cy tongues and a last farewell of "Bonne
chance, mes petits! Bonne chance et toujours la victoire!" At every
wayside halt artists were at work with white chalk drawing grotesque
faces on the carriage doors below which they scrawled inscriptions
referring to the death of "William," and banquets in Berlin, and
invitations for free trips to the Rhine. In exchange for a few English
cigarettes, too few for such trainloads, they gave me ovations of
enthusiasm, as though I stood for England.

"Vive l'Angleterre! Vos soldats, ou sont ils, camarade?" Where were
the English soldiers? It was always that question which sprang to their
lips. But for a little while I could not answer. It was strange. There was
no news of the crossing of the Expeditionary Force to France. In the
French and English newspapers no word was said about any British
soldiers on French soil. Was there some unaccountable delay, or
were we fulfilling our bond privately, a great drama being played
behind the scenes, like the secret war?

13

Then just for a moment the veil was lifted and Lord Kitchener allowed
the British people to know that their soldiers had landed on the other
side. Even then we who knew more than that were not allowed to
mention the places to which they had gone. Never mind. They were
here. We heard quite suddenly the familiar accents of English
Tommies in provincial towns of France, and came unexpectedly upon
khalfi-clad battalions marching and singing along the country roads.
For the first time there rang out in France the foolish ballad which has
become by a queer freak the war song of the British Army: "It's a long
way to Tipperary," learnt with comical accent by French peasants and
French girls, who, in those early days, in the first fine thrill of
enthusiasm, sang it emotionally as though it were a hymn, holding all
their love for England, all their hope of England's help, all their
admiration of these clean-shaven boys going to war in France in a
sporting spirit as though it were a great game. I went back to Paris for
a day when General French arrived, and even now in remembrance I
hear those shouts of "Vive l'Angleterre!" which followed the motor-car
in which our General made his triumphant progress. The shopgirls of
Paris threw flowers from the windows as the car passed. Dense
crowds of citizens thronged the narrow street of the Faubourg St.
Honore, and waited patiently for hours outside the Embassy to catch
one glimpse of t