Chapter XXXVII (3)

She was at the door. With her hand upon her frightened heart she stood, looking in amazement. The room into which she looked was a stately long room. It was lit by three hanging chandeliers in which were many candles. It had an air of old-fashioned elegance with its gilt couches and tabourets covered in a Pompadour silk. The walls and ceilings were painted with Watteau shepherds and shepherdesses and wreaths of flowers. The curtains of the long windows were of the same silk as the chair-covers. She noticed the colour of the silk—a faded delicate blue.

At the moment, she was not aware that she noticed any of these things. Her conscious self was only aware of two people clasped in each other’s arms by the fireplace at the far end of the room. The Beloved—just as he was in the picture—and a childishly young girl, her face lifted to his. There was something of wild sweetness about the girl, in her bunched-up white frock and scarlet ribbons. Her dark hair fell in a maze of curls—like—was it ‘The Parson’s Daughter’ of Romney? Something as familiar as that.

They were entirely absorbed in each other. The girl’s white arms were flung about the neck of the Beloved. Esther Denison forgot that she was spying. She stood against the darkness of the room, watching them with distended eyes. Was there some sickness of envy in her heart? The Beloved made so perfect a lover, and these days were so drab.

‘Edouard! mon Edouard!’

It was the girl who spoke in a passionate whisper.

‘Hist!’ he said, turning about in a startled way. ‘Did you hear a sound?’

The girl dropped her arms from about his neck. She seemed to listen. She grew pale, clasping her hands together and looking at him. She was very young, although she had the soft roundness of young maternity about her childish figure.

‘Mon ami!’ she began, panting.

‘It is nothing,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘A mouse in the wainscotting. The place is alive with them. We have an hour yet before dawn.’

The lights were broken up, wavering. Some queer unreality was coming over the scene. There were voices, the murmuring of many waters in Esther’s ears. She felt like some one coming back from a great distance to the light, travelling slowly, painfully.

Then she was aware of something familiar, comforting. It was the face of the librarian—a good, strong, reassuring face, something to hold on to in the medley of her thoughts that made the world insubstantial. The room was full of grey light, beyond the one lamp which some one had thought of lighting.

‘Are you better, darling?’

It was her mother’s voice. Gradually she came to the knowledge of where she was. She was in the ladies’ reading-room. Before her was the wall of books in which there had been the door she had seen open.

‘You must have fallen asleep, darling, and been locked in,’ her mother went on, in the voice of one who speaks to some one unutterably dear, who has very nearly slipped away from love and life. ‘We were terrified not to find you at home. No one knew where you had gone to. Fortunately, Bobby thought at last of Mr. Tyrrell. He had _just_ come back from the country by the last train. There was a business to find the person who had the keys. But⸺You are all right, darling, and we are here—Bobby and Mr. Tyrrell and I. There is a carriage waiting.’

Some days later she told Archie Tyrrell her story. Oddly enough, she had felt unable to tell it to anyone else. ‘No one is ever to hear it but you,’ she had stipulated.

‘I promise.’

She was still on her sofa. She had been rather alarmingly ill from the shock of her experience. He listened. His face was grave and gentle. He expressed no disbelief. He did not try to persuade her that her vision was hallucination. Instead, he said something for which she loved him. She had been so afraid of disbelief—of hard, practical common sense.

‘The house is his monument,’ he said, ‘his shrine, his temple. You cannot get away from him. You must not read there again: it is too lonely. They are going to close those rooms. Soon we shall have the fine new building growing up.’

‘Ah,’ she said pitifully. ‘I am sorry. It is like turning them out. And poor Miss Brooke—what will she do?’

She had a sudden thought.

‘I believe she used to see him,’ she said. ‘She talked so oddly that I did not heed her—but now things come back to me.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘She thought she saw him. It began when she was quite a young girl, a student like you, and very pretty. She was always sitting there facing the portrait. It became real to her. He put her out of conceit with common men. She might have married: there was a lover—but then’⸺

‘He was not the Beloved,’ said Esther Denison, and slipped her hand into his. Then she began to weep.

He did not tell her then, not till some weeks had passed, that Miss Brooke was dead. The threat of eviction from her old quarters had killed her. She had been found in some kind of a fit in her familiar place in the ladies’ reading-room, on the very afternoon of the day that was to end with Esther’s falling asleep under the eyes of the Beloved.

She was quite herself again, and within a week of her wedding-day, when he thought it safe to take her to see the alterations which were being made in the ladies’ reading-room. The portrait was gone—to the gallery across the garden. A great number of the books had been removed. The place looked disordered and unhappy—not as she had known it. This would have laid no spell on her.

It was in the workmen’s dinner-hour. They had the place to themselves. He took her hand and held it in a firm, warm clasp. ‘There was a door,’ he said; ‘you were quite right. It was just where we found you in a huddled-up heap on the floor. But it was locked, and the bookcases covered it. You can walk through now.’

They went into the inner room. There was the open door as she had seen it. But what desolation beyond! The long room was bare of furniture; it had evidently been shut up for a long time, for it smelt mouldily. The light came in coldly through the long windows, curtained only with cobwebs. There was dust everywhere, in drifts on the floor, deadening the sounds of their feet. It had dimmed the shepherds and shepherdesses of the painted walls and the flower-wreaths and Cupids of the ceiling.

‘They used to meet here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘When he was “on his keeping.” He had some secret way of entry known only to them and one or two faithful servants. When the scent was hot she hid him here, and not even the Duke or Duchess knew. He used to read in these rooms when the house was asleep. There was a man here before me who swore he saw him at night searching the shelves for some book he wanted. It is the influence, of course. Such as he leaves the influence behind him long after he is dead.’

She was very pale. As they turned and went out of the room quietly, she said, nodding her head towards the fine new building which was going up in the courtyard:

‘After all, I do not think I shall ever read there. I doubt that I am cut out for scholarship. I do not feel that I could go back to “Middle Irish.” The studentship will have to go.’

‘No?’ he said, with a lifting of his handsome eyebrows. ‘After all, a married woman will not have much time for scholarship—of so difficult a kind.’

‘I suppose not,’ she said, as they stepped out into the open air. ‘Perhaps—after all—I worked too hard. Women have that way—have they not? I am not surprised I ... broke down.’

Then she added something quite irrelevant:

‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if poor Miss Brooke ever saw them together. When she spoke—it was only of _him_. Could she have seen them—as I did?’

KATHARINE TYNAN.

_MY FIRST WEEK IN FLANDERS._

BY LIEUT. THE HON. W. WATSON-ARMSTRONG.

In the evening of April 22, 1915, my regiment left camp, and entrained at about 11 P.M. We were very packed in the train, and this did not improve our tempers. We had not the slightest idea where we were going, and in the early hours of the morning of April 23 we found ourselves at Cassel, a small town in the department du Nord, where we detrained, and began a long, weary march. The country-side was very hilly, and we soon began to feel how near we were to the front, as we distinctly heard the booming of the guns, and all the cross-roads were guarded by French soldiers. At last, when very tired, we found ourselves marching into a plain, and shortly afterwards arrived at the little town of Winnezeele, a few miles from the Belgian frontier. It was about 9 A.M. when we arrived there, and we were told that we were going no further that day.

Troops were billeted in the neighbouring farms, and I was kept busy interpreting for everyone. I was at last able to see to the needs of my own platoon, and got my odd sixty men comfortably settled down in a nice farm. The lady of the place, whose husband was serving at Dunkirk, was rather surly at first, owing to her having shortly before received an enforced visit from some Canadians, who had proved rather rough. She and I ended in becoming very good friends, and still further cementing the _Entente cordiale_. We spent a delightful day of rest amid charming scenery, in the enjoyment of a really lovely day in early summer; it was hard to realise what we were doing there at all. We would forget, only to be brought back to earth by the rumbling of the guns, none too far away, and by the sight of a German aeroplane which was being fired at, the flash of the guns being quite visible. I have nothing but pleasant memories of Winnezeele and district. The farms were very picturesque, the village clean and prosperous, and prettily situated. Its atmosphere somehow reminded me of Bamburgh. The people were all cordial. One old man told me that early in the war, when the Germans attempted their great enveloping movement, an Uhlan patrol rode into the village. In tones of great excitement, he told me how some courageous citizen, whose name he declared must be kept a profound secret, went and informed the French infantry patrol, and how the ‘fantassins’ came and rounded up the enemy. Since then no German had appeared in Winnezeele. This little incursion must have been one of the high-water marks of the Teuton invasion. We officers messed at the chief Inn, and had quite a good time, trying to turn our French to good account by conversing with a certain ‘Marie Louise,’ who ministered to our wants. It was a little picture of France at war: France at her best. There were no young civilians to be seen, no ‘starred’ men. All had gone to the war. The fields were being worked by women, girls, young children, and old folk, and all worked with a will. Even the farmer was not exempt. The husband of Madame Dubois, upon whom I and my platoon were billeted, had gone, and his wife cheerfully carried on in his place, and ran the farm. The country-side, however, seemed to be managing very well, and we found plenty of good fare in the little place. I had an attic all to myself on the farm, and spent a splendid night on a bed stuffed with straw, a Belgian boy refugee kindly turning out to make room for me. The men, as usual, slept in the hay barn.

Having spent what was to be our last comfortable day for a long time to come, we started off again the next day (April 23) at about twelve noon, and soon crossed the frontier into Belgium. We met several refugees making their way to France, and a very motley crowd they appeared to be. They indeed could feel the realities of war! We passed through several villages, filled with war-stained British troops, and the civil population appeared pleased to see us. We also noticed that, once in Belgium, the male civil population was much larger than in France. In Belgium the conscription laws by no means include all males capable of bearing arms, whereas in France there are no exemptions whatsoever. The Flemish type became more prevalent as we proceeded, all the girls wearing the fringe which seems to be characteristic of Belgium. They certainly knew how to smile. After much marching and many halts, through the Flemish plain which had begun round Winnezeele, we reached the now famous Poperinghe, a fine old Flemish town with a beautiful church. In peace times the place could be compared with some of our rather sleepy cathedral cities, but now it was full of Yankee hustle. It was packed with French and Belgian soldiers, who all gave us a hearty welcome. We were in excellent spirits as we marched through the town, and poor Lieut. Bainbridge, the Brigade Signalling Officer, as he passed me on a motor bike, said, ‘Make as much noise as you can, as these people,’ referring to the civil population, ‘need cheering up.’ Certainly to them, with the Germans so close, the entry of more troops to keep back the swarms which had already wrought such havoc in most parts of their country must always have been a very welcome sight. On the march through the country-side, where there was not so much to interest us, we played the mouth-organ to cheer one another on, and I often took a turn myself, sometimes resting in favour of ‘Bob’ Young, who was soon to meet his end in the forthcoming battle.

After leaving the town the evidence of war was everywhere seen, ambulances and wagons becoming more and more numerous, and squads of Belgian soldiers, with staves only, continually passing us on their way to rest. As dusk was falling we found our way to a wood called Flamertinghe, the only building near us being a solitary inn. We at last got some food, and bivouacked for the night. At this place we were only five or six miles from the German line, and there were some reserve trenches close by which were to be manned by us if necessary. ‘Bramble’ Booth, who had been out previously with the London Rifle Brigade, said he recognised the locality, which had been the scene of desperate Anglo-German combats. During the night, when not asleep, we were entertained by a continuous rattle of musketry, which seemed to be extremely close at hand. It did not disturb me much, however, and I was soon fast asleep.

On awaking on April 24, we found that we had some neighbours, Zouaves and other French troops, and Belgians, who were soon all very friendly with our men.

We here heard some startling news, to the effect that the French lines outside Ypres had been pierced owing to the use of poison gases. The Zouaves said that hundreds of their comrades had been ‘gassed.’ The Canadians, however, had made a furious counter-attack, and had repaired some of the damage; their losses had been very heavy, and the situation was reckoned to be serious. We made the best of our time, and spent the morning writing letters and watching a large British howitzer at work, close to us. The gunners claimed to be making some good hits.

We made a hearty lunch, and I pleased the officers by getting wine for them at the inn. We expected to be there a week, when suddenly, about four o’clock in the afternoon, an order came for the Brigade to concentrate at a place about two miles east of Ypres. We soon found ourselves on the main road. We marched up on the right-hand side, and on the extreme left of the road there was a continued stream of ambulances coming down from the front. Up the centre of the road ammunition carts were galloping at full speed towards Ypres. It was evident that a very big battle was raging in front, and the air was full of rumours brought by stragglers and slightly wounded men, painfully making their way towards safety. These men looked utterly exhausted and seemed exceedingly pleased to see us; one of them said ‘You are badly wanted,’ though at the time we never realised how desperate the situation was. On the other hand, another straggler cheerfully informed us that we had only to take one more trench and then the whole of Belgium would be in our hands. This man was the cause of raising many false hopes, soon to be violently dispelled.

At last, as it was night, we approached the ruins of Ypres, and the roar of the guns was tremendous. We marched past the famous Cloth Hall (even then badly knocked about), and began to move at the double, so as to escape being shelled. It was too late, however, and we were brought to a halt in the grand square of Ypres, opposite the cathedral. Shells were bursting all round us, and the Brigadier seemed uncertain whether he should proceed. It seems that spies were sheltered in the place, and signalled our arrival to the Germans, who gave us a very uncomfortable ten minutes. The first casualties occurred in No. 1 Platoon, a shell bursting at the head of the battalion, and wounding several men. For a moment there was almost a panic; but by great efforts we kept the men in their places, and after that they behaved splendidly. I had a close shave for a start, a shell bursting close to my platoon, and wounding Private Henderson, who was next to me, in the foot.

The cathedral was on fire, and made a glorious, but sad, spectacle. At this time it was still more or less intact, as were the majority of the deserted houses.

At last we moved on, and debouched from the town without further loss. We could clearly see the German lines, which were lit up by large coloured flares, as a safeguard against night attacks. The flares reminded one of fireworks and were quite pretty to watch. We had not gone far before we turned off into a field, and lay down and rested. Each platoon lay in a group by itself, so as to minimise the danger from the enemy’s shells, which were falling thick and fast. It was also wet and damp, and however elevated we might be morally, we felt extremely miserable. An hour or so before dawn on the 25th we were collected together, and more ammunition was issued. This operation took some time in the dark, and ought to have been done before we entered Ypres, as a few shells might have wiped us out.

At last we were on the forward road again, and after a mile or two turned to our left down a narrow lane, and were there halted. Dawn was now breaking, and none of us had the least idea what we were going to do. It was cold, muddy, and sopping wet. I never felt more miserable in all my life. However, there was nothing we could do but try and make the best of it, till the sun should come out and dry us.

I afterwards discovered that we were rather to the right of Hill 60, and that the British position, a mile or two ahead, was being held by a handful of men. In parts of the line this handful had been overwhelmed, and we were ordered to go forward and try to save the situation. The Canadians had been fighting against enormous odds, and were almost exhausted; a great many of them had been gassed, and some, whom our men came across, said that they could do no more. In such circumstances we were ordered to advance, although we had no precise instructions; apparently we were to go on as far as we could, and drive the Germans back, or at least hold them.

We commenced our advance in ‘artillery formation,’ but soon extended into ‘open order.’ I won’t attempt to give many details of that long morning, as they are too complicated. We advanced and retired, and then advanced again, during which time several casualties occurred. The bursting of the shells all round one was rather trying, and a very strange experience to the uninitiated! A shell unfortunately burst in the middle of No. 1 Platoon (Morpeth), very seriously wounding Second Lieutenant Adams, and killing and wounding several of his men. Captain Flint, also of this company, was blown up by a shell, though not actually touched. He jarred his spine on landing again, having been carried to a great height. Some of the Germans were very close, and several of our men almost ran into them accidentally. This was made possible by the undulating nature of the ground.

Our advance was a complete success, and the advance posts of the enemy withdrew. They could probably have overwhelmed our battalion, but fortunately were under the impression that they were opposed by a much larger force than they really were. The G.O.C. used our brigade as a bluff, and the fact that our men, in their enthusiasm, advanced at a great pace, lent colour to this. A Seaforth Highlander’s letter appeared in an Edinburgh paper, in which he said that they had received a terrible shelling, and had made up their minds that their last hour had come. Then suddenly they observed that the shells were passing over their heads, and looking back they saw to their joy the Northumberlands, advancing in perfect order, as if on parade.

These Germans, who withdrew before us, I have since discovered, were beginning to come through the gap which had been made in our front line. If they had only known the number of British reinforcements, and had pushed their attack home, they might perhaps, to use an expression, have been marching into Ypres ‘in fours’ in the evening. As it was, our advance in open country completely bluffed them: they hesitated and were lost. Their hesitation enabled our front line to close its gap, and several of the enemy, who had broken through, and then withdrew before our advance, were captured.

Finally on that day we took up a defensive line on the hillside. We had not a very large ‘field of fire,’ because after about 60 or 100 yards the ground sloped downwards, and so if the enemy should attack we should have to be extremely smart with our rifles. In front, however, somewhere on the slope, out of sight, the London Rifle Brigade were entrenched. We did not know for certain, but heard rumours that they were hard pressed and that a party of Germans had broken through and might be on us any minute. My platoon was in a ditch with a hedge in front of it, and underwent a terrible shelling in the afternoon, which slackened off towards the evening. Shells burst continually all along the long, thin line of our battalion, some bursting just short, some just beyond, and others crashing through and making cruel gaps among our men. I had many almost miraculous escapes. A bullet passed through my cap, and I was all but buried by a shell, which tore away half of a little shelter I had crawled into. One shell, which burst a yard or two off me, killed two of my men and injured another. The two men displayed great heroism in their dying agony. One of them, Bob Young, as he was carried away, minus his legs, called upon an officer, who was almost overcome by the sight, to ‘be a man’; and I was further told that he died kissing his wife’s photograph, with the word ‘Tipperary’ on his lips. Such were the men the Germans failed to break, men with an unconquerable spirit which no human horror could overcome.

The most trying time was when it became dark, because, had the Germans attacked us, we should have been unable to shoot many. We waited with fixed bayonets and found it bitterly cold. I spent a good part of that long afternoon and evening in sorting out my men, finding them scattered about the line, and getting them together, so that when we should march off there would be less confusion, and No. 7 Platoon would be ready. There was a ruined farm just behind our line, and there we obtained some good water from a pump. There Donkin showed me his bleeding foot, which had received a dose of shrapnel.

At last, between ten and eleven P.M., under cover of the night, we were relieved by other troops, and retired to almost the same place from whence we started in the morning. We lay down in a field and slept, in spite of the cold, for we were worn out; we had been marching and fighting for about thirty-six hours on end, and the only food we had had was the iron ration we carried with us, and the water we got at the farmhouse. I lost my ration as a matter of fact, as it became unfastened from my belt in the course of the advance. The battalion in these operations lost about 150 killed and wounded, including the two young Wakes (Wilf and Tom) of Bamburgh, both killed by the same shell.

Three officers were wounded, whom I have already mentioned, viz. Captain Flint, Second Lieutenant Adams, and T. Donkin of Rothbury. Donkin’s injury was slight, and we rather envied him. I should mention that the officer in command of my company, Captain T. O. Wood, was absent, having been detained at Havre, while the second in command, Captain Hugh Liddell, was temporarily incapacitated by a shell which burst near him, so I, as senior subaltern, commanded No. 2 Company for most of the day. In my own platoon I had thirteen casualties, most of them only wounded, and all the lads gave me the greatest assistance and seemed quite fearless, so much that I feel the praise bestowed upon us, both by Sir John French and the Commander of the Canadian Division, was fully justified. During the day I had to throw away my greatcoat, as I found it so heavy, and now, as I lay on the field, which was very damp, I felt bitterly cold. I got in, however, between two of my men, and notwithstanding the possibility of more shells and the intense cold I was soon fast asleep.

We were roused up early in the morning (April 25), still feeling extremely cold. We made some tea, however, at a ruined farmhouse close by, and this brought warmth and comfort. One of my men lent me his greatcoat, and insisted that I should wear it for a bit. Captain Wood turned up, and took over the command of the company. Before long the sun came out, and we had a gloriously fine day. The battalion moved into an adjoining field, and rested there for the morning; this rest was very welcome, and the sun dried our clothes. We spent the time cleaning our rifles, several also taking the opportunity to write home. The subalterns busied themselves making out lists of casualties for the Divisional Staff Orderly. Rations arrived, and by mid-day we sat down to a good meal.

We were much interested by a force of Indians close to us, the Lahore Division I heard afterwards, and they seemed full of the stoicism of the East. Though no shells fell amongst us, we saw one burst with sad effect among a column of Indians on the march. Our quiet morning was a great contrast to our desperate advance in the afternoon. I must here explain in a few words the situation. We were in the Ypres salient and were thus exposed to the enemy from the east, north, and south. On the previous day we had checked the enemy on the east, but a new danger now threatened the British positions from the north side of the salient, the French colonials having been driven out of the village of St. Julien. There was thus a danger of the troops in the salient being overwhelmed by an advance of the enemy from St. Julien, with the consequent fall of Ypres. As this town was the old capital of Flanders, the moral effect would have been great, besides opening the road for further progress towards Calais; it had therefore to be defended at all costs. The position of the English troops was insecure; they had suffered great losses; their artillery was almost powerless owing to lack of ammunition, and England’s new armies were hardly yet ready. In such circumstances the arrival of the Division was most opportune, and behind them more troops were being hurried up from all directions. Cavalry, even the Life Guards, were compelled to do infantry work in the trenches, and it was thought that by sending our Brigade against the strong position of St. Julien (an almost impossible task) the Germans would be bluffed, and would remain on the defensive.

This being the state of affairs, we were ordered shortly after lunch to attack St. Julien immediately, and to take it at all costs. We were off almost at once. We advanced at a great rate, in artillery formation, soon extending, however, into open order. If yesterday had been heavy, to-day was ten times worse. The German fire was terrific, and we had to face a hail of shells and bullets. The neighbourhood was infested with snipers, cleverly concealed, who made a point of picking off senior officers or despatching the wounded. It is a wonder that the whole battalion was not exterminated. The men, however, went forward with such spirit, and kept such magnificent discipline, that casualties, heavy as they were, were thus minimised. Now, perhaps, some of us for the first time realised the value of good discipline and good training.

We found that the only way to advance was for a few men, under an officer or an N.C.O., to make a short rush forward, and then to lie down flat and regain their breath. The whole battalion was mixed up, and I found myself on its left flank, where it joined on to the 6th Northumberlands. It was a case of every man using his own intelligence with courage. We made a good deal of progress, and took up a strong line with a hedge in front of it, which afforded some shelter. The order came down, however, that the advance had to be continued. I consulted an officer of the 6th and we decided to lead the men on at once. We advanced about thirty yards where the men could take cover behind another hedge, while others a little more to the right could take cover behind a sandbag wall, made on some former occasion, and which acted as a continuation of the hedge. On the right of this wall was a ruined farm building. In front of this position was a large open field, and at the other end of it, a few hundred yards distant, lay the village of St. Julien and the Germans. To cross this field without adequate artillery support was impossible, and yet we had been ordered to advance. Our present position by the farm, however, was being shelled to such an extent, that as far as our safety went it did not much matter where we were.

While I was taking a short rest behind this last sandbag wall, I met a young officer of the 6th Northumberland Fusiliers wounded in the arm, who told me that he was in the office of Messrs. Dees and Thompson, my father’s solicitors. He and some other officers all insisted that I was their senior, and must take command of the troops in this part of the attack. We began our last advance, and made two or three short rushes. I had just finished the last of these, and was going to lie down, when I received a staggering blow on the back and fell forward. I suffered an agonising pain, and soon felt another blow on the back, also extremely violent. I began to find difficulty in breathing, and wondered if I would ever leave this spot. Any moment I expected would be my last. I felt faint, and called to a soldier near by, and asked him to give me some water; he at once threw me his water-bottle, and that somewhat revived me. I felt, however, that I might bleed to death, and I called to the man to see if he could come and help me. He came at once, but was unfortunately wounded in the leg in so doing. My position was a perilous one, as the Germans swept the plain with their murderous fire, and to stand up was certain death. Projectiles of all kinds were falling round me, and I began to realise that my chance of getting out alive was dubious. The man who had already befriended me now said that there was a ditch close by, and if I could crawl on my stomach he would try to pull me along by the leg. Every movement was agonising, but at last we managed to reach the ditch and lie there exhausted. By this time our advance was quite held up, and we had reached further forward than the other part of the battalion. Soon others began to crawl into the ditch, including two very nice officers of the 6th Northumberland Fusiliers, who were most sympathetic. Besides them, I heard Corporal (later Sergeant) Renwick’s cheery voice, and he was straining every nerve on my behalf, regardless of danger to himself. He afterwards told me that a colour-sergeant, when I had finished my painful trek, pushed me into the ditch, to be himself blown to pieces immediately after by a shell. There were two dead men, apparently, lying by my side, though I was unaware of these facts.

The afternoon wore on, and I continued in great pain, though some brandy was passed up to me. After a long wait, it seemed likely that our men would have to retire a little, and as I could not move I was in danger of being captured. To have carried me away would have been an impossibility, as we should most certainly have been shot down by a heartless enemy. Sergeant Renwick was anxious to risk it, but the young officers insisted on taking the risk themselves. At last, when Sergeant Renwick had crawled away to get help, one of the young officers told me that it was imperative I should make every effort to get away; so I crawled for about fifteen yards over a specially dangerous zone, and was then helped up, and supported by an officer on one side, Lieutenant Bruce Ramsay of the 6th, and by a soldier on the other. I managed to struggle along, supported by them, to the ruined farmhouse, which was being defended by some soldiers of the D.C.L.I., I think. The officer in command told Ramsay that it was against the regulations to help me and that he must therefore join his own battalion, while he himself would look after me. Part of the ruined farm was being used as a field dressing station; but before I could reach it I had a miraculous escape from two shells, which apparently fell on a manure heap close by which I was standing, and which prevented them doing any further mischief.

I was most kindly treated at this station, and the D.C.L.I. officer soon had me sent away on a stretcher towards the Ypres road, and it was with a feeling of relief that I left this infernal charnel-house, and found myself gradually entering a safe zone. We stopped at a farm building by the roadside, where I was laid on some straw in the open courtyard. Darkness was now coming on, and for some time I received but scanty attention. At last some medical men came and questioned me, and I told them my name and regiment; they seemed interested, and asked me if I was Lord Armstrong’s son. There were very few ambulances, and by mistake I was not put into one of them. When the officers discovered this they had me taken down by stretcher to a dressing station near Ypres where I was well attended to, and received an injection of morphia to deaden the pain. It was probably here, unless it was at the first field dressing station, that I received the anti-tetanus serum, and was given a Tommy’s greatcoat. I slept here apparently for several hours, and Major Wright, also wounded, remembers seeing me here. Eventually I was placed in an ambulance which brought me to Poperinghe, several miles from the front. We had gaily marched through this town only a few days before.

In the meantime my battalion was unaware that I had been rescued, and Sergeant Renwick, who, as I stated, had gone to get help, came back with a party only to find that I had disappeared. Company Quartermaster Turner also went out to look for me, and I understand that all betrayed great anxiety on my behalf and feared the worst. Major Mackay, who displayed the greatest gallantry in attending to the wounded throughout the battle, and who has since been awarded the C.M.G., was also very upset in being unable to find me.

On arriving at Poperinghe, I was taken with others and placed in the church, which had been turned into an emergency hospital. Before recounting my experiences in the church, however, and those that followed on afterwards, I must finish off the account of the battle of St. Julien.

After I was wounded, it was found impossible for the 7th to advance any further. The plain in front of them was simply swept by a shower of lead from the enemy’s machine guns, rifles, and artillery, and the wounded were in a most precarious position. As darkness came on they gradually removed the wounded, and the battalion held on where they were. Various reports of the battle were circulated through the Press, and it appears that some members of the brigade advanced to the outskirts of the village, but were unable to capture it. The object of the British Staff, however, had been gained. Ypres was in deadly peril, and its defenders were short of artillery, ammunition, and men. Every moment saved was of value, as reinforcements and ammunition were being hurried up. In the meantime the Germans had to be kept busy and so prevented from advancing. Hence our brigade was hurled against their position, though there was no prospect of real success. As has been said before, it was a case of bluff, and it succeeded, for the Germans, thinking they were going to be attacked in great numbers, remained on the defensive, and invaluable time was gained. The cost of more than half of one of Britain’s best infantry brigades seemed heavy, but what did it matter if Ypres and the worn-out second army were saved?

The 7th Northumberland Fusiliers suffered very heavily. We lost a great number of our men, our casualties for this afternoon’s work being about 470 killed and wounded. This added to our former casualties brought our total number of dead and wounded for the two and a half days up to about 620. We were fortunate, however, in the large number of only wounded in proportion to the number killed. Our officer casualties were: Second Lieutenant Kent killed, and Captains Archer (Adjutant), Wright, Welsh, and Lambton, and Lieutenants and Second Lieutenants J. Merivale, Frank Merivale, Herriott, Fenwicke-Clennell, and myself wounded. On the previous day we had lost, wounded, Captain Flint and Second Lieutenants Adams and Donkin.

The other battalions in the brigade all suffered heavily, and our Brigadier himself (Brigadier-General Riddell) was killed. On all this, we can only comment that it was the ‘fortune of war,’ and what does it matter who dies, if only England lives?

It is satisfactory to note that Lieutenant Bruce Ramsay, who was so instrumental in saving my life, has since been awarded the Military Cross for general good work, and also largely, I hear, for the devotion he showed in rescuing me. Sergeant Renwick was mentioned in despatches and recommended for the D.C.M., which, however, he was unfortunate to miss. Among other honours since awarded to members of the 7th, the D.S.O. of Lieutenant-Colonel Jackson and the C.M.G. of Major Mackay have been deservedly popular, as well as the M.C.s of Captains Ball and Vernon Merivale.

I have one comment to make, however, on all these operations. The shortage of artillery ammunition was most apparent, and we received hardly any support from our artillery. The enemy’s shells burst in hundreds all round and among us, and we could barely reply. The gunners were wringing their hands, and watching the infantry being mowed down—infantry whom they were supposed to protect. The great agitation sprang up soon after in the Press, and many prominent men, including the Bishop of Pretoria, wrote very strongly from the Front. Whatever the causes, the fact remains that a great disaster nearly occurred through lack of shells, and that it was only the almost superhuman courage of the British infantry which saved Ypres, and did almost alone what should have been their joint work with the gunners. It was a case of human flesh and courage against German steel and preparedness. It was not till the great efforts made in England to rectify this succeeded that the warfare on the Western Front began to be waged on terms of more equality.

On the arrival of the ambulance at Poperinghe I was, as I have already mentioned, placed inside the large church which adorns this town. It was packed with all sorts of wounded, including Indians. Belgian ladies kindly brought tea to the sufferers, and chaplains came and wrote out field postcards for the men. I was feeling fairly easy, and the tea much refreshed me. I heard a familiar voice near me, and it was Frankie Merivale, who had luckily received only a slight wound. I could not move round and so was unable to see him, but we conversed for a little. I directed some field postcards, the chaplain doing the writing of course.

I cannot tell how long I stayed there, but I may have slept a night there. At any rate I remember being suddenly taken out of the church in broad daylight, and then, to my horror, found German shells bursting everywhere. I was left alone in the open for some minutes, and a shell burst within a few yards of me and shook me uncomfortably. At last, however, I was put into an ambulance, and taken to Hazebrouck, a town a few miles on the French side of the frontier.

I spent a month in this town, in No. 10 Casualty Clearing Station. The weather was extremely hot, and the wards small and stuffy. At first I was very ill indeed, being in a critical condition, and receiving frequent injections. A visit from my father, however, greatly cheered me up, and everybody showered kindness on me. The Staff were terribly overworked, as the wounded and gassed cases were pouring in from the great battle, which was still raging, and the issue of which was so doubtful that we hardly knew if Hazebrouck would continue to be safe. I was much troubled by an incessant cough, and suffered a great deal of pain. Nevertheless I made progress, and must pay a high tribute to the kindness and devotion shown on all sides, by doctors, nurses, orderlies, and military chaplains. The orderlies were as gentle as angels and would sit for hours at my bedside. There was one lad of about seventeen, Private McIntyre, of Glasgow, who used to spend practically whole nights procuring me milk etc. General Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien came and visited me, and greatly pleased and cheered me by saying how well we had all done. Colonel Rutherford, R.A.M.C., of our Division, and my cousin Major-General Stopford also came and saw me, and the latter was most kind in procuring me various things. The Senior Chaplain, Archdeacon Southwell, was most thoughtful, and a kinder man it would be hard to find. He would write letters for me, and when I got a bit better I much amused him by dictating a letter to Monsieur Albin in French. He richly deserves the C.M.G. which he has been awarded.

For a time I had a young Belgian R.A.M.C. officer as my companion, who had suffered from a concussion, apparently by a fall from his horse. He spoke hardly any English, and feeble as my voice was I had often to try to do the necessary interpreting on his behalf. He thought I was a French officer, and had to be assured that I was not! Parcels and letters from home were a source of delight to me.

After about a month I was able to be moved to No. 7 Stationary Hospital at Boulogne, where I remained till June 25. Again I became very ill, as blood-poisoning supervened and nearly ended my life. I had an operation to get the empyema out of my chest, and another one to draw the abscess which formed on my leg and which fortunately collected and threw off the septicæmia. I was one of the lucky 25 per cent. who recover from this terrible form of blood-poisoning. I was much cheered, however, by the presence of my father, who remained at the French port for about three weeks, and brought me much fruit, strawberries being my especial favourite.

Sister Dodds, who nursed me very devotedly, brought a splendid gramophone into my room, and my father used to manipulate this for me very efficiently. I was especially fond of ‘By the silvery, silvery sea,’ ‘Girls, girls everywhere,’ and ‘Let’s all go down the Strand.’ Music did me a great deal of good, and brought smiles back to my face, which for some weeks past had been more often twisted with pain. Private C. G. Brown, A.S.C., also visited me and brought me some lovely fresh eggs. As at Hazebrouck, so at Boulogne, I became impatient towards night-time for my injection, which had the most soothing effect, and, banishing for the moment pain and restlessness, allowed my brain to think calmly in peace.

Again I had most expert medical treatment, and the nurses, both Scotch and English, were very kind. As the weeks went on, I gradually threw off the poison, and my wounds became healed.

I received a visit from my charming Parisian friends, Madame and Mademoiselle Lefranc, who were very kind. Mr. Holt, of the British Red Cross (now a captain in the Army), was also a good friend to me. He kept my spirits up by amusing stories, and by impressing upon me the necessity of making an effort, and trying to get to London, he did much to save my life.

At last the tide turned, and when I landed in England on June 25 I was much better, though considerably fatigued by the long journey. I was taken to Lady Ridley’s Hospital, 10 Carlton House Terrace, and there spent another two months, being well nursed and surrounded by luxuries. My relatives and friends were all kindness; and this did much to revive me and to fill me once more with the joy of life.

I made rapid progress, and was discharged from hospital early in September, when I moved into lodgings for a three weeks’ final treatment from Dr. Carl Westman. This Swedish doctor, a clever and charming young man, was instrumental in bringing back full use to my right shoulder, which otherwise would have remained permanently stiff. On September 28 I was at last enabled to leave London for Cragside, and once more reached home after several months’ sojourn in strange parts, having passed through many vicissitudes and experiences.

Afterword:—

I spent a pleasant convalescence, and joined the 7th (Reserve) Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed at Alnwick under Lieutenant-Colonel J. Gillespie, T.D., at the end of January 1916, having been passed for light duty. I continued to make progress, and was enabled, after a time, to attend a musketry course at Strensall, and a general one at Cannock Chase. Altogether I was awarded £250 compensation for my wounds, and I am glad to state that I am now in a position to repay the Government all the money spent on me by personal service, and leave home to-morrow, _en route_ to rejoin the old first line of the 7th in Flanders. There I hope I may be enabled to partake in those final great victories which will bring about the ruin and destruction of that plague-spot which has arisen on God’s fair earth, the German Empire.

PRESS BUREAU: PASSED FOR PUBLICATION.

_‘SWEEP’ VILLERS._

BY ARNOLD LUNN.

Before Villers had been a month at school he had betrayed his master passion. He discovered that his housemaster was expecting an heir. Delicacy was not Villers’ strong point, and he at once proceeded to organise a sixpenny sweepstake among the fags. He took no chances, as Knox who drew ‘triplets’ discovered. Villers, himself, drew a blank, but he bought ‘assorted twins’ from Mixon Minor for ninepence, and Villers was, perhaps, the only person who was really pleased when Mrs. Strange presented her husband with—assorted twins: to wit, a thriving boy and girl.

‘Sweep’ Villers, as he was speedily christened, was no good at games, but despite this handicap he soon made a position for himself in the house. Villers was a ‘card,’ to borrow Mr. Bennett’s pet word, and boys will forgive much to a genuine ‘card.’ Betting and sweepstakes were the two main interests of his life. It was, of course, too risky to bet on racing save in an informal fashion with his young friends, but Villers contrived to get a good deal of amusement without troubling London bookmakers. Villers regarded Providence as a kind of super-bookie and the future as the raw material for bets. Sweepstakes were his main diversion, but he was always ready for a wager. He lost no chances. When Allen, a house prefect, was just on the point of giving Villers a few flicks with a cane for ‘cutting’ fag duty, Villers, who had assumed the orthodox position, glanced over his shoulder and remarked, ‘Bet you a bob, Allen, I don’t get up between the shots.’ ‘I’ll take you,’ said Allen grimly, ‘but I shall give you an extra two for cheek.’ ‘However,’ as Villers afterwards confided to an admiring circle, ‘I scored all along the line. Allen was so keen to win his bet that he lost his length after the first shot. He didn’t keep his eye on the ball. He began to press, and, instead of four beefy drives, he could only manage six regular foozles. And I won my bob.’

To Villers a sweepstake was not only an end in itself but an instrument for investing tedious events with the glamour of adventitious excitement. Moony’s terminal sermon, for instance, could scarcely be regarded as anything but an inevitable ordeal, for the dear gentleman never preached for less than half an hour, and within the memory of man he never said anything which bordered on the interesting. But once, at least, in his life he had an excited audience. Once at least he had a listener who was bitterly disappointed when he petered out under the half-hour. That listener was Villers, who had drawn ‘thirty-five minutes’ in the sweepstake on Moony’s evening run.

So, too, the Fortnightly Orders were a subject of interest only to a few eccentrics. But one day Villers decided that the Fortnightly Orders should be made an event of first-class importance. He suggested a sweepstake on the result, and the Lower Fifth welcomed the idea with enthusiasm. Twenty-four members of the form contrived to raise a shilling. The twenty-fifth member of the form declined to enter. ‘Tomkins,’ said Villers with sour contempt, ‘won’t go in. He’s pi. I expect his father is a Baptist.’ There was no truth in the deduction from Tomkins’ piety, but none the less it was thenceforward accepted as a fact that Tomkins came of Baptist stock, and nothing that Tomkins could say to the contrary could wipe out this stigma on the family name.

It was an interesting draw. Everybody was pleased when Glover and Taylor drew each other. It should be explained that there were two prizes: one for the boy who drew the top of the form, another for the boy who drew the bottom. Now Glover and Taylor were two veterans who had moved up the school with more dignity than speed. They averaged a remove per annum. They were very ancient and very lazy, and the last two places in the form were theirs by immemorial right.