With our army in Flanders

by Valentine Williams

He finds Paris tranquil, but sobered—digne, in the phrase of a Parisian. He finds France vibrating with a passion she has not known since the cry, “La Patrie en danger!” brought the tatterdemalions of the Revolution flocking in their thousands to take service under the Tricouleur. He finds in France England’s stanch and helpful Ally, finds the entente cordiale which his grandfather built up with such infinite tact and inexhaustible patience welded into a firm alliance by the blood of Frenchman and Briton spilled in defence of a common ideal of liberty. When, in the fulness of time, Edward, Prince of Wales, shall succeed, by the grace of God, to the throne of his fathers, History shall count it a wise and far-seeing decision that sent the Heir-Apparent into the field to play his part in those great events which shall throw their shadow over his reign and the reign of his sons and grandsons.

Directly the war broke out the Prince of Wales, like every other Englishman of spirit, was burning to play his part; but the sending of the Prince to the front was undoubtedly something in the nature of an experiment. History and precedent were against such a course—an argument often adduced by authorities when there is a question of checking the ardour of youth.

Yet if there were those who doubted the wisdom of exposing the Prince of Wales to the perils and hardships of campaigning, there was one person thoroughly and completely convinced as to the propriety of his going to the front. That person was the Prince himself; and to objectors his rejoinder, eminently practical and modest, was something to the effect that he had brothers at home if anything happened to him.

It speaks volumes for the energy of the young Prince that, although he only joined the Grenadier Guards at the beginning of the war, he should have rapidly passed through the necessary preliminary training, and then have succeeded in overcoming any opposition to his dearest wish.

In the earliest days of the war the Prince was seen taking his turn on the guard at St. James’s, and performing the ordinary routine duty of a Guards Subaltern.

This, however, was not to last long, and soon the happy day came when the London Gazette announced the appointment of Lieutenant the Prince of Wales, K.G., Grenadier Guards, to be A.D.C. to Field-Marshal Sir John French, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army in the Field; and the Prince left for General Headquarters.

Then for a long time we heard no more of the Prince of Wales. Now and again a soldier’s letter from the front contained a brief mention of his doings—that the Prince had been in the trenches or had visited a hospital—and an occasional paragraph in the French newspapers revealed the fact that he had been in the French or Belgian lines. But it was the Commander-in-Chief himself who first broke the silence anent the Prince’s doings. In his despatch dealing with the battle of Neuve Chapelle he mentioned that the Prince of Wales had acted as liaison officer with the First Army during that engagement, and paid a tribute to the zeal and quickness with which the Prince had discharged his duties, and the deep interest he took in the comfort and general welfare of the men. It was the Prince of Wales himself who brought that despatch to London, and Londoners were able to see for themselves how he had filled out and hardened during the months he had spent with the army in the field. His eyes shone with the light of health, his face was tanned with exposure to the rain and wind of winter and the pale sunshine of spring in Flanders, and his whole being exuded that bodily fitness and mental vigour which are the symptoms of a man whose heart is in his work.

This was my impression of the Prince when I saw him in the field myself one wet afternoon in March. It was when the Second Army, with whom I was on that particular occasion, was carrying out a local attack against the Germans in the northern part of our line. The valley was heavy with mist, and reverberating with the sound of our guns carrying out the artillery preparation, our shrapnel bursting with a gleam of orange-coloured fire against the white haze enveloping the ridge we were going to attack.

As I stood and watched the fascinating spectacle—I find there is no sight which holds the attention more than the play of bursting shells—I noticed two young officers ascending the road leading to the point where a group of Generals and Staff Officers was posted. The new-comers stalked up the steep path at a good pace, and as they passed I saw that the one who was leading was the Prince of Wales. He was in field kit, with long trousers and putties, after the manner of the Guards, and was wearing his accoutrements strapped on over his “British warm.” He appeared to be soaked through, and his walk through the steamy air had made him very hot. He saluted punctiliously as he passed the group of Generals, then took up his position with his companion and, unstrapping his glasses, began to survey the scene that unfolded itself in the valley.

As darkness was falling I saw him again, walking along a road where soldiers were standing to, preparatory to marching away to take their turn in the trenches. As the men came running out of the roadside hovels where they had been billeted, hoisting their packs on their backs or tugging at their strappings, they recognized the Prince, who acknowledged their salutes with a smile. He stopped for a minute and talked to one or two of the men, then walked on through the gathering shadows to a neat little racing-car standing by the roadside, in which he was going to drive himself and his companion back to G.H.Q.