Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/326

Dear Charles,―A perfect spring morning; a clean, but rather idle street leading to an even cleaner and more idle railway station. Facing the station, half right, a café, and also facing the station, half right, myself and my brother officers full of good will towards humanity in general in spite of the execrable coffee and bacon we have just eaten. We sit on chairs on the pavè, and far above us in the blue sky flutters gracefully an aeroplane. It is an exceedingly pretty sight; it becomes even prettier when little white clouds suddenly appear round it from nowhere. If one happened to be looking when the little white cloud arrives, one sees a flash, but whether it is an English aeroplane being shelled by a German gun, or the other way on, no one seems to know, except perhaps the gentleman who is being shot at. From this picture you are requested not to recognise the nameless spot to which our thoroughly Unsentimental Journey through France has brought us.

The peace of the day was rudely disturbed at noon by the arrival of a more personal shell in the very midst of our billets. I am told that this was probably our own faults for being much too interested in that aeroplane. Apparently it was hostile after all, and experience goes to show that if people look up at these intruders their faces become apparent to the observer, and the notice taken of him encourages the enemy to do worse. The proper attitude is one of complete indifference. You should look the other way and then the enemy sulks and does nothing more. The arrival of this shell produced a most dreadful effect; it killed no one, but it caused every single soldier in the battalion to sit down at once and write to everybody he could think of, simply in order that he might mention, by the way, the bursting of a shell in his midst. This meant that every platoon-commander had to read and censor fifty letters before he could sit down and write his own casual references to bursting shells. This censoring of letters is altogether an inhuman and cruel affair; the lovesick private pours out his soul to his lady, concludes with all the intimate messages and signs known amongst lovers, and seals the note with the most personal of nicknames. What the lady must feel who reads the missive and finds at the end of it my own prosaic signature, I dare not think.

Since I last wrote we have stepped very many miles over the cobbles and have laid ourselves down to sleep in some very odd places. It is surprising how rapidly one can settle down to anything, and it is even more surprising how the men acquire the trick of getting what they want without learning a word of the language. They do it by a nice mixture of kindness and persistence; they go on naming the article in their own dialect until the peasant is fascinated or hypnotized into producing it. The most conspicuous success up to date is the case of our peculiarly insular sergeant-major, who, taking up a firm position before a simple maid-servant, continued tapping his forehead and smiling fatuously until the woman eventually led him up the street and pointed out to him the nearest way to the lunatic asylum. This was exactly what he wanted to know. When the Adjutant attempted to obtain the same information by mere conversation, he could get nothing better than a bucket out of the obsequious concierge.

Our entrance into the danger zone was very striking. We had been wandering about behind the lines, just within earshot of the guns, and looking for trouble, when the luminous idea occurred to some red-hat that, since we were dressed and looked like soldiers, we might as well fight. So we were sent for. A note came from someone, saying that they were giving a little party up-country, and they would be very pleased to see us there next day; would we mind walking, if it wasn't too much trouble? and also it would save the horses if we would carry all our luggage ourselves. Thus, armed with 120 rounds of ball, a tin of corned beef and an air of sinister importance, we tramped off in the direction of the noise.

Had Mr. Arthur Collins staged our night arrival on the battle-field in absolute accordance with the reality, the stalls would have said to each other, as they supped afterwards at the Savoy, "Very impressive, and essentially dramatic; but too theatrical to be real." It was exactly as in the picture: the long column advancing spasmodically along the straight road, bounded by rigid trees at regular intervals, and on the horizon the constant flashes of battle―the gun, the star-shell and the search-light. For myself I felt certain that it was all a show, and to encourage me in this opinion there were periods of inactivity followed by bursts of excessive energy, for all the world as if the electrician was sleepy and not attending to his business. War is, in fact, a disappointing imitation of The Lane, without the Savoy supper to follow. I should add that things went so well in our part of the line that we in reserve were not called upon: our baptism of fire was postponed; it is, in fact, taking place now, half the battalion being in the trenches as I write, and the other half (including myself) being for it to-morrow. I'll tell you all about it in due course.

As I write I can see out of my window all over the town (the owner of the house, by the way, lives in the cellar); my impression is of a vast area of urban and rural land, entirely at peace with itself and all the world; but there is a corner of it, about 200 yards from my window, which has a quarrel on with another corner about a mile away. These two little districts are making a terrible noise and even throwing things at each other. Sometimes they get very violent about it, sometimes they almost let the matter drop. It is like two large dogs barking at each other on Sunday, to the great annoyance of the rest of a respectable neighbourhood. And when the big dogs keep on doing it, the little dogs in the middle wake up and start snapping at each other, and particularly that quarrelsome breed, the Maxim. The main thing, however, is always the air of peacefulness, almost exaggerated peacefulness.

Yours ever, Henry.

"Mr. William Wallet disposed of about 150 head of Ayrshire and cross-bred calving queys and cows at Castle-Douglas yesterday. There was a large attendance of buyers in quest of the best class of Ayrshire queys, which, however, were scarce. Anything showing tea and milking properties realised the highest prices."

Scotsman.