For the next week or so we were kept very busy on ‘the many small points which required attention,’ to quote the colonel’s phrase. Nevertheless, as a variation from the monotony of siege warfare, the time was regarded by most of us as a holiday. Many things combined to enhance our pleasure. The sun shone and the country became gorgeously green again; the horses began to get their summer coats and to lose their unkempt winter’s appearance; there was a fair-sized town near at hand, and passes to visit it were freely granted to N.C.O.s and men; at the back of the officers’ billet was a garden with real flower-beds in it and a bit of lawn on which one could have tea. Occasionally we could hear the distant muttering of the guns, and at night we could see the ‘flares’ darting up from the black horizon—just to remind us, I suppose, that the war was only in the next parish....
But it was not to be supposed that a man of such energy as our colonel would be content just to ride round daily and watch three of his batteries doing rides and gun drill. It occurred to him at once that this was the time to practise the legitimate business—that is, open, moving warfare. Wherefore he made representations to various quite superior authorities. In three days, by dint of considerable personal exertion, he had secured the following concessions: two large tracts of ground suitable for driving drill and battery manœuvre, good billets, an area of some six square miles (part of the —th Army Training area) for the purpose of tactical schemes, the appointment of himself as commandant of the ‘school,’ a Ford ambulance for his private use, three motor lorries for the supply of the units under training, and a magnificent château for his own headquarters. And all this he accomplished without causing any serious friction between the various ‘offices’ and departments concerned—no mean feat.
Each course was to last eight days, and there were to be four batteries, taken from different divisions, undergoing it simultaneously. It fell to us to go with the second batch, and we spent a strenuous week of preparation: it was four months since we had done any work ‘in the open,’ and we knew, inwardly, that we were distinctly rusty. We packed up, and at full war strength, transport, spare horses and all, we marched our sixteen miles to the selected area. At the half-way halt we met the commander of a battery of our own brigade returning. He stopped to pass the time of day and volunteered the information that he was going on leave that night. ‘And, by Jove!’ he added significantly, ‘I deserve a bit of rest. Réveillé at 4 A.M. every morning, out all day wet or fine, gun drill at every odd moment, schemes, tactical exercises, everybody at high pressure all the time. The colonel’s fairly in his element, revels in it, and “strafes” everybody indiscriminately. But it’s done us all a world of good though. Cheeriho! wish you luck.’ And he rode on, leaving us rather flabbergasted.
We discovered quite early (on the following morning about dawn, to be precise) that there had been no exaggeration. We began with elementary driving drill, and we did four and a half hours of it straight on end, except for occasional ten-minute halts to rest the astonished teams. It was wonderful how much we had forgotten and yet how much came back to us after the first hour or so.
‘I want all your officers to drill the battery in turn,’ said the colonel. ‘I shall just ride round and correct mistakes.’
He did—with an energy, a power of observation, and a command of language which I have seldom seen or heard surpassed. But the ultimate result by mid-day, when all the officers and N.C.O.s were hoarse, the teams sweating and the carriages caked in oily dust—the ultimate result was, as the Child politely says, ‘not too stinkin’ awful.’ And it had been good to hear once again the rattle and bump of the guns and wagons over hard ground, the jingle of harness and the thud of many hoofs; good to see the teams swing round together as they wheeled into line or column at a spanking trot; good above all to remember that this was our job and that the months spent in concrete gun-pits and double-bricked O.P.s were but a lengthy prelude to our resumption of it—some day.
In the evening, when the day’s work was over and ‘stables’ finished, we left the tired horses picking over the remains of their hay and walked down the pavé village street, Angelo and I, to look at the church. Angelo is my eldest but not, as it so happens, my senior subaltern. Before the war he was a budding architect, with a taste for painting: hence the nickname, coined by the Child in one of his more erudite moods.
The church at L—— is very fine. Its square tower is thirteenth century, its interior is pure Gothic, and its vaulted roof a marvel. For its size the building is well-nigh perfect. We spent some time examining the nave and chancel—Angelo, his professional as well as his artistic enthusiasm aroused, explaining technicalities to me and making me envious of his knowledge. It was with regret that we turned away at last, for in spite of the tattered colours of some French regiment which hung on the north side of the chancel, we had forgotten the war in the quiet peacefulness of that exquisite interior. But we were quickly reminded. At the end of the church, kneeling on one of the rough chairs, was an old peasant woman: her head was bowed, and the beads dropped slowly through her twisted fingers. As we crept down the aisle she raised her eyes—not to look at us, for I think she was unconscious of our presence—but to gaze earnestly at the altar. Her lips moved in prayer, but no tear damped her yellow cheek. And, passing out into the sunlight again, I wondered for whom she was praying—husband, brother, sons?—whether, still hoping, she prayed for the living, or, faithfully, for the souls of those lost to her. They are brave, the peasant women of France....
Madame our hostess, besides being one of the fattest, was also one of the most agreeable ladies it has ever been our lot to be billeted upon. Before we had been in her house ten minutes she had given us (at an amazing speed) the following information:
Her only remaining son had been wounded and was now a prisoner in Germany.