An Onlooker in France 1917-1919 | Page 9

all these fine lads, and I would think of one,
"Gee! there's an aristocrat. What a figure! What refinement!" and of
another, "What a badly-bred, vulgar, common brute!" Later they would
both come out of their bathing-boxes, and the "brute" would be a
smartly dressed officer carrying himself with ease and distinction, and
the "aristocrat" would be an untidy, uncouth "Tommy" shambling along.
Truly on sight one should never judge a man with his clothes on.
[Illustration: X. Howitzer in Action.]
CHAPTER IV
(p. 031)
THE YPRES SALIENT (JUNE-JULY 1917)
It was about this time we moved to Cassel. Nothing very interesting in
the journey till one comes to Arques and St. Omer (at one time Lord
French's G.H.Q.). The road from Arques to the station at the foot of
Cassel Hill was always lined on each side by lorries, guns, pontoons
and all manner of war material. A gloomy road, thick with mud for the
most part, if not dust. It was always a pleasure to start climbing Cassel
Hill, past the seven windmills and up to the little town perched on the
summit.

Cassel is a picturesque little spot, with its glazed tiles and sprinkling of
Spanish buildings, and the view from it is marvellous. On a clear day
one could see practically the whole line from Nieuport to Armentières
and the coast from Nieuport to Boulogne. At that time, the 2nd Army
H.Q. were in the one-time casino, which was the summit of the town,
and from its roof one got a clear view all round. Cassel was to the
Ypres Salient what Amiens was to the Somme, and the little "Hôtel
Sauvage" stood for the "Godbert," the "Cathedral" and "Charlie's Bar"
all in one. The dining-room, with its long row of windows showing the
wonderful view, like the Rubens landscape in the National Gallery, was
packed every night for the most part with fighting boys from the Salient,
who had come in for a couple of hours to eat, drink, play the piano and
sing, forgetting their misery and (p. 032) discomfort for the moment. It
was enormously interesting to watch and study what happened in that
room. One saw gaiety, misery, fear, thoughtfulness and
unthoughtfulness all mixed up like a kaleidoscope. It was a well-run,
romantic little hotel, built round a small courtyard, which was always
noisy with the tramp of cavalry horses and the rattle of harness. The
hotel was managed by Madame Loorius and her two daughters,
Suzanne and Blanche, who were known as "The Peaches."
Suzanne was undoubtedly the Queen of the Ypres Salient, as sure as
Marguerite was that of the Somme. One look from the eyes of Suzanne,
one smile, and these wonderful lads would go back to their gun-pits--or
who knows where?--proud.
Suzanne wore an R.F.C. badge on her breast. She was engaged to be
married to an R.F.C. officer at that time. Whether the marriage ever
came off I know not. Certainly not before the end of the war, and now
Madame is dead, and they have given up the "Sauvage," and are, as far
as I am concerned, lost.
Here the Press used to come when any particular operation was going
on in the North. In my mind now I can look clearly from my room
across the courtyard and can see Beach Thomas by his open window, in
his shirt-sleeves, writing like fury at some terrific tale for the Daily
Mail. It seemed strange his writing this stuff, this mild-eyed,

country-loving dreamer; but he knew his job.
Philip Gibbs was also there--despondent, gloomy, nervy, realising to
the full the horror of the whole business; his face drawn very fine, and
intense sadness in his very kind eyes; also Percival Phillips--that deep
thinker on war, who probably knew more about it (p. 033) than all the
rest of the correspondents put together.
[Illustration: XI. German 'Planes visiting Cassel.]
The people of Cassel loved the Tommy, so the latter had a good time
there.
One day I drew German prisoners at Bailleul. They had just been
captured, 3,500 in one cage, all covered with lice--3,500 men, some
nude, some half-nude, trying to clean the lice off themselves. It was a
strange business. The Boche at the time were sending over Jack
Johnsons at the station, and these men used to cheer as each shell
shrieked overhead.
It was at Cassel I first began to realise how wonderful the women of the
working class in France were, how absolutely different and infinitely
superior they were to the same class at home; in fact no class in
England corresponded to them at all. Clean, neat, prim women,
working from early dawn till late at night, apparently with unceasing
energy, they never seemed to tire and usually wore a smile.
I remember one