Read War Classics for Free Online Page B

crowds. 4 The statue itself was smothered in flowers, November though it was. Only the figure of France could be seen standing breast high in a sea of roses. ‘ Les voilà , Mlle ,’ went on Germaine. ‘Even the English officers are dancing.’ They were singing and marching too in serried rows down the Grande Rue.
    We saw no poilus but French marines, with that odd red hackle in their caps, walked arm in arm with Belgian troops. From the pavement stolid groups of Chinese, cabbage in hand, surveyed them curiously. A dark French Senegalese soldier from the Military Hospital on the Plage jogged past a Portuguese – worst behaved of all the Allies and sent here to be shipped home as soon as ever occasion afforded. 5
    â€˜Aux armes, citoyens,’ they played over and over again and I had hardly got over the marvel of the ‘Marseillaise’ being played for ‘peace’ when, faint and halting at first, but more confidently as it went on, the strains of ‘Tipperary’ rose to my ears. They had not played it much since 1914, but it was the first thing they thought of today. ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go.’ The Band went on – a French band – playing ‘Tipperary’. But it was useless. If the ‘Marseillaise’ failed to suggest peace, ‘Tipperary’ called up only 1914 – the August days of it. All day long the surging crowds cheered round the statue. 1870 was avenged.
    At the School alone, there was quietness. The roll call of the classes fell away by one half on Armistice night and hardly ever afterwards recovered. Late in the afternoon I went into the huts to see the men and how they took it. The Base Commandant had sent round word to close the canteens if we wished, as the men might be drunk. But we did not wish. On that night of all nights every man, drunk or sober, was to find a welcome there.
    When I went in, they were still sober and the hut was packed to the door. Most of them were singing and some few laughing and talking. Would you like to know what they sang? No ‘Rule Britannia’ or ‘God Save The King’ – English soldiers rarely sing either unless they are bidden. No – it was a chorus we were to hear every day for the next six months, with varying emphasis – ‘When do we go home?’, each word punctuated by thumps of mugs on tables, and the last word raised the roof.
    At night they were many of them drunk, and the sober ones, with thoughts of the punctilious WAACs [Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps] with whom they were dancing, were for turning the drunks out. 6 ‘No, no,’ said the Hut leader firmly, ‘let the drunks dance by themselves in this corner.’ So, sometimes three together, sometimes the orthodox two, sometimes one, the drunks danced merrily in their corner; whenever one, well meaning but nothing more, lurched out to grab a WAAC, he was hastily but tenderly shepherded back by a stronger comrade.
    Outside bells blared; flags flew; bands played; at every window in the Grande Rue faces looked out, laughing, crying. In the distance the ‘Marseillaise’ came rolling down and its echo ‘It’s – a – long – way – to – go.’
    I stole into the Cathedral. Over the altar hung our flags, quiet and still. There was no need to wave them now. Utter quietness here and one spot of light only. In the chapel at my side lay the empty tomb and the marble watchers beside it. The figure of the risen Christ was outlined and ringed with light. Never have I seen so many candles ablaze together. Beneath Him in the darkness knelt clusters of black-robed women. Peace had come.
    Down by the shore the water was quiet. If only there had been a destroyer on that clear green sea, I could have believed that peace had come. But having lived for four years beside the Grand Fleet, I found it hard to believe that anything great could