war and the future-第10章

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intermediate　dressing　station；　rigged　up　with　wood　and
tarpaulins；　and　orderlies　were　packing　two　wounded　men　into　an
ambulance。　　The　men　on　the　stretchers　were　grey　faced；　as　though
they　had　been　trodden　on　by　some　gigantic　dirty　boot。

As　we　came　back　towards　where　our　car　waited　by　the　cemetery　I
heard　the　jingle　of　a　horseman　coming　across　the　space　behind　us。
I　turned　and　beheld　one　of　the　odd　contrasts　that　seem　always　to
be　happening　in　this　incredible　war。　　This　man　was；　I　suppose；　a
native　officer　of　some　cavalry　force　from　French　north　Africa。
He　was　a　handsome　dark　brown　Arab；　wearing　a　long　yellow…white
robe　and　a　tall　cap　about　which　ran　a　band　of　sheepskin。　　He　was
riding　one　of　those　little　fine　lean　horses　with　long　tails　that
I　think　are　Barbary　horses；　his　archaic　saddle　rose　fore　and　aft
of　him；　and　the　turned…up　toes　of　his　soft　leather　boots　were
stuck　into　great　silver　stirrups。　　He　might　have　ridden　straight
out　of　the　Arabian　nights。　　He　passed　thoughtfully；　picking　his
way　delicately　among　the　wire　and　the　shell　craters；　and　coming
into　the　road；　broke　into　a　canter　and　vanished　in　the　direction
of　the　smashed…up　refinery。


2

About　such　towns　as　Rheims　or　Arras　or　Soissons　there　is　an
effect　of　waiting　stillness　like　nothing　else　I　have　ever
experienced。　　At　Arras　the　situation　is　almost　incredible　to　the
civilian　mind。　　The　British　hold　the　town；　the　Germans　hold　a
northern　suburb；　at　one　point　near　the　river　the　trenches　are
just　four　metres　apart。　　This　state　of　tension　has　lasted　for
long　months。

Unless　a　very　big　attack　is　contemplated；　I　suppose　there　is　no
advantage　in　an　assault；　across　that　narrow　interval　we　should
only　get　into　trenches　that　might　be　costly　or　impossible　to
hold；　and　so　it　would　be　for　the　Germans　on　our　side。　　But　there
is　a　kind　of　etiquette　observed；　loud　vulgar　talking　on　either
side　of　the　four…metre　gap　leads　at　once　to　bomb　throwing。　　And
meanwhile　on　both　sides　guns　of　various　calibre　keep　up　an
intermittent　fire；　the　German　guns　registerI　think　that　is　the
right　termon　the　cross　of　Arras　cathedral；　the　British　guns
search　lovingly　for　the　German　batteries。　　As　one　walks　about　the
silent　streets　one　hears；　〃/Bang/…Pheeee…woooo〃　and　then　far
away　〃/dump。/〃　One　of　ours。　　Then　presently　back　comes
〃Pheeee…woooo…/Bang！/〃　One　of　theirs。

Amidst　these　pleasantries；　the　life　of　the　town　goes　on。　　/Le
Lion　d'Arras/；　an　excellent　illustrated　paper；　produces　its
valiant　sheets；　and　has　done　so　since　the　siege　began。

The　current　number　of　/Le　Lion　d'Arras/　had　to　report　a
local　German　success。　　Overnight　they　had　killed　a　gendarme。
There　is　to　be　a　public　funeral　and　much　ceremony。　　It　is　rare
for　anyone　now　to　get　killed；　everything　is　so　systematised。

You　may　buy　postcards　with　views　of　the　destruction　at　various
angles；　and　send　them　off　with　the　Arras　postmark。　　The　town　is
not　without　a　certain　business　activity。　　There　is；　I　am　told；　a
considerable　influx　of　visitors　of　a　special　sort；　they　wear
khaki　and　lead　the　troglodytic　life。　　They　play　cards　and　gossip
and　sleep　in　the　shadows；　and　may　not　walk　the　streets。　　I　had
one　glimpse　of　a　dark　crowded　cellar。　　Now　and　then　one　sees　a
British　soldier　on　some　special　errand；　he　keeps　to　the　pavement；
mindful　of　the　spying　German　sausage　balloon　in　the　air。　　The
streets　are　strangely　quite　and　grass　grows　between　the　stones。

The　Hotel　de　Ville　and　the　cathedral　are　now　mostly　heaps　of
litter；　but　many　streets　of　the　town　have　suffered　very　little。
Here　and　there　a　house　has　been　crushed　and　one　or　two　have　been
bisected；　the　front　reduced　to　a　heap　of　splinters　and　the　back
halves　of　the　rooms　left　so　that　one　sees　the　bed；　the　hanging
end　of　the　carpet；　the　clothes　cupboard　yawning　open；　the
pictures　still　on　the　wall。　　In　one　place　a　lamp　stands　on　a
chest　of　drawers；　on　a　shelf　of　floor　cut　off　completely　from　the
world　below。。。。　　Pheeee…woooo…/Bang！/　One　would　be
irresistibly　reminded　of　a　Sunday　afternoon　in　the　city　of
London；　if　it　were　not　for　those　unmeaning　explosions。

I　went　to　the　station；　a　dead　railway　station。　　A　notice…board
requested　us　to　walk　around　the　silent　square　on　the　outside
pavement　and　not　across　it。　　The　German　sausage　balloon　had　not
been　up　for　days；　it　had　probably　gone　off　to　the　Somme；　the
Somme　was　a　terrible　vortex　just　then　which　was　sucking　away　the
resources　of　the　whole　German　line；　but　still　discipline　is
discipline。　　The　sausage　might　come　peeping　up　at　any　moment　over
the　station　roof；　and　so　we　skirted　the　square。　　Arras　was　fought
for　in　the　early　stages　of　the　war；　two　lines　of　sand…bagged
breastworks　still　run　obliquely　through　the　station；　one　is　where
the　porters　used　to　put　luggage　upon　cabs　and　one　runs　the　length
of　the　platform。　　The　station　was　a　fine　one　of　the　modern　type；
with　a　glass　roof　whose　framework　still　remains；　though　the　glass
powders　the　floor　and　is　like　a　fine　angular　gravel　underfoot。
The　rails　are　rails　of　rust；　and　cornflowers　and　mustard　and　tall
grasses　grow　amidst　the　ballast。　　The　waiting…rooms　have　suffered
from　a　shell　or　so；　but　there　are　still　the　sofas　of　green　plush；
askew；　a　little　advertisement　hung　from　the　wall；　the　glass
smashed。　　The　ticket　bureau　is　as　if　a　giant　had　scattered　a
great　number　of　tickets；　mostly　still　done　up　in　bundles；　to
Douai；　to　Valenciennes；　to　Lens　and　so　on。　　These　tickets　are
souvenirs　too　portable　to　resist。　　I　gave　way　to　that　common
weakness。

I　went　out　and　looked　up　and　down　the　line；　two　deserted　goods
trucks　stood　as　if　they　sheltered　under　a　footbridge。　　The　grass
poked　out　through　their　wheels。　　The　railway　signals　seemed
uncertain　in　their　intimations；　some　were　up　and　some　were　down。
And　it　was　as　still　and　empty　as　a　summer　afternoon　in　Pompeii。
No　train　has　come　into　Arras　for　two　long　years　now。

We　lunched　in　a　sunny　garden　with　various　men　who　love　Arras　but
are　weary　of　it；　and　we　disputed　about　Irish　politics。　　We
discussed　the　political　future　of　Sir　F。　E。　Smith。　　We　also
disputed　whether　there　was　an　equivalent　in　English　for
/embusque。/　　Every　now　and　then　a　shell　came　overan
aimless　shell。

A　certain　liveliness　marked　our　departure　from　the　town。
Possibly　the　Germans　also　listen　for　the　rare　infrequent
automobile。　　At　any　rate；　as　we　were　just　starting　our　way　back
it　is　improper　to　mention　the　exact　point　from　which　we　started
came　〃Pheeee…woooo。〃　　Quite　close。　　But　there　was　no　/Bang！/
One's　mind　hung　expectant　and　disappointed。　　It　was　a　dud　shell。

And　then　suddenly　I　became　acutely　aware　of　the　personality　of
our　chauffeur。　　It　was　not　his　business　to　talk　to　us；　but　he
turned　his　head；　showed　a　sharp　profile；　wry　lips　and　a　bright
excited　eye；　and　remarked；　〃/That/　was　a　near　oneanyhow。〃
He　then　cut　a　corner　over　the　pavement　and　very　nearly　cut　it
through　a　house。　　He　bumped　us　over　a　shell　hole　and　began　to
toot　his　horn。　　At　every　gateway；　alley；　and　cross　road　on　this
silent　and　empty　streets　of　Arras　and　frequently　in　between；　he
tooted　punctiliously。　　（It　is　not　proper　to　sound　motor　horns　in
Arras。）　I　cannot　imagine　what　the　listening　Germans　made　of　it。
We　passed　the　old　gates　of　that　city　of　fear；　still　tooting
vehemently；　and　then　with　shoulders　eloquent　of　his　feelings；　our
chauffeur　abandoned　the　horn　altogether　and　put　his　whole　soul
into　the　accelerator。。。。


3

Soissons　was　in　very　much　the　same　case　as　Arras。　　There　was　the
same　pregnant　silence　in　her　streets；　the　same　effect　of　waiting
for　the　moment　which　draws　nearer　and　nearer；　when　the　brooding
German　lines　away　there　will　be　full　of　the　covert　activities　of
retreat；　when　the　streets　of　the　old　town　will　stir　with　the
joyous　excitement　of　the　conclusive　advance。

The　organisation　of　Soissons　for　defence　is　perfect。　　I　may　not
describe　it；　but　think　of　whatever　would　stop　and　destroy　an
attacking　party　or　foil　the　hostile　shell。　　It　is　there。　　Men
have　had　nothing　else　to　do　and　nothing　else　to　think　of　for　two
years。　　I　crossed　the　bridge　the　English　made　in　the　pursuit
after　the　Marne；　and　went　into　the　first　line　trenches　and　peeped
towards　the　invisible　enemy。　　To　show　me　exactly　where　to　look　a
seventy…five　obliged　with　a　shell。　　In　the　crypt　of　the　Abbey　of
St。　Medard　near　by　itit　must　provoke　the　Germans　bitterly　to
think　that　all　the　rest　of　the　building　vanished　ages　agothe
French　boys　sleep　beside　the　bones　of　King　Childebert　the　Second。
They　shelter　safely　in　the　prison　of　Louis　the　Pious。　　An
ineffective　shell　from　a　German　seventy…seven　burst　in　the　walled
garden　close　at　hand　as　I　came　out　from　those　thousand…year…old
memories　again。

The　cathedral　at　Soissons　had　not　been　nearly　so　completely
smashed　up　as　the　one　at　Arras；　I　doubt　if　it　has　been　very
greatly　fired　into。　　There　is　a　peculiar　beauty　in　the　one　long
vertical　strip　of　blue　sky　between　the　broken　arches　in　the　chief
gap　where　the　wall　has　tumbled　in。　　And　the　people　are　holding　on
in　many　cases　exactly　as　they　are　doing　in　Arras；　I　do　not　know
whether　it　is　habit　or　courage　that　is　most　apparent　in　this
persistence。　　About　the　chief　place　of　the　town　there　are　ruined
houses；　but　some　invisible　hand　still　keeps　the　grass　of　the
little　garden　within　bounds　and　has　put　out　a　bed　of　begonias。
In　Paris　I　met　a　charming　American　writer；　the　wife　of　a　French
artist；　the　lady　who　wrote　/My　House　on　the　Field　of
Honour。/　　She　gave　me　a　queer　little　anecdote。　　On　account　of
some　hospital　work　she　had　been　allowed　to　visit　Soissonsa　rare
privilege　for　a　womanand　she　stayed　the　night　in　a　lodging。
The　room　into　which　she　was　shown　was　like　any　other　French
provincial　bedroom；　and　after　her　Anglo…Saxon　habit　she　walked
straight　to　the　windows　to　open　them。

They　looked　exactly　like　any　other　French　bedroom　windows；　with
neat；　clean　white　lace　curtains　across　them。　　The　curtains　had
been　put　there；　because　they　were　the　proper　things　to　put
there。

〃Madame；〃　said　the　hostess；　〃need　not　trouble　to　open　the　glass。
There　is　no　more　glass　in　Soissons。〃

But　there　were　curtains　nevertheless。　　There　was　all　the　precise
delicacy　of　the　neatly　curtained　home　life　of　France。

And　she　told　me　too　of　the　people　at　dinner；　and　how　as　the
little　serving…maid　passed　about　a　proud　erection　of　cake　and
conserve　and　cream；　came　the　familiar　〃Pheeee…woooo…
/Bang！/〃

〃That　must　have　been　the　Seminaire；〃　said　someone。

As　one　speaks　of　the　weather　or　a　passing　cart。

〃It　was　in　the　Rue　de　la　Bueire；　M'sieur；〃　the　little　maid
asserted　with　quiet　conviction；　poising　the　trophy　of
confectionery　for　Madame　Huard　with　an　unshaking　hand。

So　stoutly　do　the　roots　of　French　life　hold　beneath　the
tramplings　of　war。


II。　THE　GRADES　OF　WAR


1
Soissons　and　Arras　when　I　visited　them　were　samples　of　the
deadlock　war；　they　were　like　Bloch　come　true。　　The　living　fact
about　war　so　far　is　that　Bloch　has　not　come　true/yet。/　　I
think　in　the　end　he　will　come　true；　but　not　so　far　as　this　war　is
concerned；　and　to　make　that　clear　it　is　necessary　to　trouble　the
reader　with　a　little　disquisition　upon　waromitting　as　far　as
humanly　possible　all　mention　of　Napoleon's　campaigns。

The　developme