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flying buttresses were drawn up rows of Maples' vans. 
From this moment my confidence revi\ed. The appear- 
ance of these substantial vans, in that remote place, 
convinced me that somewhere somebody was dealing 
with the situation in a practical and sufficient way. 
At that time, when the investment of Paris seemed 
possible, the whole official world, and a large part of the 
people as well, had taken refuge in Bordeaux. The daily 
scenes around the Alices de Tourny cannot be described. 
There was one entire family living in a taxi-cab. Melan- 
choly could not thrive there. So soon as the news 
improved a spirit of subdued gaiety became evident. 
All along the streets were filled with brightly coloured 
crowds. Turcos and midinettes, ladies of the Croix 
Rouge in their white gowns and veils, sailors from the 
quays and harassed politicians jostled one another as 
though it had been a carnival. In Paris, at that time, 
the Boulevards were barricaded, and there were trenches 
across the approach to the Champs Elys^e. The northern 
stations were choked with wounded soldiers and with 
most wretched fugitives. 
There were to be seen all manner of incongruous 
things between the outskirts and the new fighting front 
on the line of the Aisne. Ruined towns lost interest 
altogether. I saw Rheims Cathedral after the fire, 
sodden with rain, shells falling from time to time. There 
is nothing more sordid than the litter made by shell 
fire. 
It was the vintage time, and the weather generally 
glorious. The vintagers were at their work within sound 
of the guns. I remember an encounter by the roadside, 
where I found two women gatherers feeding a complacent 
sappet with grapes. Observing the approach of a motor, 
this man, with great care, removed a crown of vine leaves 
from his brow. He gave the directions I required without 
a trace of embarrassment. Even going so far as to define 
the exact nature of his occupation at the moment as being 
in some way cissociated with a broken field telephone. 
As the car rolled away, turning in my seat, I saw him 
crowned once more. I remember also a flowery hedge, and 
behind it a string of dead Germans, perhaps forty, in a 
row. These men were not merely fallen prone, but 
crumpled up in a peculiar way. Most clearly I remember 
a huge, scantily-clad African, with an ancient lantern 
slung on to a pole. I found this man one evening as he 
went to and fro at the head of a stretcher party brirging 
wounded out of the recesses of a wood, and have depicted 
the scene below. 
It is only possible to form a complete picture of war 
from the rear. Actual fighting is curiously meaningless to 
the eye. You may contemplate an apparently deserted 
countryside, with here and there a puff of smoke. Over- 
head, perhaps, an aeroplane, and more puffs of smoke, 
very white and fleecy. From time to time figures of men 
scurry across a field, and bolt like rabbits, perhaps leaving 
two or three of their number behind, fallen in untidy little 
heaps. Occasionally guns appear moving to some new 
position like a flash. Only the continuous loud reports 
convey an idea of what is happening. 
But right back, where supply columns and ambulances 
lie in strings like immense caterpillars ; and where relief 
troops wait behind sheltering woods, or on communications 
where the nations of half the world are mixed up. Turcos 
and Irish and French chasseurs and Sikhs. Goats from 
India holding up motor 'buses crammed with enthusiastic 
recruits from London. Big guns with chameleon covers 
trundled along by teams of straining horses. Perhaps a 
batch of prisoners under escort. It is back behind the 
lines that you may see what war looks like. 
There also you may watch the endless throng of 
fugitives, tramping heavily beside the road, bent beneath 
the weight of their few possessions. Every part of the 
confused scene is brought into harmony by their mere 
presence, and by the simple poignancy of their gestures as 
they go by. Then all at once the medley assumes a clear 
and most profound significance. It is in such a place that 
war becomes visible, and an actuality to the eye. 
I left Champagne before the struggle for Calais had 
begun. Since that time I have crossed often between 
England and France, and have remarked those changes in 
kit which have deprived the various combatants of some 
superficial picturesqueness. But picturesqueness is a 
trifling thing. So far as beautiful expression is con- 
cerned it is of no consequence what variety of national 
colours and patterns in dress come together on the field. 
Such colour as belongs to war will never be lacking. 
For all troops tend to assimilate the hues of the earth upon 
whose surface they fight. The neutral tint of war is more 
sombre than khaki. It is far quieter than blue or Prussian 
grey. 
A STRETCHER PARTY IN CHAMPAGNE 
553 
le^ G. Sftnrtr Piys: 
