An Onlooker in France 1917-1919 | Page 7

me off to Brigade H.Q. These were behind an old railway
embankment. Everyone was most kind, but I saw no quiet place to
work. Everyone was rushing about, and the noise of the guns was
terrific. The young 2nd Lieutenant advised me to take the men I wanted
to draw and to go to the other side of the embankment. He said that
there was no one there and that I could work in peace, and he was right.
The noise from our batteries immediately gave me a bad headache, but
apparently the Boche did not respond at all till the afternoon. Then they
started, and the noise was HELL. Whenever there was a big bang I
couldn't help giving (p. 026) a jump. The old Tommy I was drawing
said, "It's all right, Guv'ner, you'll get used to it very soon." I didn't
think so, but to make conversation I said: "How long is it since you
were home?"
"Twenty-two months," said he.
"Twenty-two months!" said I.
"Yes," said he, "but one can't complain. That bloke over there hasn't
been home for twenty-eight."

What a life! Twenty-four hours of it was enough for me at a time.
Before evening came my head felt as if it were filled with pebbles
which were rattling about inside it. After lunch I sat with the Brigadier
for a time and watched the men coming out from the trenches. Some
sick; some with trench feet; some on stretchers; some walking; worn,
sad and dirty--all stumbling along in the glare. The General spoke to
each as they passed. I noticed that their faces had no change of
expression. Their eyes were wide open, the pupils very small, and their
mouths always sagged a bit. They seemed like men in a dream, hardly
realising where they were or what they were doing. They showed no
sign of pleasure at the idea of leaving Hell for a bit. It was as if they
had gone through so much that nothing mattered. I was glad when I
was back at Divisional H.Q. that evening. We had difficulty on one part
of the road, as a "Sausage" had been brought down across it.
Shortly afterwards I went to live at St. Pol, a dirty little town, but full of
character. The hotel was filthy and the food impossible. We ate tinned
tongue and bully-beef for the most part. Here I met Laboreur, a
Frenchman, who was acting as interpreter--a very good artist. I think
his etchings are as good as any line work the war has produced. A most
amusing man. We had many happy dinners together at (p. 027) a little
restaurant, where the old lady used to give us her bedroom as a private
sitting-room dining-room. It was a bit stuffy, but the food was eatable.
[Illustration: VIII. Man in the Glare. Two miles from the Hindenburg
Line.]
One fine morning I got a message, "Would I ring up the P.S. of the
C.-in-C. at once?" so I went to the Camp Commandant's office. No one
was there except a corporal, so I asked him to get through to Sir Philip
Sassoon, and said that I would wait outside till he did so. Presently he
called me in, and Sassoon said I was to paint the Chief, and would I
come to lunch the next day at Advanced H.Q., G.H.Q.? after which we
talked and laughed a bit. When I hung up the receiver, I turned round,
and there was a large A.S.C. Colonel glaring at me. I was so taken
aback, as I had not heard him come in, that I didn't even salute him. He
roared at me, "Are you an S.S.O.?" (Senior Supply Officer). "No," said

I, "I'm a painter!" I never saw a man in such a fury in my life. I thought
he was going to hit me. However, I made him understand in the end
that I really was speaking the truth and in no way wanted to be cheeky.
I had lunch at Advanced G.H.Q. the next day. The C.-in-C. was very
kind, and brought me into his room afterwards, and asked me if
everything was going all right with me. I told him I had a few troubles
and was not very popular with certain people. He said: "If you get any
more letters that annoy you, send them to me and I'll answer them." I
went back to St. Pol with my head in the air. A great weight seemed to
have been lifted off me.
Sir Douglas was a strong man, a true Northerner, well inside
himself--no pose. It seemed it would be impossible to upset him,
impossible to make him show any strong feeling, and yet one felt he
(p. 028) understood, knew all, and felt for