heard gusts of laughter from the truck-load of men looking down on
the Philosopher. He had discovered a man from Wapping, I think,
and was talking in the accent of Stratford-atte-Bow to boys from that
familiar district of his youth. The Strategist had met the engineers in
many camps in England. They were surprised at his knowledge of
their business. And what were we doing out here? Newspaper
correspondents? Ah, there would be things to write about! When the
train passed out, with waving hands from every carriage, with
laughing faces caught already by the sun of France, with farewell
shouts of "Good luck, boys!" and "Bonne chance, camarades!" three
Englishmen turned away silently and could not speak for a minute or
two. Why did the Philosopher blink his eyes in such a funny way, as
though they smarted at specks of dust? And why did the Strategist
look so grave all of a sudden, as he stood staring after the train, with
his cap in his hand, so that the sunlight gleamed on his silver-grey
hair?

15

So the British Army had come to France, and a strange chapter was
being written in the history of the world, contrasting amazingly with
former chronicles. English battalions bivouacked by old French
houses which had looked down upon scenes of revolution in 1789,
and in the shadow of its churches which rang for French victories or
tolled for French defeats when Napoleon's generals were fighting
English regiments exactly one hundred years ago. In seaport villages
and towns which smell of tar and nets and absinthe and stale wine I
saw horses stabled in every inn-yard; streets were littered with straw,
and English soldiers sauntered about within certain strict boundaries,
studying picture postcards and giving the "glad eye" to any little
French girl who peeped at them through barred windows. Only
officers of high rank knew where they were bound. The men, devoid
of all curiosity, were satisfied with the general knowledge that they
were "on the continong," and well on the way to "have a smack at the
Germans." There was the rattle and rumble of English guns down
country highways. Long lines of khaki-clad men, like a writhing brown
snake when seen from afar, moved slowly along winding roads,
through cornfields where the harvest was cut and stacked, or down
long avenues of poplars, interminably straight, or through quaint old
towns and villages with whitewashed houses and overhanging
gables, and high stone steps leading to barns