March 22, IQIJ 
LAND & WATER 
i'S 
sized table in the middle round which four of them are 
seated at tlieir rubber of bridge. Two ha\-e whiskej^- 
and-sodas. Five young oih<:ers are packed in a neat 
semicircle round the stove, their feet pressed against 
tlie grating ; all are smoking, some reading hooks t)r 
newspapers, some- writing letters with a pad balanced 
on the knee. EveryANhere is a great litter of things, 
(aps, gloves, walking-sticks, and eoats arc strewn about, 
so arc newspapers, paper-covered books, and di\ers other 
articles. On a side-table in a corner stand bottles of 
wliiskey and port, a pat of butter on a saucer, several 
pots of jam, niarmaiade, and the like. Now and then 
- an orderly or a non-commissioned officer tramps in, 
salutes, delivers his missive, or has a word with one 
of the ofiticers, salutes again, and disappears. There is 
an unceasing buzz of conversation interspersed with 
peals 'of laughter. Everybody looks very contented, 
and those at home' would be surprised could they witness 
this scene so far within the shell area. 
Of a morning, as. you stroll along the street, 
plenty of life is to be seen. There are troops everywhere, 
walking about in groups and parties, parading outside 
their billets, marching in column of route ; staff motor- 
cars and ambulances rattle past, for Brigade Head- 
(juarters are about the centre of the village, and the llr.st 
lield dressing- station is at the end of it ; horse transport 
and motor-lorries in plenty and many riders on horstv 
back and bicycles. Occasionally a dejected-looking 
civilian shuffles along. Most of the houses are only 
slightly damaged. Here, for instance, is a little iron- 
monger's shop, kept by a humble worried-looking old 
lady. You may buy a few pots and saucepans, tin 
plates and the like, also refills for your electric lamp. 
Turther on there is another shop of the same kind — 
why is it that in these half-exterminated places the iron- 
mongers seem to remain when all others have gone under ? 
But this second shop is dim and tragic. One of 
the shutters is taken down to show that it is indeed a 
shop ; the others are up and you creep in through a sand- 
bagged, partly boarded door-way. The room, a big ohe, 
is nearly dark. Only the strange, almost ghostly shapes 
of the brooms and brushes, the pots and pans hanging up, 
indicate the nature of the place. Out of the shadows 
steal two cowed pale-faced children dressed completely 
in black, and it is these small pathetic figures holding one 
another's hands for moral support who try to sell you what 
you want. Upon their faces are writ the marks of a great 
fear which will probably never fade. And indeed in 
the faces and demeanour of all these wretched villagers 
are to be seen the marks -of the terror and suffering which 
through two-and-a-half weary years thfey ha\e under- 
gone. 
Before coming to tlie cross-roads, amid all the desola- 
tion and sadness of the ruined cottages, there is to be foimd 
one Httle patch of beauty like an oasis in a desert land. 
It is the largest house in" the place— undoubtedly that of 
the iiiairc— and it has a grass lawn, a small wasted garden 
with moss-grown leaf-strewn path, and beyond these 
a shrubbery and ornamental lak«. The house 
itself is hideous, but entering by the garden gate one 
linds for a brief space the peace which clings to gardens, 
even those run riot. Leaves, nK)ist and crumbly, have 
lain there since the previous autumn ; the house itself is 
dark and empty save when the winter sunshine stealing in, 
searches out the dust and cobwebs and makes gay patterns 
upon the floor. On the ornamental lake an abandoned 
boat rocks woefully, and here in a previous summer- 
time when offtcers were billeted in the place, many of the 
young subalterns would go and bathe, row races with 
improvised craft, and thoroughly enjoy themselves. 
I'hen, amid its melancholy surroundings, the garden would 
ring with shouts of laughter. But in winter all is still, 
is silent save for the chirruping sparrows and the 
never-ceasing soimd of wheels and tramping feet from 
the world without. 
/And a little further on you come to the church, that 
utter chaos of tumbled bricks and masonry. The walls 
stand out stark and naked, yet upon them still are shreds 
of bizarre modern frescoes, while strange sacred things 
lie all-round half buried. The campanile stands out too, 
but all else is utterly razed as are most ol the houses 
which once formed the village square. Of many, the roof 
has fallen in ; of others, the walls are pock-marked by 
slir:i™-i,-l, for \h\'^ ^p,it, whorr f iinr rrnss-roads meet , - •'•"- 
La Prise de Bagdad 
" By the waters of Babylon ..." 
Bv Emile Cammakkts. 
A MIS, asseyons-nous sur les bords de I'Euphrate 
/^L l-t decrochons nos harpcs des \'ie.u\ sanies 
/ ^ hiblif]ues, 
I^urs cordcs impatientes rcpetent dans la brise 
L'echo triomphatcur des stances prophetiques : 
" Bagdad est prise . , . Bagdad est prise " . . « 
Eile est tombee la Babylone allemande. 
La succursale doree des Kaiser de Berlin, 
La croi.x de nos drapeaux se deploie dans la brise, 
Nos glaives ont ecorne le dur croissant payen : 
" Bagdad est prise ! Bagdad est prise ! " 
O vous qui languissez i\ mille lieucs d'ici, 
Prisonniers, deportes des gcoles allemandes, 
Devincz-vous nos coeurs, entendez-vous nos cris 
Portes sur I'aile victorieuse de la brise 
Jus(iu'aux derniers villages de vos plaines flamandes ? 
" Bagdad est prise . . . Bagdad est prise. . . ."> 
Nous chantons aujourd'hui oii Israel pleura, 
Nous chanterons demain oii vous vous desolez, 
Sila lune a deux dents pour dechirer sa proie 
La croix a deux bras pom- f rapper vos geoHers 
Sur la Spree, sur I'Euphrate souffle la meme brise ; 
Ecoutez done : " Bagdad est prise ! . , " 
(All Rights Reserved.) 
most dangerous of any in thevillage. Indeed, few after- 
noons go by but a dozen or so " whizz-bangs " or 5.9's 
are hurled into the place, and even nowadays there is a 
fairly regular return of casualties among the troops 
billeted, and the civilians. 
Right in the midst of the square, in cellars beneath 
his ruined house, the wine-merchant lives. It is a bare, 
damp place, a mere den, containing the necessaries of life, 
but temerity receives its due reward, for the good man 
does a roaring trade in wine. He is a typical bourgeois 
Frenchman, agreeable and intelligent above the average, 
and has an air of prosperity which belies his surround- 
ings . . . >How long will he be permitted to live ? 
As you walk down the street on a sunny morning, you 
have that alert, indehnable, dubious feeling of waiting 
for the sound of a shell. For you- can never be sure when 
they will come — and they come quickly. Beyond the 
village several English batteries are firing, but this is only 
part of the normal daily " strafe." As a rule the Bosches 
do not reply. Overhead a number of British aeroplanes 
are circling with an incessant [buzz and whir-r. Once 
beyond the cross-roads, the houses show less 'signs of 
damage and many of them are practically intact and 
inhabited. YetJ there are fewer people about, for here 
ordinary traffic and large bodies of men are forbidden. The 
configuration of the land alters slightlj'. Near the end of 
the village is situated the hospice and school, the only 
picturesque building in the place. Forming three sides 
of a square round a courtyard, it is of white stucco or 
plaster with green Venetian shutters which give an agree- 
able, almost Itahan aspect to the place. In the middle of the 
Courtyard are green shrubs and little bushes, with plane 
trees planted round the outside like sentinels. 
Beside the road stand two or three farms of the usual 
type, and then you come to a side-road leading to the 
trenches, at the corner of which is posted a notice in- 
dicating , that traffic must go no further in daylight. 
A few dirty children are playing round the sign-post, for 
a large family dwells in the farnihouse near by. And be- 
yond are the flat fields, willow-lined, intersected with many 
ditches. Skeletons of farms and cottages may occasion- 
ally be seen. Human signs are few. 
Tt i-c the end of the \illage. 
