14 
LAND ^ WATER 
December 12, 1918 
which I could noL afford — but I wanted to get away from 
snow mountains. 
"There!" he said. "Now I've told you why I am 'the 
most miserable of men.' " 
We both laughed. 
"Pon my word," he added, "I feel as though I should 
never think of it again." 
The train was slowing up in front of a station. " I've got 
to change here," he exclaimed, opening the door. We shook 
hands and I handed out his bag. Presently he came up to 
the window again. His yoimg face wore once more a look 
of concern. " I say, " he said, " I hope you don't think I 
W£LS an awful muff to mind so much. Really, I believe 
what has bothered me most ever since was my having taken 
no notice of that girl when she stayed to sit beside me alone 
in the dining-room. You've listened so nicely. You do 
understand, don't you ? " 
"Perfectly," I assured him. 
"That was the only moment I was really a coward," 
he added. 
The train began to move. He waved his hand gaily. 
"Ain't I lucky to have had such a lesson so young ? " he siid 
grinning. 
"Stop !" I cried. "What was the name of the peopb?" 
" The people ? " 
"Yes, the family." 
"Dyce." 
"Blue eyes — quite blue?" 
He nodded. 
"Then she's my niece! " I cried out. "Mrs. Dyce is my 
sister. You must see them. She's a perfect dear." The 
train was drawing away fast. "Not my sister, of coui'se, " 
I shouted, " I don't mean her. Haven't kissed her for nine 
years. You will meet, you will . . ."■ 
He had trotted right to the end of the platform. A cloud 
of steam suddenly hid him from my sight. 
I threw myself back in the corner. "That wi 1 be very 
satisfactory, very," I thought, ". . . I do like him." But the 
I'cxt moment I had sprun:^ up a;ain. 1 had forgotten to ask 
him his name and address. 
Mons, 1 9 14 to 191 8 
THERE are few left in any battalion who remember 
the retreat from Mons — the graves of many are 
milestones on the way ; but I think those few 
who- have survived to complete the advance on 
Mons will never regret a step of that long road. 
And now they are returned to where they lined up with all 
their comrades for the beginning of the struggle, I think they 
will feel the missing numbers are avenged and the price they 
paid is vindicated. 
On the night of August 23rd, 1914, my battalion lay at 
Grand Reng, a small town five miles south-east of Mons. 
At two o'clock next morning they were hurried out into the 
fields to dig themselves in for the battle of Mons. That 
night commenced the immortal retreat to the Mame. There 
the British 'Army turned about, and for four weary years 
were retracing their steps. 
On November i8th, 1918, my battalion again came to 
Grand Reng, and the troops on our flank had previously 
retaken Mons itself. The retreat had been wiped out : the 
German Army had been smashed : the war was ended — on 
the same ground where for the British Army it had begun. 
In " 'fourteen," the British going to Mons were enthusi- 
astically welcomed as defenders. In " 'eighteen," arriving 
once more at Mons, they were rapturously greeted as 
deliverers. No words can adequately paint that difference. 
The people saw us retreat and leave them to their fate — 
the Boche ; but their courageous bearing under that cruel 
and ruthless regime showed their faith in us — that we would 
advance again. Their joy in the justification of that faith 
is our greatest reward to-day. 
My battaUon was at Maubeuge when hostilities ceased, so 
that the last few miles of the advance has, for us, been a 
triumphful march. The last retreating German has every- 
where been a few days ahead of us, and the villages and 
towns have had time to prepare a welcome. Every inhabited 
house or cottage has its flag ; the yast majority, of course, 
being the French or Belgian colours. A few of these are 
fine embroidered and tasselled banners ; the majority plain 
bunting or cotton. All these have lain securely hidden for . 
"the four years " — sign of unyielding pride and faith. But 
where bunting was wanting necessity has found the mean-. 
One tricolour I saw made with a strip of blue cloth, part of 
a cotton sheet, and a piece from a red flannel petticoat. 
British flags are few ; but all the more touching because 
almost everjrwhere contrived. The favourite is the Red 
Ensign, made from red flannel or cotton, with a blue square 
stitched into the corner, and the crosses strips of red and 
white ribbon or paper. 
The welcome these people give us is not confined to flags 
and cheers. Their best is not too good for us. Where we 
billet we are given the best room ; clean sheets and coverlets 
are brought out ; coffee and soup — or, where it exists, a 
bottle of wine — are offered with great ceremony and many 
toasts. 
The women smile and wish you good-day as they pass 
you in the streets ; the men — be they labourers, bourgeois, 
or civic dignitaries with the Legion of Honour in their button- 
holes, raise their hats to an officer. In "the four years" 
they did this grudgingly and perfunctorily in obedience to 
Boche orders ; now there is a world of thanks and justified 
faith in the act. But the greatest welcome of all comes 
from the children. Grimy Uttle urchins, too young four 
years ago to have realised what a British soldier looked fike, 
and who would have been snarled at and probably kicked 
out of the way had they approached a German officer, run 
alongside us, and clutch at the hands of officers and men 
ahke. ' They stand at the men's feet and gaze with delight 
while they are drilling, and crowd round with bowls and 
tins, confident of generosity, while dinners are being made 
out. A week ago the Germans were robbing them of what 
little food they had. 
On the retreat everybody was moving in the same direction 
— westward. There were two columns. One was the Army, 
marching till it could march no further, stopping to fight, 
and then marching on again ; the other was the most tragic 
sight of war — the refugees, with all of their worldly possessions 
that they could get into barrow or cart, struggling on and on 
until overtaken by the enemy. On the advance there are 
still those same two columns. The refugee is still going 
westward ; but he is leaving the enemy ever further and 
further behind him, and is returning home — hoping to find 
it intact ! Aiid the Army is now a finally victorious army, 
marching eastward this time, to enforce the just price that 
Germany must pay. 
There is also a third column on the advance, ever growing 
in volume. It is the returning prisoners of war. Of all the 
strange and most significant spectacles, this is the most remark- 
able. They are French, Belgian, Russian, Italian, and 
British ; but it is hard to recognise their nationality, for 
their scanty clothing is a motley of their original uniforms, 
German prison-camp dress and civilian attire. One thing 
they all have in common — a look of dawning relief in their 
weary eyes. . 
The majority do not look starved or very ill ; but 
these are the strong ones, capable of marching, who, in 
most cases, were taken prisoner this year. Many have been 
taken in by kindly Belgians and fed and rested for a day or 
two on their way. They found themselves free when the 
German tide receded, and have drifted down to meet their 
deliverers. The condition of those who cannot walk one 
can guess at from the few we have found abandoned by the 
Boche in so-called hospitals. 
There is' a false appearance of prosperity and peace about 
the country here. After the devastated areas of the Somme 
and Flanders, this part of the world seems almost untouched 
by war. But large tracts of country, though unmarked by 
shell-hole, are also unfilled. Coal-mines are working ; but 
the Bodies have the coal. The shops are often full ; • but 
prices are unbelievable. The houses are whole, outside ; but 
inside every metal door-handle has been taken, and every 
bureau and cupboard lacks its fittings. 
Belgium is free once more ; and in holiday mood. A crowd 
will collect at sound of a drum or sight of a strange uniform, 
and cheer at the shghtest provocation. I think that Belgium, 
with her happy nature, may in time forget her misery ; but 
I do not believe she will ever forget who caused it. The 
German, by his studied cruelty and callousness, has made a 
bitter enemy not only of Belgium as a nation, but also of 
every Belgian as an individual. 
O. C. 
