war and the future-第13章
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outs。 One dug…out in particular there promises to become a show
place。 It must be the masterpiece of some genius for dug…outs；
it is made as if its makers enjoyed the job； it is like the work
of some horrible badger among the vestiges of what were pleasant
human homes。 You are taken down a timbered staircase into its
warren of rooms and passages； you are shown the places under the
craters of the great British shells； where the wood splintered
but did not come in。 （But the arrival of those shells must have
been a stunning moment。） There are a series of ingenious bolting
shafts set with iron climbing bars。 In this place German
officers and soldiers have lived continually for nearly two
years。 This war is； indeed； a troglodytic propaganda。 You come
up at last at the far end into what was once a cellar of a decent
Frechman's home。
But there are stranger subterranean refuges than that at
Fricourt。 At Dompierre the German trenches skirted the cemetery；
and they turned the dead out of their vaults and made lurking
places of the tombs。 I walked with M。 Joseph Reinach about this
place； picking our way carefully amidst the mud holes and the
wire； and watched the shells bursting away over the receding
battle line to the west。 The wreckage of the graves was
Durereqsue。 And here would be a fragment of marble angle and
here a split stone with an inscription。 Splinters of coffins；
rusty iron crosses and the petals of tin flowers were trampled
into the mud； amidst the universal barbed wire。 A little
distance down the slope is a brand new cemetery； with new metal
wreaths and even a few flowers； it is a disciplined array of
uniform wooden crosses； each with its list of soldiers' names。
Unless I am wholly mistaken in France no Germans will ever get a
chance for ever more to desecrate that second cemetery as they
have done its predecessor。
We walked over the mud heaps and litter that had once been houses
towards the centre of Dompierre village； and tried to picture to
ourselves what the place had been。 Many things are recognisable
in Dompierre that have altogether vanished at Fricourt； for
instance； there are quire large triangular pieces of the church
wall upstanding at Dompierre。 And a mile away perhaps down the
hill on the road towards Amiens； the ruins of the sugar refinery
are very distinct。 A sugar refinery is an affair of big iron
receptacles and great flues and pipes and so forth； and iron does
not go down under gun fire as stone or brick does。 The whole
fabric wars rust； bent and twisted； gaping with shell holes； that
raggedest display of old iron； but it still kept its general
shape； as a smashed； battered； and sunken ironclad might do at
the bottom of the sea。
There wasn't a dog left of the former life of Dompierre。 There
was not even much war traffic that morning on the worn and muddy
road。 The guns muttered some miles away to the west； and a lark
sang。 But a little way farther on up the road was an
intermediate dressing station； rigged up with wood and
tarpaulins； and orderlies were packing two wounded men into an
ambulance。 The men on the stretchers were grey faced； as though
they had been trodden on by some gigantic dirty boot。
As we came back towards where our car waited by the cemetery I
heard the jingle of a horseman coming across the space behind us。
I turned and beheld one of the odd contrasts that seem always to
be happening in this incredible war。 This man was； I suppose； a
native officer of some cavalry force from French north Africa。
He was a handsome dark brown Arab； wearing a long yellow…white
robe and a tall cap about which ran a band of sheepskin。 He was
riding one of those little fine lean horses with long tails that
I think are Barbary horses； his archaic saddle rose fore and aft
of him； and the turned…up toes of his soft leather boots were
stuck into great silver stirrups。 He might have ridden straight
out of the Arabian nights。 He passed thoughtfully； picking his
way delicately among the wire and the shell craters； and coming
into the road； broke into a canter and vanished in the direction
of the smashed…up refinery。
2
About such towns as Rheims or Arras or Soissons there is an
effect of waiting stillness like nothing else I have ever
experienced。 At Arras the situation is almost incredible to the
civilian mind。 The British hold the town； the Germans hold a
northern suburb； at one point near the river the trenches are
just four metres apart。 This state of tension has lasted for
long months。
Unless a very big attack is contemplated； I suppose there is no
advantage in an assault； across that narrow interval we should
only get into trenches that might be costly or impossible to
hold； and so it would be for the Germans on our side。 But there
is a kind of etiquette observed； loud vulgar talking on either
side of the four…metre gap leads at once to bomb throwing。 And
meanwhile on both sides guns of various calibre keep up an
intermittent fire； the German guns registerI think that is the
right termon the cross of Arras cathedral； the British guns
search lovingly for the German batteries。 As one walks about the
silent streets one hears； 〃/Bang/…Pheeee…woooo〃 and then far
away 〃/dump。/〃 One of ours。 Then presently back comes
〃Pheeee…woooo…/Bang！/〃 One of theirs。
Amidst these pleasantries； the life of the town goes on。 /Le
Lion d'Arras/； an excellent illustrated paper； produces its
valiant sheets； and has done so since the siege began。
The current number of /Le Lion d'Arras/ had to report a
local German success。 Overnight they had killed a gendarme。
There is to be a public funeral and much ceremony。 It is rare
for anyone now to get killed； everything is so systematised。
You may buy postcards with views of the destruction at various
angles； and send them off with the Arras postmark。 The town is
not without a certain business activity。 There is； I am told； a
considerable influx of visitors of a special sort； they wear
khaki and lead the troglodytic life。 They play cards and gossip
and sleep in the shadows； and may not walk the streets。 I had
one glimpse of a dark crowded cellar。 Now and then one sees a
British soldier on some special errand； he keeps to the pavement；
mindful of the spying German sausage balloon in the air。 The
streets are strangely quite and grass grows between the stones。
The Hotel de Ville and the cathedral are now mostly heaps of
litter； but many streets of the town have suffered very little。
Here and there a house has been crushed and one or two have been
bisected； the front reduced to a heap of splinters and the back
halves of the rooms left so that one sees the bed； the hanging
end of the carpet； the clothes cupboard yawning open； the
pictures still on the wall。 In one place a lamp stands on a
chest of drawers； on a shelf of floor cut off completely from the
world below。。。。 Pheeee…woooo…/Bang！/ One would be
irresistibly reminded of a Sunday afternoon in the city of
London； if it were not for those unmeaning explosions。
I went to the station； a dead railway station。 A notice…board
requested us to walk around the silent square on the outside
pavement and not across it。 The German sausage balloon had not
been up for days； it had probably gone off to the Somme； the
Somme was a terrible vortex just then which was sucking away the
resources of the whole German line； but still discipline is
discipline。 The sausage might come peeping up at any moment over
the station roof； and so we skirted the square。 Arras was fought
for in the early stages of the war； two lines of sand…bagged
breastworks still run obliquely through the station； one is where
the porters used to put luggage upon cabs and one runs the length
of the platform。 The station was a fine one of the modern type；
with a glass roof whose framework still remains； though the glass
powders the floor and is like a fine angular gravel underfoot。
The rails are rails of rust； and cornflowers and mustard and tall
grasses grow amidst the ballast。 The waiting…rooms have suffered
from a shell or so； but there are still the sofas of green plush；
askew； a little advertis
