WAR SCENES REVISITED

Evening Star, Issue 20993, 6 January 1932, Page 9

WAR SCENES REVISITED

"THE BLOODY SALIENT" "NO MAN'S LAND" TRANSFORMED Of the many startling changes of the post-war world, perhaps none is more amazing than the of the actual arenas of the conflict. Most men who looked upon the surrounding chaos for the last time in 1918 would scoff at the suggestion that the devastated territory could be reconditioned in less than a century, if at all. Nearly thirteen years have sped since the last shot was fired; and now, with the exception of parts specially preserved, there is little left of the broad belt of ruin which ran from Switzerland to the sea (writes “Pilgrim,” in the ‘Weekly Scotsman ’). The writer had been often assured by ex-serviceman who had visited the battlefields that the places they once knew and hated were unrecognisable, and that the location of “No Man’s Land,” except where indicated by memorial or other signs, was mere guesswork. Not having set eyes upon any part of the western front since 1918, I felt somewhat sceptical of these statements, and marked them down as the conclusions of hasty visits of perfunctory surveys. How, I asked myself, could one forget the “ Bloody Salient,” for example, who had had the features of that dreadful landscape from Hooge to “ Plug street ” branded on his soul for a year or two of his life? It seemed as incredible as the suggestion that one might forget the. scenes of his boyhood. IN THE YPRES SALIENT. Yet those pilgrims were very near the truth, although in a more elusive sense than they suspected. A recent leisurely exploration of the Ypres salient was a revelation in this respect. With the aid of .large-scale trench maps of 1916 and a prismatic compass, it was indeed possible to fix many sites to a certainty. But recognition ended there; it was in vain that one endeavoured to recapture the reality or identity. Incidents of the grim drama which was enacted on those peaceful fields were stirred up and crowded vividly upon each other, but the scenes are now those of a strange land and the imagination is baffled to corelate them. It has been truly said that the scenes of the war can live only in the memory. Many natural features of this region stand out unmistakably, of course, and are known to all men for all time— Hill 60, the Caterpillar, the Bluff, Spoilbank, Wytchcsete Ridge, Messmes Ridge, and others, most of which were overrun by the Germans in their advance of 1918. But how changed since the days when they might be viewed closely only through periscopes, and the stormy nights when they were silhouetted in gun flashes and Verey llS Nature, the great healer, has thrown her mantle over their hideous scars. Their once naked and shattered contours are becoming clothed in tall grasses, trees, and wild flowers. The celebrated Flanders poppy is, strange to say, not much in evidence now. One is struck with a curious feeling that these quondam commanding positions, the capture and retention of which cost untold sacrifices, are really very slight knolls or ridges—mere folds on the flat landscape. This, no doubt, is literally true. But they were very nigh and menacing during the harrowing years when “Jerry,” with his death-dealing contrivances, sat on top of them. HOMELY COUNTRYSIDE.

Of the artificial features wrought by men as a barricade _ against death, scarcely a trace remains. But unconsciously the eye persists in searching for fire trenches, parapets, emplacements, dugouts, and cubby holes; memory is asking what has become of the craters and • shell holes, blasted tree stumps, lakes of water, and morasses of mud. . Where are the weary communication trenches —Lovers’ lane, Regent street, Pall Mall, Picadilly, Deeside, Petticoat lane, and all the rest of them? Who laboriously garnered the acres of barbed wire tuat w© painfully patched o’ nights under the enemy’s _ nose, scarcely breathing, and pretending to be tree stumps when flares went up and nervous machine gunners with fingers on triggers searched for us? What is there to show for the incessant and superhuman toil of harassed _ infantry, who at dusk were stirred into the manifold activities of the hours of darkness in these loathsome regions of “fishtails,” “rum jars,” “flying pigs,” high explosive, and gas? The insistent “Go back!” of the corncrake echoes from field to field; the wild creatures gambol among the old gunpits in the little woods. It is indeed difficult to ralise that so many died in this homely countryside from which danger seems so remote. Yet one quarter of the total British dead perished in the crescent covered by those waving fields of golden wheat. “WHITE HORSE CELLARS.” From the comparatively high ground at St. Eloi we watched, in the summer of 19115, the German gunners methodically demolishing the Cloth Hall and

Cathedral at Ypres. In 1916 two large craters and several smaller ones > were blown under the German front line at St Eloi, known to the British Army, j as White Horse Cellars, as a prelum- ] nary to thrusting the enemy from that particular eminence of vantage. Had they been filled up? I wondered, as I explored what was No Man’s Land,' taking, I am afraid, minor liberties with the standing crops. I came upon them suddenly in unexpected surroundings, one on each side of the road—a road delineated on the map, but which I now saw for the first time in actual existence, I unlatched a gate in the enclosure on the right, and walked in towards what was known as No. T crater, feeling an over-powering sense of ownership. A justifiable _ emotion,perhaps, for wasn’t my battalion nearly annihilated in the defence of that same hole in the ground? The occupier, a young Belgian who is a stranger to the locality, accosted me. He has built a bungalow about a hundred yards from the crater, which is surrounded by ornamental trees,shrubs, and flowers. He knew nothing of the origin of the craters,' so I took it upon myself to tell him in rusty French something for the good of his soul, whereupon he invited me to roam at will over his property. This crater, is full of clear water to the brim, -water. lilies growing in great profusion around: the nm, and is inhabited by millions of goldfish! I felt profoundly stirred as I contemplated the farther lip, where on two occasions we had clung during a seven-day nightmare, and whence only the few and very lucky got out.

MESSINES LANDMARKS GONE. Passing along towards Messines, I noted without surprise the absence of the old identification landmarks—- “ Sniper’s Barn,” “ Dead Dog Farm,”' “Baggar’s Rest,” “ Moated . Grange, • “ Gunner’s Lodge,” September Post,” and all the other derelict .farmhouses and chateaux bearing intriguing “jpenny dreadful v nomenclature,where snipers and observers lay. “ doggo ” all day. Handsome new buildings nave evolved from their pulverised relics. Making a specially personal visit to .one of these, which is situated about 400yds from the old enemy line. I found that the rum had blossomed into a flourishing estaminet. There_was, and is, a cellar in that house. While sampling the uninspiring brew, of the locality I pondered over . the stormy; times when we of .the’Brigade wiring* party spent the nights in No. Mans, Land and the hours of daylight in that same rat-infested cellar. . At the Boise Carre there is a little beek or stream, part of , its course in our front line, as we have cause to remember. This spot was notoriously unhealthy for quite other reasons—mine* werfers. In rainy weather the Ger-, mans pumped water over their para-; pets on the higher ground, which found j its way into this stream and left us, waterlogged. We were obliged to wear, gum boots for six or eight days at a stretch in that terrible winter of 1915-16, everlastingly pumping and draining water.. To-day that little hurnie looks as innocent as any rill on the Pentlands. REJUVENATED HEDGES OF • VOORMEZEELE. From this point back to Voormeseele',which many readers will remember witli a shudder as the place where they drew the picks and shovels, ran a line or zig-zag hedges. I recognised it at once —mucL rejuvenated—and the sight recalled that afternoon in January, 1916, when a colleague and myself received the joyful instruction to proceed on leave forthwith. We did not linger,As the communication trench was long, and non-existent in some places, we decided to proceed overland, using this hedge and certain dips in the ground as cover, a risky proceeding in daylight.We were “ spotted ” from the enemy-, front line, and strafed with overhead: shrapnel all the way to Dickebush, over, twenty shells being put over in a vain effort to get two men! We thought we were lucky to see the Waverley! It is an interesting commentary on the “munition” situation of that period, that our-eighteen-pounders were rationed ” at four shells per gun per, (jayi