with those he met in France. Too
popular, indeed, with the girls in the hotel at Amiens to please Maude
or myself. Maude and I used to complain about it. Maude would say,
"William, here you and I have been slaving for months to make
ourselves liked by these girls, and your blinking little brother comes
along, and cuts us out in a few days. It's disgusting." It was true:
Maude, the A.P.M., and I, "le petit Major," took a back seat. We
worked hard to prevent it, my brother did nothing: he kept silent,
laughed, and won. It was very sad, and we were much upset.

CHAPTER IX (p. 062)

WINTER (1917-1918)

Christmas came with much snow and ice. Maude and I went to dinner at
Captain MacColl's mess in the Boulevard Belfort. Maude remarked once,
"MacColl is the only intelligent Intelligence Officer I know." We had
a great dinner, and at 10 p.m. Maude and I went, in a blinding
snowstorm, to the police concert. I'll never forget the fug in that
place: it reeked of sweat, drink, goose and fags. They were all very
happy, these huge men; all singing the saddest songs they could think
of, including, of course, "The Long, Long Trail." American police were
there also. They had come to Amiens to learn their job. We left late,
but we had promised to return to MacColl's mess, so started for there,
but after we had fallen in the snow a few times, we gave the idea up
and went to bed.

About this time I went to H.Q. Tanks, and painted the General and
Hotblack, and had a most interesting time. General Elles was a great
chap, full of "go," and a tremendous worker. Hotblack, mild and
gentle, full of charm; one could hardly imagine he had all those
D.S.O.'s, and wound stripes--Hotblack, who liked to go for a walk and
sit down and read poetry. He said it took his mind off devising plans
to kill people better than anything else.

Then there was the "Colonel" of the Tanks--"Napoleon," they called
him. A great brain he had. Before the war he knew his Chelsea well,
and the Cafe Royal and all the set who went there. And there was a (p. 063)
dear young Highlander also, a most gentle, shy youth. He was very
happy one day; he had a "topping" time. He was out with the Tanks, and
he killed a German despatch-rider and rode home on his bicycle.

[Illustration: XXVI. _Some Members of the Allied Press Camp._]

One morning when I was painting the General, he told me that my old
"Colonel" from G.H.Q. was coming to lunch. I hadn't seen him since he
sent the telegram, "When do you return?" When he arrived we were all
in the hall, but he didn't take the slightest notice of me. Presently,
we went in to lunch. He sat opposite to me, and about halfway through
the meal, he said, "Hello, Orpen! I didn't see you before." To which I
replied, "You have the advantage over me, sir. I don't remember ever
having seen you before." It was no good. We would never have made good
friends.

I regret that one night, while I was staying at G.H.Q. Tanks, I got
"blotto." It wasn't altogether my fault, people were so hospitable. It
was a night when I dined with General Sir John Davidson, "the Poet,"
at G.H.Q. I left "Tanks" on a bitterly cold, wet evening, and called
at the Canadian chateau at Hesdin. I found them all sitting round a
big fire. It was tea-time. The Colonel, who saw I was cold, gave me a
whisky-and-soda, which he repeated when I left. I then went on to the
C.-in-C.'s chateau to see Major Sir Philip Sassoon, and found him in
his hut outside the chateau. As soon as I sat down he rang his bell.
The orderly came. "A whisky-and-soda for Major Orpen," said he. This
came. When I had got through about half of it, his telephone rang.
"Run upstairs, Orp," said he, "and see Allan (Colonel Fletcher), he's
laid up in bed." So off I went and found his bedroom. As soon as I (p. 064)
came in he rang his bell. His servant came. "Whisky-and-soda," said
he. When I was about halfway through this, there were footsteps on the
stairs. "That's the Chief coming," said the Colonel. "Gosh!" said I,
and I pushed my whisky-and-soda well under the bed. In came the
C.-in-C. "Hello, little man!" said he, "you look cold; and they don't
seem to be very hospitable to you here, either." He rang the bell. The
orderly came. "Bring Major Orpen a whisky-and-soda," said he. That did
it. He talked for about ten minutes, and left. And in came Philip with
my half-finished drink, cursing. "I've been standing on those damned
stairs with Orp's drink for the last half-hour waiting for the Chief
to leave." So, of course, I had to finish it. And then the Colonel's.
And I went off to General Davidson's, and he had a nice cocktail ready
for me, and a good "bottle" for dinner--after which I do not remember
anything. But it was a bit of bad luck, one thing happening after
another like that.

When I went back to Amiens I saw a good bit of the Press. The "Major"
had gone, and Captain Hale of the Black Watch had charge. A fine
fellow, Hale, as brave as a lion. He told endless stories, which one
could hardly ever understand, and he laughed at them so much himself
that he usually forgot to finish them. Rudolf de Trafford was there,
and old Inge, a much-travelled man; also Macintosh, a Parisian Scot.
It was very peaceful; no one dreamt that shells were soon to come
crashing through that old chateau. Ernest Courage, with his eyeglass
fixed in his cap, used to come into Amiens and finish lunch with his
usual toast, and then sing Vesta Tilly's great old song:--

"Jolly good luck to the girl who loves a soldier. (p. 065)
Girls, have you been there?
You know we military men
Always do our duty everywhere!

"Jolly good luck to the girl who loves a soldier.
Real fine boys are we!
Girls, if you want to love a soldier
You can all (diddley-dum) love me!"

and very well he did it.

[Illustration: XXVII. _Poilu and Tommy._]

General Seely asked Maude and myself to dine one night at the "Rhin."
Prince Antoine of Bourbon was there--he was Seely's A.D.C. During
dinner I arranged to go to the Canadian Cavalry H.Q. and paint Seely,
which I did, and had a most interesting time. Munnings was painting
Prince Antoine at this period, on horseback. He used to make the poor
Prince sit all day, circumnavigating the chateau as the sun went
round. I remember going out one morning and seeing the Prince sitting
upon his horse, as good as gold. Munnings was chewing a straw when I
came up to them. "Here," said he. "You're just the fellow I want. What
colour is that reflected light under the horse's belly?" "Very warm
yellow," said I. "There! I told you so," said he to the Prince.
Apparently there had been some argument over the matter. Anyway, he
mixed a full brush of warm yellow and laid it on. Just before lunch I
came out again. There they were in another spot. "Hey!" said Munnings,
"come here. What colour is the reflection now?" "Bright violet," said
I. "There! what did I tell you?" said he to the Prince; and he mixed a
brush-load of bright violet, and laid it on.

As the sun was sinking I went out again, and there was the poor
Prince, still in the saddle. Munnings had nearly as much paint on (p. 066)
himself as on the canvas. He was very excited. I could see him
gesticulating from a distance. When he saw me he called out: "Come
here quickly before the light goes. What colour is the reflection on
the horse's belly now?" "Bright green," said I. "It is," said he, "and
the Prince won't believe me." And he quickly made a heap of bright
green and plastered it over the bright yellow and bright violet
reflections of the morning and midday. So ended the day's work, and
the bright green remained in full view till the next sitting.

The day I arrived Munnings was much upset because he had no sable
brushes. He was telling me about this, and said, "Do you mind my
asking you three questions?" "Not at all," said I. "First," he said,
"have you got a car?" "Yes," said I. "Second," said he, "have you got
any sable brushes?" "Yes," said I. "Third," said he, "will you lend me
some?" "Yes," said I, and handed him over all I had. When I was
leaving I said to Munnings, "What about those sable brushes,
Munnings?" He replied: "Don't you remember I asked you three
questions?" "I do remember your asking me something," said I. "Well,"
said he, "the first question I asked was, 'Have you got a car?'" "What
the hell has that got to do with my sable brushes?" said I. "A great
lot," said he. "You can damn well drive to Paris and get some more for
yourself. I haven't a car."

About a week later I painted the Prince. He was a most devoted A.D.C.
to the General. It was very sad his getting killed afterwards.

[Illustration: XXVIII. _Major-General the Rt. Hon. J. E. B. Seely,
C.B., etc._]

[Illustration: XXIX. _Bombing: Night._]

CHAPTER X (p. 067)

LONDON (MARCH-JUNE 1918)

I was now ordered back to London--I forget what for, something about
expenses, I think. Lord Beaverbrook had become my boss, and they were
going to pay all my expenses. It was a nice thought, but they never
did.

I went with my brother up to G.H.Q. on March 20th to get warrants from
Major A. N. Lee, D.S.O., and went on to Boulogne, and there met Ian
Strang, who dined with us at the "Morny." There was a raid on when we
came out from dinner, and people wished us to take shelter; but we had
dined very well. The next morning there was a thick mist low down,
with a clear sky above. When I got on the boat I met General Seely,
who introduced me to General Sir Arthur Currie, who said: "You used to
billet at St. Pol, usedn't you?" "Yes, sir," said I. "Well," said he,
"I have just come through it. They got seven fourteen-inch shells into
it this morning." "Has the offensive started?" said I. "That's about
it," said he.

London seemed very strange to me at first. I felt very out of things.

Nobody I met, except the soldiers, or those who had been to France
like myself, seemed to have any thoughts in common with mine: they did
not appear to want to think about the fighting man or of the colossal
deeds that were being done daily and nightly on the several fronts.
No, they all talked of their own war-work. Overworked they were, (p. 068)
breaking up--some at munitions; some at shoemaking classes; others
darning socks--and they were all suffering terribly from air raids. In
fact, to put it in a few words, they were well in the middle of the
world war; they were just the same as the fighting man in France or on
some other front.

Then it was that the definite thought came to me: the fighting man,
the Hero, will be forgotten; that the people of England who have not
been "overseas" and seen them at work, would never realise what these
men have been through--win or lose, they would never know.

Their constant talk was of the terrible things they at home were going
through on air-raid nights. It hurt me--their complaining about their
little chances of damage, when I knew that millions of men were
running a big risk of being blown into eternity at any moment, day or
night. It is true, my first visit home made me realise that the
fighting man after the war would be ignored, and I knew the
reason--"Jealousy." I had been given the chance of looking on, and I
had seen and worshipped. But if I had not seen, I might have felt just
the same as those who stayed at home. Jealousy is one of the strongest
things the human mind has to struggle against. Even now, after joint
victory, it is one of the things the Allied nations have to guard
against, for it exists between them, but surely the bond of the dead,
that great community:--

"The Chosen Few,
The very brave,
The very true,"

French, British, Belgian, Italian, Portuguese and American, surely (p. 069)
they should be enough to hold us together in love and respect, without
jealousy, or any envy, hatred or malice in our hearts!

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