The Diggers 9

The Diggers 9

We visited a large château on the outskirts of Cambrai, which was

once the residence of the German Crown Prince. Inside one could see

where the hand of the spoiler had been busy. Chairs and sofas were

stripped of their tapestry, valuable books had been taken away and

books of lesser value had been tampered with, slashed with knives and

destroyed. In an upper corner of this building was a nursery with the

children's dolls and rocking horses torn and lacerated, the doll's

tea service broken and trampled to the ground.

 

Outside the house runs a light railway under a line of tall trees.

These trees have been cut down and placed on the rails, blocking

all transport and destroying the picturesque glory of a beautiful

esplanade, on which stands the statue of Baptiste, the first maker of

cambric, from which Cambrai has taken its name.

 

Many ancient towns of France famous in history and acquiring a fame

even more lasting in their downfall, were visited by our party in

turn. Yesterday it was Peronne, to-day Cambrai, Albert and Amiens

to-morrow. Of Peronne and Cambrai we have spoken, but of the history

of Albert we can say nothing, knowing so little of its past. And the

Albert of to-day is humbled to the dust, its cathedral burned to the

ground, its leaning Virgin gone.

 

On our way back to England we stopped for a night at Amiens, the

one-time capital of Picardy, the town in which Peter the Hermit,

Apostle of the First Crusade, and Ducange, the greatest of French

scholars, were born.

 

Amiens was up till quite recently the objective of enemy guns and

the dumping ground of bombs emptied from German aeroplanes. At the

present time the refugees were again returning and many were already

busy at the work of putting the city once again in order. But great

harm has been done to Amiens, and here and there blocks of houses are

levelled to the ground. Even the cathedral, begun in the early years

of the thirteenth century, has not escaped the missiles of war. A

German shell has come through the roof, but by good luck the shell

was a dud and did no injury to the place beyond breaking a few tiles

on the roof and smashing a flag on the floor.

 

Shells have fallen all round the building, smashing many houses

in the immediate neighbourhood and particularly outside the main

entrance, where a café has been levelled to the ground. In the big

building itself a great deal of stained glass has been broken, its

walls and flying buttresses are scarred and pitted with splinters

from bursting shells. Within, the choir stalls of the Cathedral, the

high altar, the pictures, pillars and statuary are protected by high

sand-bagged walls that reach almost to the roof. It is said that

the Germans did their utmost to spare the building. But judging by

the number of houses in the vicinity knocked down by shell fire and

broken by bombs, it looks as if the Germans tried to save the sacred

pile by just missing it with the narrowest possible margin.

 

Though but three days had passed since we came through Amiens on our

way to the front, a great change had taken place in the town. Three

days ago it was practically deserted, for most of those who had gone

away in the face of the big German advance had not yet returned.

Windows were then shuttered, doors boarded, no traffic was to be

seen in the street. Lamps were broken and the shattered glass lay

on the pavements. Amiens was a dead city lacking light and radiance

by night, movement and sound by day. Mourning and stupor lay like a

pall over the town. But now on our return we could see that a great

resurrection had taken place. Lights showed in the shops, women

served in the cafés where the red and blue bottles flung back the

reflection of many lamps, children were playing on the pavements, and

newsboys were shouting out the daily papers, English and French, at

every corner. Amiens with usual French perseverance was accommodating

itself to the new life and settling down again to its ordinary

every-day round of business.

 

Having seen Amiens Cathedral in the darkness, we returned to our

hotel to find a number of fresh visitors who had joined our party.

One was Mr. Hughes, Premier of Australia, who was visiting the troops

then billeted in the back area, drilling and getting fit for further

encounters on the battlefield. For the night he was stopping in

Amiens at our hotel and on the morrow he was going back with us to

London.

 

On our entrance to the dining-room we found one of the officers

telling the story of the bayonet, which he held to be the greatest

weapon used by the fighting man.

 

"The best weapon of all," he said. "Other weapons do their bit, the

tank, the big gun, and the rifle, but none are as effective as the

cold steel. When in the early days of the war the British soldiers

went back from Mons 'twas the bayonet that saved them many a time.

The gun did a share, the barbed wire entanglements were of some

service, but when it came to hand-to-hand fighting there was only one

weapon called into play, the bayonet."

 

"The Germans don't like it," some one said.

 

"Not they," said the officer, "it's cut and run when they are up

against the steel. But with the Turk it's a different matter. When

he's cornered he'll fight for his life and make a good fight of it.

He's a splendid man, Johnnie Turk, a damned good fellow, and one

that can give you a run for your money when you come in contact with

him. And he has such a queer way of fighting with the steel. Twists

and whirls his bayonet round in a queer tantalizing manner, and you

never know where you are, whether he's doing it for a joke or not.

But there's some plan in his capers, as we saw out on the Peninsula.

Some of our boys were inclined to laugh at Johnnie's capers, but they

knew better after a while, for suddenly the beggar would stop his

gyrations and sweep forward and slash upwards and probably get home.

I saw many of the Diggers fall to the Turks' bayonet, but never from

a straight thrust forward. Johnnie always cut upwards.

 

"The surgeon has never dressed a bayonet wound," he added. "The

weapon is always fatal."

 

During the evening we talked of many things, of incidents of war and

peace. The Premier told us many entertaining stories of his life in

Australia, and one I particularly remember.

 

Mr. Hughes in his early days was put forward as a political candidate

for some little township. This was a place where party strife was

rife and where now and again matters of import were decided not by

peaceful argument and gentle discussion, but by the heavy fists of

angry men. One party put Mr. Hughes forward, another party brought

another person into the limelight and said that he should be a

candidate in preference to Mr. Hughes. Eventually, it was decided to

put the matter to a vote.

 

While the voting took place Mr. Hughes was in some other part of

the town dealing with other affairs. He happened to be sitting in

some house looking out on the street when he noticed a man in shirt

sleeves coming tearing towards him, his face and neck beaded with

perspiration.

 

"What's wrong?" Hughes exclaimed.

 

"The voting," was the answer. "You're chosen. Run for your life!"

 

 

THE OLD PLATOON

 

Soft the night on the black field's face,

And under the lonely moon

The white cross marks your resting-place,

Mate of the old platoon.

 

Hazards many we both have shared,

Enduring as men endure--

With faith and fire all risks we dared,

Knowing the end was sure.

 

"The cause is worthy," you often said.

You said, "We're out to win,"

As we looked to the great new day ahead

That ushered Freedom in.

 

There's a weapon less on the rifle-rack

And gone from the parapet,

Still you guide us now on the cobbled track,

The mate we can't forget.

 

To the hour ahead our way we wend:

Let it come late or soon,

We know you're with us to the end,

Mate of the old platoon.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX

 

IN THE CAFÉ

 

 

The café was crowded, for the Diggers out of the trenches were making

the most of their short stay in the back area. To-morrow or the day

after they would be going back again and anything might happen up

there. "Laugh and be happy, for to-morrow we die," seemed to be the

motto of the evening.

 

The place was crowded, principally with Australian soldiers, though

here and there in the room, sitting at tables playing dominoes, were

a number of Frenchmen. Cordial relations bind the poilu and the

Digger in terms of friendship, for the Australians love the French,

and the French love the Australians.

 

The Diggers appreciate that everyday good-humour, generous warmth

and eager hospitality which gives tone and colour to the lives of

the French people. This courtesy and kindness is not for a certain

occasion with these people, it is their very nature. They seem to

like to see everybody happy and in good spirits, and go out of their

way to befriend and succour the men in khaki when these latter are

in need of help. Nothing goes farther to show the temper of a people

than their behaviour in matters of trifling importance, for when all

is said and done trifles make up the great sum of human existence;

take them away from life and what is left?

 

The civilian population of France show their appreciation of the

Australians in many ways. They are ready at any moment to give rooms

in their homes to men back from the lines, to prepare hot meals for

them, dry their clothes, wash and mend their underclothing.

 

On one occasion the Prefect of the Department of the Somme on behalf

of the French Government conveyed to the Australian Commander the

admiration and appreciation of the French people for the Australian

Army, not only for the work done by the soldiers in the field

when they fought against the invaders of France, but also for the

behaviour of the troops when quartered in the back area with the

civilian population, and the care taken of all property belonging to the people.