August 24, 191G 
LAND & WATER 
rl 
village houses at dawn, at noon I saw the natives putting 
them on again ; at Cuinchy I saw. an ancient woman 
selling cafe au lait at four sous a cup in the jumble of 
bricks which was once her home. When the cow which 
supplied the milk was shot in the stomach the woman 
still persisted in selling coffee, cafe noir at three sous a 
cup. When a civilian is killed at Mazingarbe the chil- 
dren of the place sell the percussion cap of the death- 
dealing shell for lialf-a-franc. Once when 1 was there an 
old crone was killed when washing her feet at a street 
pump. A dozen or more percussion caps were sold that 
day ; every garcon in the ncighbovirhood claimed that the 
aluminium nose cap in his possession was the one that 
did the foul deed. When I was new to b^rance I bought 
several of these ghastly relics, but in a few weeks I was 
out trying to sell. There was then, however, a slump in 
nose-caps, and I lost heavily. ■ . ' 
The apt process of accommodation which these few 
incidents may help to illustrate is peculiar to the French ; 
they know how to make the best of a bad job and a 
ruined village. They paved the streets with dead horses ; 
drew bread from the bricks and stored wine in the litter 
that was Loos. That is France, the I-'hcKuix that rises 
resplendent from her ashes, France, that like her Joan of 
Arc will live for ever because she has suffered, France — 
a star-like I'^abelais which can cast afiidc a million petty 
vices when occasion requires it, and glow with eternal 
splendour, the wonder of the world. 
The Munster Fusiliers held a trench on the left of Loos 
and they had suffered severely. They had been in there 
for eight daj's and the big German gvms were active all the 
time. In one place the trench was filled in for a distance 
of three hundred yards. Think of what that means. 
Two hundred men manned the deep, cold alley dug in the 
clay. The shells fell all i^ound the spot, the parados 
swooped forward, the parapet dropped back, they were 
jaw's which devoured men. The soldiers went in there, 
into a grave that closed like a trap. None could escape. 
When we re-opened the trench, we re-opened a grave 
and took out the dead. 
When we came to relieve those who remained alive the 
night was clear and stars stood out cold and brilliant in the 
deep overhead ; but a grey haze enveloped the horizon 
and probably we would have rain before the daw^n. The 
trenches here were dug recently; make-shift alleys they 
were, insecure and muddy, lacking dug-outs, fire places 
and every accommodation that might make a soldier's 
life bearable. The trenches here were fringed with dead, 
dead soldiers in khaki lay on the reverse slope of the 
parapet, their feet in the grass, their heads on the sand- 
bags ; they lay behind the parados, on the level in the 
woods, everywhere. 
A low-lying country, wet fields, stagnant drains, shell- 
rent roads, ruined houses, dead men, mangled horses. 
To us soldiers this was the only apparent result of the 
battle of Loos. No wires were as yet laid by our men in 
front of the trench. The Germans had placed some en- 
tanglements in front of their position and it was con- 
sidered necessary to examine their labours and see what 
they had done. If we found that their wire entanglement 
was strong and well fastened our conclusions would be 
that the Germans were not ready to attack, that their 
^ time at the moment was devoted to safeguarding them- 
selves from attack. If, on the other hand, their wires 
were light, fragile and easily removed, we might guess 
than an early attack on our "lines would take place. Lieu- 
tenant Y and two men went across to have a look at 
the enemy's wires ; we busied ourselves digging a deeper 
trench ; as a stretcher-bearer I had no particular work 
for the moment so I buried a few of the dead who lay on 
the field. On our right was a road which crossed our 
trench and the Germans', a straight road lined with 
shell-scarred poplars running true as an arrow into the 
profundities of the unknown. The French occupied the 
trench on our right and a gallant Porthos (I met him 
later) built a barricade of sandbags on the road, and sitting 
there all night with a iLxed rifle, he iired bullet after bullet 
down the highway. His game was to hit cobbles near 
the German trenches ; from thtse the bullet went splatter- 
ing and ricochetting, hopping, and skippmg along the 
road for a further hve hundred yards, making a sound 
like a pebble clattering down the tiles of a roof. Many 
a Boche coming along that road must have heartily 
cursed the energetic Porthos. 
Suddenly the report of hrearms came from the open 
in front, then followed two yells, loud and agonising, 
and afterwards silence. What had happened ? Curi- 
osity prompted me to rush into the trench, leaving a 
dead soldier half buried, and make enquiries. All the 
workers had ceased their labour, they stood on the fire- 
steps staring into the void in front of them, their ears 
tensely strained. 
As we watched, three figures suddenly emerged from 
the greyness in front, rushed up to the parapet, and Hung 
themselves hastily into the trench. The listening patrol 
had returned. 
They had examined the enemy's wire and were on the 
way back when one of the men stumbled into a shell- 
hole on tlie top of three Germans who were probably 
asleep. The Bodies scrambled to their feet and faced 
the intruders. The officer fired at one and killed him, 
one of our boys ran another through the heart with the 
bayonet, the third German got a crack on the head with 
a rifle-butt and collapsed, yelling. Then the listening 
patrol rushed hurriedly in, told their story and con- 
sumed extra tots of rum when the narrative was finished. 
The morning country was covered with white fog ; 
Bois Hugo, the wood on our left, stood out an island in a 
sea of milk. Twenty yards away from the trench was 
the thick whiteness, the unknown. Our men roamed 
about the open picking up souvenirs and burying dead. 
Probably in the mist the Germans were at work, too. 
. . . All was very quiet, not a sound broke the still- 
ness, the riot of war was suffocated in the soft fog. 
All at once an eager breeze broke free and swept across 
the parapet, driving the fog away. In the space of 
five seconds the open was bare, the cloak which covered 
it was swept away. Then we saw many things. 
Our boys in khaki came rushing back to their trench, 
flinging down all souvenirs in their haste to reach safety, 
The French on our right scampered to their burrows, 
casting uneasy eyes behind them as they ran. A 
machine gun might open and play havoc. Porthos had 
a final shftt down the road, then he disappeared and 
became one with the field. 
But the enemy raced in as we did ; their indecorous 
haste equalled ours. They had been out, too. One side 
retreated from the other and none showed any great 
gallantry in the affair. Only when the field was clear 
did the rifles speak. Then there was a lively ten minutes 
and a few thousand useless rounds were wasted by the 
combatants before they sat down to breakfast. " A 
strategic retreat," said Pryor, my mate. " I never ran 
as quickly in all my life. I suppose it is like this every 
night, men working between the lines, engineers build- 
ing entanglements, covering parties sleeping out their 
watch, listening patrols and souvenir hutiters doing their 
little bit in their own particular way. It's a funny way 
of conducting a war." 
" It's strange," I said. 
" We have no particular hatred for the men across the 
way," said Pryor. " My God, the trenches tone a man's 
temper. When I was at home (Pryor had just had ten 
days' furlough) our drawing room bristled with hatred 
of some being named the Hun. Good Heavens, you 
should hear the men past military age revile the Hun. 
If they were out here we couldn't keep them from getting 
over the top to have a smack at the foe. And the women 1 
If they were out here, they would just simply tear the 
Germans to pieces. I believe that we are the wrong men. 
we able-bodied youths with even tempers. It's the men 
who are past military age who should be out here." 
Pryor was silent for a moment. 
" I once read a poem, a most fiery piece of verse," he 
continued ; " and it urged all men to take part in th? 
war, get a gun and get off to Flanders immediately. 
Shame on those who did not go ! The fellow who wrote 
that poem is a bit of a literary swell and I looked up his 
name in " Who's Who" and find that he is a year or two 
above military age. If I were a man of seventy and could 
pick up fury enough to write that poem I'd be off to the 
recruiting agent the moment the last line was penned 
and I'd tell the most damnable lies to get off and have a 
smack at the Hun. But that literary swell hasn't 
cnhsted yet." 
A pause. 
" And never will " Pryor concluded, placing a mess tin 
of water on a red hot brazier. 
