An Onlooker in France 1917-1919 Part 6

About this time I received the following from France:--

"Dear Woppy, I am glad that you Will soon be back at G.H.Q., With brushes, paint and turpentine, And canvases fourteen by nine, To paint the British soldier man As often as you may and can.

The brave ally, the captive Boche, And Monsieur Clemenceau and Foch; But, on the whole, you'd better not Paint lady spies before they're shot.

We're living in the Eastern zone, Between the ----, the ----, the ---- (The orders of Sir Douglas Haig Compel me, Woppy, to be vague.) But you can find out where we are And come there in a motor-car.

We hold a chateau on a hill . . . . . . . (Censored) A pond with carp, a stream with brill, And perch and trout await your skill.

A garden with umbrageous trees Is here for you to take your ease.

And strawberries, both red and white, (p. 074) Are there to soothe your appet.i.te; And, just the very thing for you, Sweet landscape and a lovely view.

So pack your box and come along And take a ticket for Boulogne.

The General is calling me.

Yours, till we meet again,

"M. B."

[Ill.u.s.tration: x.x.xII. _Lieut.-Colonel A. N. Lee, D.S.O., etc._]

CHAPTER XI (p. 075)

BACK IN FRANCE (JULY-SEPTEMBER 1918)

Early in July I returned to France. My brother had now left me, and was doing regular Army work, and I brought Dudley Forsyth over with me. We stayed in Boulogne a few days till our billets were fixed at St. Valery, and during this time I painted a portrait at "b.u.mpherie"

of Lee, who had then become the boss of Intelligence (F) Section and was Colonel A. N. Lee, D.S.O. Things had changed. "The stream of goodwill, it would turn a mill" at "b.u.mpherie." "Dear old Orps"--nothing was too good for him. "Do you think you could put in a word for me to ----?" "If ---- speaks of the matter to you, just mention my name." Oh yes, the Colonel was really my friend now, and all the underlings appealed to me--and a good friend he has been ever since. Dear old Tuppenny Lee; I hope he'll forgive me writing all this, but he was a bit tough on me that first year, and he knows it jolly well, but he has more than made up for it since by a long chalk.

There was only one wrong note in the harmony at "b.u.mpherie" then, and that was a "Colonel" with a large head and weak legs. He never forgave me--he wasn't that sort of fellow.

St. Valery-sur-Somme is a very pleasant little town at the mouth of the river, and the Allied Press held a nice chateau with a lovely garden. When things were quiet they used to have musical evenings, when Captain Douglas would sing most charmingly, and Captain Holland (p. 076) would play the fool well. Poor Theo! The Boche were at it hard now, and they were bombing all round every night. One night my window and wooden shutters were blown in--four bombs came down quite close. The roar of their falling was terrific. I remember well, after the second had burst, finding myself trying to jamb my head under my bed, but there wasn't room. I was scared stiff.

Soon after this great things happened. The whole world changed--the air became more exhilarating, birds seemed to sing happier songs, and men walked with a lighter step. One great thing happened quickly after another. Ludendorff's black day arrived, and the Boche were driven off the heights of Villers-Bretonneux, and they lost sight of Amiens Cathedral. One day news came that the French had attacked all along the line from Chateau Thierry to Soissons, and had taken four thousand prisoners! It was all wonderful! Any day on the roads then one pa.s.sed thousands of field-grey prisoners--long lines of weary, beaten men.

They had none of the arrogance of the early prisoners, who were all sure Germany would win, and showed their thoughts clearly. No, these men were beaten and knew it, and they had not the spirit left even to try and hide their feelings.

That great French song, "La Madelon de la Victoire," connecting the names of Foch and Clemenceau, was sung with joy, and yet, when sung, tears were never far away--tears of thankfulness! Many have I seen pour down the cheeks of great, strong, brave men at the sound of that song and the tramp of the sky-blue poilus coming along in the glare and dust.

Forsyth had a song which became very popular about this time. The chorus ran:--

"Mary Ann is after me, (p. 077) Full of love she seems to be; My mother says, it's clear to see She wants me for her young man.

Father says, 'If that be true, John, my boy, be thankful, do; There's one bigger b.l.o.o.d.y fool in the world than you-- That's Mary Ann.'"

[Ill.u.s.tration: x.x.xIII. _Marshal Foch, O.M._]

In August I went down South to paint Marshal Foch at Bon Bon. General Sir John Du Cane kindly put me up at the British Mission, which was quite close to the Marshal's chateau, and I had a most interesting week. The morning after I arrived, General Grant brought me over to the Marshal's H.Q., a nice old place. We were shown into a waiting-room, and in a couple of minutes General Weygand (Chief of Staff) came in, a quiet, gentle, good-looking little man. It was impossible to imagine him carrying the weight of responsibility he had at that time. He was perfectly calm, and most courteous, and after talking to General Grant for a few minutes, brought us in to the Marshal. And there was the great little man, deep in the study of his maps, very calm, very quiet. He would certainly sit. How long did I want him for? An hour and a half each day, for four or five days?

Certainly. When did I wish to start? The next day? Certainly. He would sit from 7 a.m. to 8.30 a.m. for as many mornings as I wished. Might he smoke while he sat? Yes! Bon! Would I go and look out what room would suit me to work in? Any room I liked except the one I was in with the maps. I fixed up a little library to work in--a long, narrow, dark little place, but with a good light by the window. I got up very early the next morning and arrived there about 6.15 a.m., and as n.o.body seemed to be about, I walked in, and as the only way I knew (p. 078) how to get to the library was through the room with the maps, I opened its door, and there he was, deep in study. He got up, shook hands, and said he would be with me at 7 a.m. In he came at 7 a.m., very quietly, and sat like a lamb, except that his pipe upset him. It seemed that some of his English friends thought he was smoking too many cigars, and they had given him a pipe and tobacco, and asked him to try and smoke it instead. But up to that date the Marshal was not a star at pipe-smoking. He could light it all right, but after about two minutes it would begin to make strange gurgling noises, which grew louder and louder, till it went out. The next day I brought some feathers and cotton wool, and the Marshal looked on me as a sort of hero, because each time we rested I used to clean out the pipe and dry it.

During all the time he was sitting great battles were going on and the Germans were being driven back. News was brought to him about every ten minutes. If it was good, he would say "Bon!" If it was bad, he just made a strange noise by forcing air out through his lips. During that time the Americans were having their first big "do," and I remember he was very upset at the Boche getting out of the St. Mihiel pocket in the way they did, without being caught.

I remember one morning (the Marshal did not know I understood any French at all) a General came in and sat with him, and the Marshal, very quietly, gave him times, dates, places where battles would be fought up to the end of December 1918, naming the French, British and American Divisions, and so forth, which would be used in each. When I got back to the Mission, I wrote down some dates and places I remembered, but told no one, and, as far as I could judge, everything went exactly as he said it would till about the middle of October, (p. 079) when the Boche really got on the run. Then things went quicker than he expected.

[Ill.u.s.tration: x.x.xIV. _A German 'Plane Pa.s.sing St. Denis._]

It seemed amazing, the calmness of that old chateau at Bon Bon, yet wires from that old country house were conveying messages of blood and h.e.l.l to millions of men. What must the little man have felt? The responsibility of it all--hidden in the brain behind those kind, thoughtful eyes. Apparently, his only worry was "Ma pipe." His face would wrinkle up in anger over that. That, and if anyone was late for a meal. Otherwise he appeared to me to be the most mentally calm and complete thing I had ever come across. I would have liked to have painted him standing by his great maps, thinking, thinking for hours and hours. Yes, the three memories I brought away from Bon Bon were maps, calmness, and a certainty that the Allies would be victorious.

While I was there General Grant brought me over to Vaux. What a hall!

Surely the most beautiful thing of a private nature in existence, with its blue dome and black eagle at the top.

I left one evening and stopped in Paris that night. There were two air raids, and in the morning I heard Big Bertha for the first time, and when we left about 10 o'clock, just past St. Denis, a Boche 'plane came over to see where the sh.e.l.ls were falling.

There was a wonderful service in the Cathedral at Amiens one morning, the first since the bombardment, a thanksgiving for the deliverance of the city from sh.e.l.l-fire. The Boche had been driven further back and the old city was out of sh.e.l.l-range and at peace. It was a lovely morning with a strong breeze, a little sixteenth-century Virgin had been rescued from Albert Cathedral, and it was set up on a pedestal in the middle of the chancel. There was a guard of honour of (p. 080) Australians; birds were flying about above and singing; they had made the interior of the Cathedral their own. Bits of gla.s.s kept falling down, and the wind made strange whistling noises through the smashed and battered windows. It was all very impressive. General Rawlinson and his staff came over from Bertangles, a few natives of Amiens came into the town for it, otherwise the whole congregation was British. It was strange! Australian bugles blaring away inside those walls!

I painted Maude and Colonel du Tyl, the brave defenders of the interior of the city during the bombardment, in Maude's cellar in the "Hotel de Ville." General Rogers (then Colonel Rogers) used to come in constantly--a charming man, very calm, with a great sense of humour, and as brave as a lion. His little brother was working under Maude. At that time his little brother was very silent--one could not get a word out of him. Maude used to call him "my little ray of sunshine." Now he is as cheerful a "Bean" as you could wish to find.

The day the Boche were driven out of Albert, General Rogers went there and brought back the story of the cat. When the Tommies got into the town, even through the din, they heard the wailing of a cat in agony, and they found her crucified on a door, so they naturally went to take her down, but as they were pulling the first nail out, it exploded a bomb and many were killed. It was a dirty trick! Yet they who did it may be sitting beside me now in the little Parisian cafe in which I write--it is full of Boche. It's a strange thought, almost beyond understanding.

The light in Maude's cellar was most interesting to paint, and I'm afraid I spent far too long at it, but Maude was a good companion.

Things were changing now daily. Instead of feeling the sea just (p. 081) behind one's back, so to speak, each day, it was getting further and further away, and there were fresh fields to explore. I was due officially to leave for Italy, but I couldn't go. Why leave France when wonder after wonder was happening? Hardly a day pa.s.sed that some glorious news did not come in. No, I couldn't tear myself away from Picardy and the North. I felt that I would feel more out of it in Italy than in London, and now I know I was right. I did not do much in the way of my own work, but I saw and felt things I would never have got down South--things which were felt so much that their impression increases rather than diminishes. It is difficult at times to realise what is happening. Somehow other things keep one from realisation at the moment, but afterwards these other things diminish in importance and the real impression becomes more clearly defined.

[Ill.u.s.tration: x.x.xV. _British and French A.P.M.'s Amiens._]

I painted General Lord Rawlinson at Bertangles, which was then his headquarters, a charming man with a face full of character. He paints himself, and was good enough to take great interest in the sketch I painted of him. He had a mirror put up so that he could see what I was doing. This wasn't altogether a help to me, because, at times, perhaps when I was painting the half-light on his nose, he would say: "What colours did you mix for that?" By the time I had tried to think out what colours I had mixed--most probably not having the slightest idea--I would have forgotten what part of the head I was painting and what brush I was using. But Bertangles in August was lovely, and the lunches in the tent, even though full of wasps, were excellent.

Certainly H.Q. 4th Army was well run.

A little later the H.Q. 4th Army moved to the devastated country close to Villers Carbonelle on the Peronne side. It was a wonderful bit of (p. 082) camouflage work. This great H.Q. just looked like an undulating bit of country even when right up beside it. I remember standing in the middle of it one frosty moonlight night, and it was impossible to believe that there were hundreds of human beings all around me there in the middle of that abomination of desolation.

I also painted Brigadier-General Dame Vaughan Williams of the Q.M.W.A.A.C.'s at her H.Q., St. Valery--a strong-minded, gentle, earnest worker, much loved by those under her. She held a chateau in a large garden and held it well. The mess was excellent.

Some civilians had now come back to Amiens, and it was possible to get a room in the "Hotel de la Paix," so I left St. Valery and came to live there. This hotel escaped better than any other house in Amiens from the sh.e.l.ls and bombs. The gla.s.s was, of course, broken, and slates knocked off, but that was all, except where little bits had been knocked out of the walls by shrapnel. It was wonderful to be there and watch the town coming to life again week by week.

After a time the Allied Press came and patched up their chateau, or parts of it. Some of the correspondents slept there and some got billets outside. Shops began to open. The _Daily Mail_ came once more, and gradually the streets filled with people, these streets, the pavements of which were now more hostile than ever. Even a few of the girls came and settled there--"early birds."

That sweet, natural woman, Sister Rose, had remained in Amiens all through the bombardment, and when the people began returning, she was asked one day: "Are not you pleased, Sister Rose, to have the people round you again?" To which she replied: "Yes, of course I am in some ways, but I loved the bombardment. I felt the whole city was mine, (p. 083) each street became very intimate, and I could walk through them and pray out loud to my G.o.d in peace. But now! why, if I prayed to my G.o.d in the streets of Amiens they would think me a d.a.m.ned lunatic!" I can understand her very human feeling at that time--people who had run away from the city in its agony returned when its tribulation was over, and claimed it as their own again when the calm of evening had come; while she, Sister Rose, had borne the burden and heat of the day. But this feeling soon left her, and she worked whole-heartedly once more to succour the poor in distress in the city she loved so well.

[Ill.u.s.tration: x.x.xVI. _General Lord Rawlinson, Bart., G.C.B., etc._]

CHAPTER XII (p. 084)

AMIENS (OCTOBER 1918)

The nights were very black, there being no lights in the streets at all.

A little later Maude left his billet on the Abbeville Road, and came to live with me in the "Hotel de la Paix." One night we were dining there, and at about 8.45 p.m. a young Flying Officer left a friend and came and asked Maude if we would come to their table and have a drink with them. Maude said Yes, and the lad went back to his table. "Who is your friend?" said I. "I don't know," Maude replied. "They asked me for ten minutes' extension of time last night, and I gave it to them."

Presently we went over to their table and they ordered a round of the deadly brandy of the hotel. Maude introduced me as Major Sir William Orpen, and I learnt that their names were Tom and Fred. After a couple of minutes Tom wanted to ask me something, and he started off this way: "By the way, Sir William----" "A little less of your d.a.m.ned Sir William!" said I. "All right," said he, "don't get huffy about it, b.l.o.o.d.y old Bill." So naturally we all became friends, and we mounted the stairs to my room, and the bar was opened and Tom recited. Fred insisted on it. "But," said Tom, "you always cry, Fred, when I recite." "It doesn't matter, Tom," said Fred, "I like it." So Tom recited and Fred cried, and Maude and I looked on and wondered and (p. 085) drank "Spots." They left about 11 o'clock to drive back to the aerodrome in an old ambulance they had in the yard. At about 7 a.m.

the next morning I was awakened by a violent knocking at my door, so I shouted: "Come in," and in came Tom and Fred. They both walked over and sat on my bed. "What on earth are you here at this hour of the morning for?" I asked. "That's just what we've come here to find out, b.l.o.o.d.y old Bill," said Tom. "Are you hurt, Bill?" "No," said I. "Why?"

"No furniture broken, no damage done to the room, Bill?" "No," said I.

"Why?" "Well, look here, Bill, it's like this," said Tom. "Fred and I are puzzled as to exactly what happened. Fred, tell him what happened to you, and then I'll tell him about myself."