Owing to the fact that my foot was still troubling me, I was sent down to the rest-camp at Fresnicourt, where I met many of the officers and men in that delightful old Château. The country round about was very pretty, and the views from the hills were charming. Every night I used to have either a service, or a talk with the men, on the grass beside a little stream. They were all enjoying the rest and refreshment that came from being able to live in pleasant surroundings and away from shells and work in the trenches. On July 18th, I went by side-car to St. Omer where the Senior Chaplains of the Army were summoned to a conference. We were billeted in the large building used as the Chaplains' Rest Home, and there enjoyed the great privilege, not only of meeting one another, but of listening to some splendid addresses and lectures by those in charge. It was pleasant to re-visit St. Omer. The quaint old French town, with its rambling streets and polite inhabitants, took one away from the thoughts of war and gave one almost a feeling of home. In the smoking-room at night, we had the opportunity of discussing with one another the various moral and religious problems with which the chaplain had to contend, and many were the interesting experiences of those chaplains. On the last day of our meetings, at the early Eucharist, we had an address from the Archbishop of York, who had just come over to France. Later on, he gave an address at a general meeting of the chaplains at Bethune.
While at St. Omer I paid a visit to the Second Army School in their magnificent buildings in Wisques, where I saw the room that my son had occupied, and met some of the people who remembered him. The place was used as a training school for officers and was most wonderfully equipped. The building was a modern convent, and the large unfinished chapel, with its high vaulted roof, was used as a dining-room. It was inspiring at dinner to see the hundreds of young officers, all so keen and cheery, sitting round the tables, while a good band played during the meal. It was hard to realize that they were only having a momentary respite from the war, and, in a week or two, would be once more up in the line facing wounds and death. The Commandant took great pride in the institution, and told me of the splendid records of the men who had passed through his hands.
Our Divisional Headquarters now moved to a place called Bracquemont, near Noeux les Mines. Here I had a very fine room in the house of the manager of one of the Mines, the offices of which were on the other side of the road. The house was well built, and had a most charming garden at the back. It was large and commodious, and I always feared that my billet would attract the covetous desires of some high staff officer and that I should be thrown out to make way for him. My room was on the ground floor with two large windows opening on the street, enabling me to get the Daily Mail from the newsboy in the morning. The ceiling was high and the furniture most sumptuous. A large mirror stood upon the marble mantel-piece. I had linen sheets on the bed and an electric light at my side. It did not seem at all like war, but the end of the mahogany bed and some of the chairs, also one corner of the ceiling, had been perforated by bits of shrapnel. So in the midst of luxury, there was the constant reminder that the war was still going on—a death's head at the feast.
CHAPTER XX.
We Take Hill 70.
July and August, 1917.
Bracquemont was a very charming home. There were many men about us, the artillery horse lines were there as well as two battalions in rest, and various other units. Behind the British C.C.S. there was a large hall with a stage at one end. Here our concert party gave a performance every night. Between us and the front line, were the villages of Maroc, Le Brebis, Mazingarbe, and Bully-Grenay, which were our billeting area while we occupied the trenches in advance of Loos. I was thus in easy reach of all the units in the Division and could do a great deal of parish visiting.
In the country behind us, there were many Chinese Labour Companies and one of Zulus. When not at work, they were encamped in large compounds surrounded by barbed wire. Our band used to play occasionally for the entertainment of the Chinese, who very much enjoyed both the music and the compliment that was paid to them by its being provided. On one occasion, I went with General Thacker to visit one of the Chinese Labour Companies. The officer in charge wished us to see some of their sports, and so we sat on chairs at the top of the field and the Chinamen came up and gave us an exhibition of their skill in something that looked like fencing. They used sticks for foils. We could not quite see who won in the encounter, or what constituted the finishing stroke, but, as soon as each pair of performers retired they turned and bowed solemnly to the General and made way for two other combatants. They were great powerful men, very different from the type of Chinese one sees in this country. One of the performers we were told by the O.C., could carry a weight of five hundred pounds on his shoulders. After the gymnastic performance, we had a concert, and a man sang, or rather made a hideous nasal sound, to the accompaniment of something that looked like a three stringed fiddle. The song, which greatly delighted the Chinese listeners, consisted of an interminable number of verses; in fact we never heard the end of it, for the O.C. stopped it and told the musicians that the officers had to leave. He told us that the men were well behaved, and that only once had he had occasion to hold a court-martial.
The Zulus were encamped near Ranchicourt. They too were a stalwart lot of men, but felt the cold of the winter very much. I was riding past them in the road one day and spoke to the British sergeant in charge of them. He pointed out one young man who, he said, was the son of a chief, and, in his own country, was entitled to a body-guard of fifteen men. In recognition, therefore, of his aristocratic birth, he was allowed to wear three stripes. While we were talking, the boy looked round and saw that we were speaking about him. The sergeant called out something to him in Zulu language, and the boy smiled and nodded to me. I asked the sergeant what he had said to him. He replied: "I told him that you thought you had met him before, and it pleased him." This accounted for the boy's smiling at me and the nod of recognition. I suppose he thought that on some occasion in my rambles through Africa we had met in the jungle. At any rate, I admired the sergeant's tact and savoir faire. There was a great mixture of races among the allied forces in France, and I always felt sorry for the poor heathen that they should be dragged into the war of the Christian nations.
Our front trenches were not comfortable places. To reach them one had to pass through Maroc and along a road on the outskirts of Loos. Beside the road, in the cellars of a broken building, called Fort Glatz, was a dressing station. The neighbourhood was frequently shelled, for the road from Maroc to Loos was under observation from the two mysterious iron towers in Wingles. Beyond Fort Glatz, the engineers had a store of trench materials. The place was called "Crucifix Dump," on account of the large crucifix which stood there on a mound of earth. The figure on the crucifix was made of metal and it had been struck by shrapnel. It looked so pathetic standing there amid the ruin and desolation around, mutely saying to those who had ears to hear, "Is it nothing to you, all ye who pass by; behold and see if there was ever sorrow like unto my sorrow?" From a shrapnel hole near the heart of the figure, birds could be seen flying in and out, getting food for their young. At the foot, there was the grave of a German officer who had been killed when the Germans occupied Loos.
I often used to go to Bully-Grenay to visit some of the siege batteries. They had comfortable billets but the Germans soon found out their location and sent over some very big shells. One large shell had a curious experience. It fell in the road to the south of Bully-Grenay, burrowing under the ground without exploding. Then it rose and went through the side of a brick house, and finally reposed on the floor of an upper room. We all went to see it lying there, like some gigantic sea monster dead and stranded on the shore. The potential force of the huge shell was enormous, but it lay there perfectly harmless after its strange pilgrimage.