Leaving Beernem, our route led us through Wynghene. It was here I seized the opportunity of displaying my undoubted ability as mess president, to which post I had been appointed. At the midday halt in this village, I was anxiously looking about for bread, eggs, vegetables or any other commodity which would embellish the festal board of the mess, and thus win the gratitude of my always hungry brother officers, when, through an open door, I caught sight of fowls in a backyard. I promptly jumped off my horse, and entered into negotiations with the owners of the chicken run, which speedily resulted in the decapitated corpses of three plump fowls being slung from my saddle. Amid the envy of the column, I proudly rode down to the transport of my unit with my spoil, the result being that in a short time not a fowl remained alive in the village; and that night every mess was redolent with the delicious scent of roast fowl.

Our next billet was at Eeghem, where a stone kitchen floor was the utmost we could secure for the officers, after having bedded the men in barns on luxurious beds of sweet straw. In the early morning, in company with Mr. Peel, I enjoyed a brief stroll in the neighbourhood. In the course of our walk we passed one of those small wayside chapels, which are dotted here and there all over Belgium; not larger than some eight feet square, it offered all the facilities that we needed for prayer and quiet thought.

As we approached Roulers, we found the town alive with people who had assembled to welcome that which they regarded as an army of deliverance from the dreaded Germans.

After billeting the officers with considerable difficulty—for naturally people at times resented the intrusion of hungry and travel-stained men into their spic and span houses—I secured a most comfortable room for myself in the house of an old widow lady; one of those charming old world persons who are occasionally met with on life's journey, and who, by their innate courtesy and sympathy, accentuate the oneness of the human family. When a country is under martial law one cannot, of course, take 'no' for an answer in applying for a billet, and therefore, in the case of Belgium, one made the demand with the authority of 'in the king's name,' which invariably brought about the desired result. My dear old hostess could not do enough for me; with quavering accents she remarked, 'Thank God you English have come, for now we feel safe.' I must confess I felt very much of a hypocrite, for I knew that the enemy was pursuing us in hot haste. Indeed, a few hours afterwards they marched into the city, which they have held ever since.

As we pressed on to Ypres, via Zonnebec, our route ran alongside of the railway, and it was a stirring sight to see the naval armoured train dash along, seeking for a pot shot at the enemy who was not far distant, the sailors forming the crew regarding the work as a sporting venture.

The first view of Ypres was glorious. As we marched through the great square in front of the Cloth Hall, I was struck with the mediæval aspect of the place. The gabled houses carried one's imagination into the long ago; whilst the glorious Cloth Hall of the eleventh century, backed up by the equally fine cathedral of similar age, presented a picture not easily to be forgotten. Alas! when I next saw it, the place was a heap of crumbling ruins.

The Germans had passed through the city four days before we arrived; and according to their wont, had helped themselves very liberally to what they fancied. Many of the shopkeepers were loud in their complaints of the shameful manner in which they had been robbed.

I was able to secure most excellent billets for the mess in the house of Monsieur and Madame Angillis. These good people were in a state of considerable fear, for, not only had they two sons fighting in the Belgian army, one of whom had been wounded, but as the owners of considerable property in the city and the neighbourhood, they were anxious as to what the future would bring. Their worst fears have been realized, and I am afraid they are among the great mass of sufferers in unhappy Belgium. Their daughter was rendering splendid service in the Belgian Red Cross, and proved a great help in directing me to wounded British soldiers, who might otherwise have been lost sight of.

By this time fighting was in full swing, and our men had thrown up the first line of trenches in semi-circular form, some six or seven miles to the east of the town.

Very soon the wounded and German prisoners made their appearance, and doctors and chaplains were busily engaged. Most of the prisoners had a very scared look, for we learned afterwards that they had been told that we cut our prisoners' throats, or shot them out of hand, and their joy was great at finding even their personal belongings restored to them.

I was much struck with the characteristic behaviour of 'Tommy Atkins' to these men; even to the extent of sharing his rations with them, and handing out his 'fags,' which was an act of real self-denial.

I owe my grateful thanks to one Uhlan, whose saddle fell to my lot, and which I henceforth used, and regarded as one of the most comfortable I have ever ridden on.

A singularly unfortunate case came under my notice among the first batch of wounded brought in. An officer of the 'Borders' in the dead of night, hearing as he thought a German advance, left his trench to reconnoitre, and after a fruitless search was returning to his men in the thick early morning mist, when a sentinel, ignorant of his having gone out, shot him as he approached the trenches. The poor chap was badly hit in the lungs, and made a brave struggle for life, but alas! died a few hours afterwards.

The Divisional Head-quarters being established at Ypres, my unit moved out to its Brigade, which occupied the line of trenches in the neighbourhood of Zandvoorde.

Arriving at our position in the dusk of a quickly parting day, we found ourselves actually posted in front of the firing line. Disagreeable as the experience was, there was nothing for it but to stick it. In a wood close by, the enemy had machine guns, supported by a body of Uhlans. Disturbing sniping took place at intervals through the night, which rendered the bivouac unpleasant in the extreme. We slept on the ground between the wagons; and under the circumstances I felt it wise to keep as low down as possible, as 'fire' is in no sense discriminating.

Our Brigade Head-quarters were at Kruiseck, to which place I rode early one morning with our Major, to inspect farmhouses, with a view to arranging Field Dressing Stations. Later in the day calling at Head-quarters to inquire if there were any funerals requiring my attention, I found the whole place in extreme excitement; Uhlans were advancing in force. Every hedgerow and wall was lined with our men; the scared inhabitants, utterly unnerved by shell fire, were fleeing from the place. Their appearance was heartrending, and revealed the unutterable horror of war as carried into the midst of a peaceful population.

My ride back to my unit in the gloaming was sufficiently adventurous to please the most reckless man, owing to the proximity of the Uhlans, and gave a zest not often met with to the three or four miles which had to be traversed. Never did I strain my eyes more eagerly, and somewhat after the fashion of Jehu of yore I made my way along the deserted track into a place of comparative safety.

From the neighbourhood of Zandvoorde my unit was hurriedly moved to Gheluvelt, which was then threatened by a German force approaching from the direction of Bercelaire.

Here the whole population was in a state of indescribable anxiety and fear, which it was impossible to remove, for the shells were more convincing than any arguments we could bring to bear.

Our Head-quarters were established at a Xaverian Brotherhood; the superior of which—a dear old gentleman—did his utmost to ensure our comfort. It was weary work hanging about all day awaiting results. Towards evening I thought it wise to get a sleep, and so turned in about five o'clock. During these days of constant anxiety, owing to the proximity of the enemy, we seldom or never removed our clothes,—I had not had mine off for over a week at that time—thus we were ready for any emergency, at any time.

From the village of Gheluvelt we moved on a mile nearer to Ypres, where we billeted in the Chateau de Gheluvelt, from which the owner (Monsieur Peerebone) and his family had evidently departed in great haste. Finely situated in a well wooded park, the house was most splendidly equipped in every respect. The pictures, statuary and furniture were in keeping with the outward appearance of the place. It was interesting to notice the different manner of dealing with other people's property in vogue with the British, in contrast with the German method; so rigid was our O.C. that not even a vegetable was allowed to be taken from the well-stocked walled garden, close by the mansion; a sentry being placed to prevent any hungry 'Tommy' gratifying his desire in that quarter.

Towards evening a general engagement took place, and there was very heavy shelling. Several shells struck the house, but none of us were injured. On the following morning I was called to an advanced outpost of the Scots Guards, to bury Sergeant Wilson, of Lord Esmé Gordon's Company. On reaching the line I found the Battalion about to advance into action in extended order, and the man had been hurriedly buried. On my way back I joined Captain Hamilton Wedderburn, Adjutant, who had been ordered to the rear suffering from appendicitis. I had met this officer's father, Colonel Hamilton, who resided in my neighbourhood at home.

During the night several wounded men came in, and the large salon presented a weird appearance as the doctors attended the suffering men. No cooking was allowed, and all windows were carefully curtained, in order not to draw the fire of the enemy, who were in very unpleasant proximity to the house. I well remember next morning, because the Germans had got the range to a nicety, and the otherwise enjoyable place was rendered unbearable by the crash of shells. So unhealthy grew the position, that the transport was moved a mile away; but we who composed the tent section remained to deal with any men who were brought in. It is astonishing how quickly one grows accustomed to 'fire,' and a very short experience enabled us to go about our work, under risky circumstances, in the most ordinary manner.

The nights at this time were very dark, and at several points we could see burning farm homesteads and villages, which to the thoughtful mind denoted the awful destruction and suffering envolved by the ghastly outrage upon humanity, being perpetrated by the enemy.

We left the château very suddenly, owing to heavy shelling. Some of our men were hit, and two of our 'mess' had horses killed under them, but otherwise we managed to get clear from a decidedly dangerous position. That night it was pitch dark, and we halted on the roadside, some two or three miles west of Gheluvelt. It was pouring with rain as we ate our meal of cold rations; we could not even enjoy a comforting smoke, as the lighting of a match would have been certain to draw the fire of our vigilant foe. Mr. Jaffray and I both agreed that a night's lodging in a damp ditch was hardly consonant with our wishes, and therefore we set out for the hamlet of Halte, where the railway crosses the road, in hopes that we might find cover of some sort.

Leading our horses very cautiously along the road, for sentinels were posted in every direction, and at such 'nervy' times men frequently fire before they challenge, we made our way to a small estaminet which we found crammed with French soldiers. I pleaded hard for even a chair, but the proprietor assured me of the impossibility of offering even this very slender hospitality. I was fortunate to meet MacKenzie, the Transport officer of the Scots Guards, who introduced me to a French officer, who in turn interested the landlady's daughter in our forlorn condition. This kind angel of mercy informed me that her married sister lived at a farm near by, and she thought that there was a bedroom that Mr. Jaffray and I might make use of. Accordingly, holding my reins in one hand and my fair guide's hand in the other, I was led through pitch darkness for some distance, and presently found myself in a huge Belgian farm kitchen, crammed with French soldiers and smelling horribly of garlic. Yes! the farmer could let us have his bedroom for the night, at a small remuneration, as he and his wife had decided to stay up; accordingly, we were shown into an exceedingly small room, some eight feet square, in which was a bed the covering of which made one shudder to look at; but any port in a storm; and we accordingly doubled up the best way we could on a bed some two feet too short for us. As we vainly tried to fall asleep, my batman suddenly turned up,—how he found our quarters will always be a mystery to me—with the news that the column had moved off to some place which he could not pronounce. I showed him my map and asked him if he recognized any name in the locality, but finding that he was as much at sea as to the destination of the unit as I was, I determined that it was useless to attempt to explore that part of Belgium in the darkness of a soaking night; so stowing my servant away in the corner of the kitchen, we did our best to get a few hours' sleep. In the first grey of the dawn we arose and ate a little black bread and very salt bacon, washed down with some execrable coffee, then leading our horses out of the cowhouse in which we had installed them the night before, and from which we had had to turn out a couple of very evil-smelling beasts, we sallied forth to the apparently hopeless task of discovering the direction in which the column had moved. One's deductive faculty had to be drawn upon largely. Presently we found ourselves at Zillebeke, where we were held up by the Northumberland Hussars, who came by in splendid order on their way to entering action. Standing by my side was a Staff officer who had dismounted from his car, awaiting the passage of the cavalry. I explained to him our difficulty, and he said that he rather thought our unit was with the 10th Hussars at Zandvoorde, some four miles away, and very kindly offered me a lift. My horse had contracted a terrible cold and was hardly fit to ride, so placing him in charge of my batman, I arranged to drive on in the car, leaving Mr. Jaffray and my servant to follow. The friendly officer turned out to be Lord Nairne, who was, unfortunately, killed a few days afterwards.

On reaching the village of Zandvoorde, I encountered a terrible sight. The enemy was approaching from two sides, and shelling hard. The place was a slaughter-house; never have I seen so ghastly a sight. The doctors, with their coats off and shirt sleeves rolled up, looked more like butchers than medical men, and for an hour or two I found my hands full in the saddest of all work, dealing with dying men.

As I was eating a hasty breakfast—for in campaigning one learns the value of sleeping and eating whenever a chance presents itself—the O.C. came to me saying that some one must get through to Ypres, to stop the transport that was about to come out, and also to warn the major of the serious condition of affairs at Zandvoorde. Would I go? Such an opportunity of doing 'a real bit' only comes now and again, therefore it was not difficult to decide.

I had a foretaste of what I was presently to pass through, as, sitting on the doorstep of a cottage, I was changing into riding boots, out of the heavy Swiss climbing boots that I had been wearing, and which threatened to be awkward in the stirrups, if by any chance I was thrown, a not unlikely event under fire, when a shrapnel burst some twenty feet from me, with an explosion which almost lifted me from the ground. The door before which I sat, and the front of the cottage, were liberally studded with bullets and pieces of the casing, but in a most providential manner I was untouched. Very quickly I completed my change of boots, and got my kit-bag once more stowed away in a transport wagon. Strictest orders had been given that no kits were to be removed from the wagon, and I hope that the O.C., if ever he discovers my delinquency, will take into consideration the urgency of my desire to fulfil instructions in the carrying of his orders into Ypres.

For three miles, right over 'Hill 60,' I had the ride of my life. Shells were bursting in every direction, but my good horse struggled on gamely. By this time he had come to know the import of the shrieking whistle which betokens the approach of a shell, but he displayed no more concern than a momentary quiver as it burst. As for me I could only place myself in God's hands, and well remember how, as each shell approached, I repeated that comforting word from Isaiah xxvi. 3, 'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee.' Over and over again I repeated 'because he trusteth in thee.' And then bang! bang! and once more the danger was past.

The road was crowded with terrified people, literally fleeing for their lives, and as I got out of the range of fire, I tried to comfort them in the best way I could.

Reaching Ypres I delivered my message, and then sank down and fell into a deep sleep for four hours. I suppose it was a kind of reaction from the nervous strain.

I found Ypres crammed with wounded men, and worked hard there for the next day or two. Many were the distressing cases that came under my attention.

It was on October 23 that I received my first batch of letters from home, and the first opportunity I stole away into a quiet corner and enjoyed myself to my heart's content.

Those were wonderful days, in which all sorts and conditions of men, from officers of the Household Troops downwards, passed through my hands. Of course there were many funerals to conduct, and in connexion with the funeral arrangements and the system of tabulating I came much into contact with Major the Hon. ——. Collins, one of the most charming and courteous of men.

On October 31—that fateful day, when it seemed impossible for the thin line of khaki to further withstand the tremendous onslaught of the enemy which had placed the Prussian Guard in its front line—the sad duty of burying young Prince Maurice of Battenburg fell to my lot. It was a strange coincidence, for I had met him in bygone years when he was a bright, attractive boy. Such a task awakened the greatest interest in my heart, for sad as the ceremony was, I keenly felt the privilege of rendering this last act of tender duty to a young prince so universally beloved. One of his men, in relating the manner of his heroic death, afterwards said to me, 'I loved him, sir, as a brother.' The funeral, which was attended by Prince Arthur of Connaught and several Generals, took place under heavy fire. So continuous indeed was the roar of the shells, that an officer, writing to the papers some time after, related that it was impossible to distinguish the chaplain's voice. The service was therefore necessarily brief, and at its conclusion the crowd of officers quickly dispersed.

An order had been issued for a withdrawal from the Front, and the Menin road into Ypres was blocked with troops and transport.

A short time previous to this I had the misfortune to be somewhat seriously injured, for my horse—frightened or struck by a shell which burst near by, I have never been able to determine which,—fell heavily on me, severely crushing my left leg. I had been taken in a Staff car to the 6th casualty clearing station and attended to, but the injured limb grew steadily worse. In the course of the afternoon, to my great joy, the 23rd Field Ambulance passed me on its way from Hooge, and I was promptly placed on an ambulance wagon, on which I trekked through Ypres; until we reached Dickebusch, some three miles on the south of the city.

As we halted for a time at the square at Ypres, a young officer, seeing me in the ambulance, came up with a cheery 'Hallo, padré! what's up? Last time I saw you was in your pulpit at St. John's, Boscombe; life's a funny game, isn't it?'

Such interviews are of frequent occurrence at the Front, where lives momentarily touch, and then, possibly, for ever separate.

Lying on a stone floor of a deserted cottage in Dickebusch that night, I passed one of the most painful, wretched and sleepless nights of my life. My brother officers were all snoring comfortably, when suddenly a knock at the door placed me on the alert. My first thought was that the Germans had got through, accordingly I made no reply; presently a gruff voice said, 'An orderly, sir,' and I cried out, 'Come in.' He had brought a dispatch to say that the whole German line had been forced back, and that the Ambulance was immediately to take up its old position on the farther side of Hooge.

In a very short time an early breakfast was quickly disposed of and the column was ready to move off.

The O.C., finding me utterly incapacitated by reason of my injuries, decided that I must go into hospital, for wounded men are not much use in a life where a man's fullest powers are daily called for.

Fortunately, at that moment, Colonel Swan, A.D.M.S., and Lieut.-Colonel Guy Moores, D.A.D.M.S., came up in their car, and learning my condition, very kindly brought me and my kit into Ypres; saying that I must proceed to the Base.

Accordingly I was deposited at Ypres station, where the R.T.O. most kindly had me cared for in his office.

During the long hours of Sunday, November 1, I spent a miserable time waiting for the hospital train to start. In the course of the day, an officer in my Brigade, Lord Bury, had a chat with me, and committed to me an urgent telegram for his wife. In the course of the morning he had been arrested as a spy; and seemed very amused at the uncommon experience. At 6 p.m. I was placed on the train, and with some two or three other fellow sufferers, gradually rolled away from the sound of fire, which for three weeks past had been the daily accompaniment of one's life.

I cannot speak too highly of the great care and solicitude bestowed upon the wounded in the train. For the first time one came into touch with those splendid women, literally angels of mercy, the nursing sisters. Never shall I cease to remember their loving care, and the skilful way in which they bandaged up my crushed leg.

It was a long journey. Leaving Ypres at 6 p.m. on Sunday night, we didn't reach Boulogne until 3 p.m. on the Monday afternoon, a distance of not more than eighty miles.

On reaching the Base I was informed that I was to be sent to England, on a hospital ship about to leave. Accordingly, with some twenty or thirty other officers, and a large number of men, we were conveyed to the ambulance, through a dense crowd of sympathizing French people.

I have certainly never seen such a collection of scarecrows as we presented to the public gaze; and in much pain though we were, we could not help being struck with the ludicrousness of our condition. Bespattered with mud; filthy in appearance; beards of several days' growth; legs of trousers, and sleeves of coats cut away; bandaged and bloody; we must have presented a truly remarkable sight.

On the hospital ship, the Carisbroke Castle, the arrangements were perfect. It was almost worth being injured to lie in such a comfortable bed; and the food was beyond description of delight.

On board, every case was speedily dealt with by medical men, and everything done to ensure the comfort of the sufferers.

Whilst the life at the Front is exceedingly rigorous and claims the utmost of one's strength, and the word and act of sympathy does not come much to the surface of men's lives, yet, when once a man is bowled over, a careful country certainly does its best to alleviate his suffering.

On reaching Southampton the following morning, finding that I lived in the area of a military hospital (The Royal Victoria and West Hants), of which I have been chaplain for many years, the senior officer, as a great concession, very kindly allowed me to be sent home.

Home! Do those who always live in the blessed shelter of this sweet spot, really know the fulness and sweetness of 'home.' Truly the English classic song, 'Home, sweet Home, there is no place like Home,' comes with a new, full, deep meaning to men who have passed through the ordeal of fire.

Bed claimed my presence for many a weary day, and it was March 16 before a Medical Board permitted me to resume my duties with the British Expeditionary Force. My further experience of service must be related in the subsequent chapter on 'Life at the Base.'

THE WELCOME OF A PEOPLE

CHAPTER IIIToC

THE WELCOME OF A PEOPLE

There was no mistaking the enthusiastic welcome accorded to the Seventh Division, as it moved south through the well cultivated country, thriving villages, and prosperous towns of Belgium.

Already the deeds of German 'kultur' had reached the ears of the inhabitants; indeed, many of those who had fled from the barbarous enemy bore signs of the gross ill-treatment inflicted by the 'kultured' foe, in furtherance of the advice of General Bernhardi and others to carry 'terror' into the hearts of the invaded people. And nearly all of them had some dread story to relate, of wanton destruction to public and private property, and of vile wrongs perpetrated upon an unoffending people. Small wonder that they welcomed us; for Great Britain meant more to them than the name of a powerful nation; it rather conveyed the idea of the strong, active principles of liberty and justice, which they felt were about to be set free in their unhappy country.

In contradistinction to the Germans, this people of a small country seemed to unconsciously uphold the marked differentiation between the laws of might and right, as exhibited by the two nationalities, Germany and Belgium.

Germany, the former land of light and learning, has gradually slipped downwards from her high ideals. A sure and sad process of religious and moral declension has ensued; until, under the baneful influences of Nietzsche, Treitschke, Bernhardi, and their like, the land of the reformation has become the land of militarism, employing forces without justice, discipline without pity, and annexation without consideration.

All this lies at the back of the mind of the best part of Europe to-day, and more especially of Belgium.

Belgium is a Christian country. The religious houses have the words of Scripture prominently inscribed upon them. On one house of a Religious Order I saw painted, 'All for God.' On the cross roads there is frequently found a life-size crucifix, which points its wondrous teaching to many a weary soul.

A valued friend of mine,—an officer in a kilted regiment—writing home a short time ago described his sensations, as, emerging from the bloody ruck of his first engagement, he presently found himself, worn and spent, gazing at the figure of the Crucified One. And as he very beautifully said, 'Jesus came afresh into my heart.'

Again, one has not to travel far along any main road without encountering a small shrine, open day and night, for those who desire to draw aside from the ordinary pursuits of strenuous life, and enjoy prayer to God; and that almost lost art, meditation.

Thus we see a striking contrast between the conquerors and the conquered, exhibited in the ruthless invasion to which Belgium has been subjected. Roman Catholics as they are, the Belgians whom I met—and I conversed with many—seemed to realize that England, Protestant England, is honestly striving to exhibit 'the righteousness that alone exalteth the nation.'

It was in a state of the deepest gratitude, based upon such principles as I have set forth, that the people flocked to receive us. True, at times they revealed their feelings in very unorthodox fashion. For example, I remember at a midday halt one day, while the men stood preparatory to breaking off, an ecstatic Belgian girl rushed up to a 'Tommy,' and flinging her arms round his neck, kissed him warmly. I have no doubt that on occasion the man could have returned the salute with interest, but the suddenness and the publicity of the attack rendered him both speechless and powerless. There he stood blushing like a school girl; the while his comrades urged him to retaliate. He bore himself like a martyr; but when a man immediately afterwards proceeded to kiss him on both cheeks,—as foreigners often do—then 'Tommy' recovered his mental equilibrium; and his language, well! it was more forcible than elegant.

A far more pathetic welcome fell to my lot, as I walked across the square at Ypres, in the early days of the British occupancy. While talking to a brother officer, I suddenly felt my hand seized, kissed, and then stroked; and looking down, I saw a sweet little blue-eyed maid of some five years, not much above the level of the bottom of my tunic in height, who said in the prettiest broken English, 'Brave Ingleese.' The memory of a certain other blue-eyed kiddy, away in England, was too much for me, and this time I was the aggressor, for I took the little maid up in my arms and kissed her, much to the amusement of the passers-by I have no doubt.

Nothing seemed too good for the people to offer us. In our billets, indeed, the very best the house could produce was set before us.

As we marched through one town—I think it was Wynghene, which was evidently the centre of the tobacco industry, for tobacco is largely grown in that part of Belgium—thousands of cigars were handed to the column, and for days after the men would not look at the humble 'fag.' In country districts, too, the people were not to be outdone, for strapping farm wenches and men lined the road and literally showered apples and pears upon us.

At the gates of one fine park, the owner, his wife and servants bestowed cigarettes, matches and other acceptable gifts upon the men as they marched past. Oh, yes! those were brave days, and made us feel considerably pleased with ourselves, but do not grudge us such joys, for just below the horizon of that time dark clouds were fast rising, which soon darkened the skies of many and many a life. Anyhow, I will undertake to say that none who were on that trek will ever forget the enthusiasm of the people, as day by day we marched on to do battle for them, and the great principles which surely have made our nation great.

A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS

CHAPTER IVToC

A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS

Life at the Front cannot fail to be full of stirring incidents; indeed, I very much question whether any experience comes up to it for interest and excitement. I am not speaking of the ding-dong trench warfare which has characterized the campaign on the Western front for so many months past, but refer more particularly to those early days when both armies were exceedingly active; and the operations very much resembled a game of chess, with not too long an interval between the moves.

In the early days of the war in Flanders, the times were wondrously stirring; one never knew where an attack would be launched, and what would happen next. With such huge and mobile opposing forces in front of us, every day had some fresh surprise in store. 'From early morning till dewy eve' we lived on the tiptoe of expectation; for, indeed, the early morning carried its message, but generally of discomfort, for not the least discomfort of a campaign is the very early hour at which reveille is sounded, usually at five, but sometimes at four; or, in the case of emergency, at any hour of the night. But generally it comes just as the attitude necessary to comfort has been discovered, and the somnolent individual is ready for the luxury of what I may call a half and half snooze. It is at that moment, in that mysterious borderland of sleeping and waking, that the strident and compelling sound of the bugle falls upon the unwilling ear. There is no turning over for another spell. One comfort is, there is always very little toilet to perform; and in a few minutes the place is alive with dishevelled and half-awake men. Where water can be easily procured, cleanliness is the order of the day; and with all our faults, one essential feature stands to the credit of the British soldier: he is a clean man. Never does Tommy miss his wash and shave if there is half a chance of gratifying this admirable instinct.

All visitors to the Front are struck with the glorious health and fitness of our lads. In fact, I have never seen such a collection of healthy manhood in my life. This is attributable in the first place to the natural open-air life which the men lead, but in the next place to the excellent sanitary arrangements and precautions adopted and insisted upon by the authorities, which very largely account for the remarkable immunity from disease enjoyed by the troops.

Behind all this, comes the most important question of 'grub.' The commissariat of the British Expeditionary Force is a marvel of organization. During the last six months of my military service I enjoyed the advantage of travelling up and down the lines from Ypres to Bethune, and everywhere I was most profoundly impressed by the marvel of supply. Scattered over the whole front are units, large and small, each of which has to be fed daily; and woe to the unlucky A.S.C. officer who is responsible for delay in forwarding or conveying rations. 'Tommy' is nothing without a good 'grouse,' but in this respect he is not always logical; bread which is stale will give him cause to grumble for hours; but he will rush into the most desperate and bloody work, and suffer untold misery, without a murmur.

Alluding to the masterpiece of organization, which enables our army to be fed while in the battle front, Mr. Philip Gibbs, writing in the Daily Chronicle, says: 'The British soldier has at least this in his favour, in spite of all the horrors of war which has put his manhood to the test, he gets his "grub" with unfailing regularity, if there is any possible means of approach to him, and he gets enough and a bit more. It is impossible for him to "grouse" about that element of his life on the field. The French soldier envies him and says,—as I have heard one of them say—"Ma foi! our comrades feed like princes! they have even jam with their tea! The smell of bacon comes from their trenches and touches our nostrils with the most excellent fragrance, more beautiful than the perfume of flowers. The English eat as well as they fight, which is furiously."'

It may interest my readers to see what a man's daily ration consists of. This table refers to officers and men alike, for there is no difference in this respect:—

This ration is more scientifically arranged than its recipient imagines; as a matter of fact, it comprises all the essentials which go to build up the stamina of the fighting man; and thus, well provided with fresh air, good food, to say nothing of hard exercise, the animal side of Mr. Thomas Atkins is kept in the pink of condition, and he is able to face the burdens of life which are incidental to his calling, and which are not a few, with remarkable ease and success.

Life at the Front is a strange compound of the grave and the gay. One of the most appealing features is witnessed in the sad lot of the Belgian refugees, who, often at a moment's notice, have fled from their homes, leaving all their property to the devastation of war. I have frequently seen mournful processions on the road, consisting of old and young. It is heartrending to witness the pitiable look of an aged couple, who through a long life have lived in some happy homestead, taking their last gaze at the house with its trim garden, which one knows in a few hours will be shattered past recognition; women, sometimes in a most delicate condition, struggling bravely on; children crying; and the men with set teeth and despairing faces striding on, carrying the few articles which they have hurriedly snatched up, as the whole family has escaped from the hell which has so suddenly befallen them. Where are they to go to? God only knows what becomes of them. I have seen them lining the road on a pouring wet night, outside a town already full to overflowing with like unhappy sufferers; the while Belgian soldiers, with fixed bayonets, have prohibited any further entrance to that which promised a lodging place. Soldiers are not proverbially given to overmuch sensitiveness where human suffering is concerned, for a daily intercourse with terrible scenes cannot fail to harden a man, but I declare that I have seen strong men burst into tears as they have gazed at one of these processions of great mental and bodily agony.

One serious aspect of life at the Front is found in the remarkable system of espionage which unfortunately abounds. One lives in a constant state of suspicion, for in this respect the enemy is as daring as he is resourceful.

The first time I passed through Hooge we suddenly saw a homing pigeon let out of the loft of a cottage; immediately the house was surrounded and entered. I speedily made for the back of the premises, hoping to intercept any one who had been responsible for a most suspicious act. A boy of some eighteen years was discovered in the loft, with a large number of carrier pigeons, which were immediately confiscated, and the boy was arrested. I rode off to Head-quarters, some mile and a half away, and reported the occurrence, with the result that the boy was marched off for close examination. The pigeons, however, formed a very agreeable addition to the men's menu that night. I believe the boy was released; but whilst he was under arrest, a very personable and well-dressed individual approached, and introduced himself as Count ——, stating that he had known the boy for years, and that the keeping of pigeons formed his hobby. Something in the manner of the man aroused our suspicion, and after careful examination it was found that he himself was a spy; and in due course he was shot.

Another somewhat remarkable instance of the ramifications of this aspect of warfare occurred in a certain well-known town; one of the high officials of which—whom I knew well—a most courteous gentleman—proved to be in close touch with the enemy. He, too, was shot. Daily there are men, and sometimes women, who risk their lives in securing items of information as to the disposition of troops, guns, etc., which are likely to prove of value to the enemy. Notwithstanding the strictest orders, I am afraid our men are not always wise in their intercourse with strangers. On one occasion, very stringent orders from Head-quarters had been read out to the men, prior to moving off in the early morning, informing them that on no account were they to disclose any information whatsoever as to the movements or disposition of troops; and yet, during a ten minutes' halt later in the day, as I rode by a transport wagon, I heard the driver gassing on with refreshing innocence, as he retailed to a civilian where we had come from; where we were going to; where our Brigade was situated, etc. I am afraid I raised my voice in hot anger, and riding round to the other side of the wagon was just in time to see the eager listener disappearing across country. It was impossible to arrest him, and the incident closed; not altogether to the satisfaction of the thoughtless purveyor of news I imagine.

Amid men so full of such animal life as our brave lads, it will be readily imagined that existence is not wholly composed of shadow; indeed, few careers are so full of brightness and geniality as those of our fighting men. 'Tommy Atkins' is a unique creation. I know not from whence he springs. There is something in his environment which evolves him, I suppose; it is not a question of years of association with men of his like, for the New Army which has only been in being for a few months produces precisely the same type; and men whom this time last year were far removed from the very thought of soldiering, are now found to possess all the attributes and qualities—good, bad and indifferent—which formed the traditional soldier in the ranks. His cheeriness is unbounded. For some time the pronunciation of Ypres bothered him seriously, but he soon settled the difficulty by calling it 'Wypers.' Étaples was also another stumbling block, but 'Eatables' soon revealed Tommy's way out of another difficulty. Ploegstreete, which for centuries has been an insignificant hamlet, is now known throughout the British Army as 'Plug Street'; well known for possessing some of the finest trenches along the line.

One afternoon I had ridden back into Ypres to purchase a note-book, and had procured what I wanted, when two privates who stood by my side in the little stationer's shop determined on the purchase of some small article; the difficulty at the moment was to find out its cost. One of them, who acted as spokesman, held up his selection, and astonished the woman at the other side of the counter by saying, 'How mooch monnee?' Naturally enough the woman gazed at him with a bewildered air, when 'Tommy' turned to the pal by his side and said, 'Silly swine, they don't know their own language.'

A remarkable feature which I frequently encountered in connexion with what I may call the soldier's social life, is the great facility with which he introduces himself to the native inhabitants. In a very few minutes he seems to be thoroughly at home with them, girls and all, and is in some mysterious way holding conversation, or at all events conveying his meaning, to the satisfaction of both parties. In the gloaming you will see him strolling about with the girls of the village, as much at home as in the lanes of his own countryside. What they talk about I can't tell, but talk they do; and as far as one can determine, to their mutual pleasure.

Even in the deadliest moments, the wit of the man is to the front. At the battle of Neuve Chapelle, at the beginning of March, a bomb-thrower, rushing through the village, came upon a cellar full of Germans in hiding. Putting his head in at the door, at the risk of his life he cried: 'How many of yer are there in there?' The answer came, 'Ve vos twelve.' Then said Tommy, throwing in a bomb, 'Divide that amongst yer,' with the result too ghastly for words.

Such humour, coarse though it may be, is not by any means confined to terra firma. On the first of April, a British aeroplane sailed over the German lines, and when over the first line of trenches, dropped a football. The Huns were simply terrified, as they saw this new kind of bomb slowly descending, and fled right and left. With amazement they saw it strike the ground, and then bounce high up, until it gradually settled down; then very cautiously the bolder elements amongst them crept up and found a football, on which was written, 'The first of April, you blighters.'

It is strange to see this remarkable spirit evinced in the most hazardous moments of life. Right out in front of the trenches one night a man was badly hit, and his chum, at the risk of his life, rushed out to his help, saying, 'Get on my back, mate, and I will carry you in,' only to be met with, 'Not darned likely; I shall be shot in the back, and you will get the V.C.'

A further illustration of this most remarkable military production occurs in the following incident. A friend of mine, who has himself been twice wounded, on the last occasion of injury was in the trenches, when suddenly a man by his side was hit in the wrist; clapping his hand upon the wound he exclaimed, 'Got it! I've been waiting for this since last August.' Then, putting his left hand into his pocket, he pulled out a mouth-organ and played 'Home, Sweet Home.' Who but an English 'Tommy' could, or would, do that. No wonder that the French are puzzled by this strange composition of humanity with which they are fighting as allies.

The enemy, too, wonders, as he comes across a foe so remarkable in his words and methods. A German officer—a most charming man—lying in the next bed but one to me, on the hospital ship which brought me home from France, was asked what he thought of the comparative fighting values of the allies, and he remarked, 'Well! we can manage the Belgians, and we understand the French, but we cannot comprehend you English, for by every known law of war you are beaten again and again, but you never seem to know it!' This is, of course, not an original utterance, but derived from one of Napoleon's great Generals; but at all events it shows the estimate placed upon our fighting capacity by an enemy who at one time styled us as 'that contemptible little army.' There is sometimes a weird sense of disproportion revealed, as in the case of a Highlander who was visited by a brother chaplain at a Base hospital some two or three months ago, and who remarked to the patient, 'Well, Jock, what do you think of Jack Johnsons? They put the fear of God into your heart, don't they?' 'Aye, sir, they do, but let's hope it will soon wear off.'

My readers will see that we are a strange compound of grave and gay at the Front, as I have already said. There is, however, a deeper side of the soldier's life, which after all is even more correctly characteristic of the man than that which only appears upon the surface.