LONDON'S WOMEN FACE CRISIS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23169, 15 October 1938, Page 13 (Supplement)

LONDON'S WOMEN FACE CRISIS

By ELSIE K. MORTON

THE soaring arches of Westminster Abbey stretched into a dim vista of shadows that melted far down into the darkness of the nave. The gleam of a few clusters of electric lights made a little golden pool in the midst of the dark quietude, enfolding in its brightness a group of women kneeling silently at the tomb of the Unknown Warrior.

A small bunch of scarlet poppies, lying at the foot of the tomb, made a yivid splash of colour in the gloom. [Two tall white candles burned at tho

bead of the black marble stone, lighting np in letters of gold the' words of jfche inscription: "Beneath this stone rests the body »>f a British warrior, unknown by name or rank, brought from France to lie among the most illustrious of the land. . . Thus are commemorated the many multitudes who, during the Great War of 1914-1918, gave the most that man can give, life itself, for God, for King and country ... for the gacred cause of justice and freedom of Jkhe world." - We were kneeline there, late at sight, in the innermost shrine of the

Prayer Pilgrimage To Westminster A NEW ZEALANDER'S IMPRESSIONS

Empire, becutise the black shadow of war once again lay on the hearts of the people. Night and day, for two weeks, the great west door of Westminster Abbey had remained open; throughout the day, all through the dark hours of night, an unending procession of men and women had come to kneel there at the Warrior's Tomb in intercession for peace, praying that the "sacred cause of justice and freedom" might be upheld without the flowing of fresh rivers of blood. It was the last time I would be in Westminster Abbey before 1 left England. Tears came to my eyes as I knelt there, a little apart, alone in tho semidarkness, and thoiight back to that overpowering, never - to - be - forgotten

hour of my first visit, the day before the Coronation, the glory and the grandeur of the final rehearsal, _ the vast crowds, the sounding of the silver trumpets, and the roar of voices echoing through the great Abbey, "God Save the King!" Now, indeed, had the tumult and the shouting died 1 In place of the jubilant crowds was this little group kneeling humbly at the Shrine of the Dead, the unceasing procession of men and women of all ages, from every rank in life, passing silently in and out, sparing a few quiet moments to offer up a prayer for peace. Thus were the people

of England keeping guard until zero hour should strike. . . .

It was a strange farewell, and with a sense of desolation in my heart, I looked again toward the dark tomb, with the golden light falling on the tiny flare of the scarlet poppies. And then I caught sight of another inscription on a tomb beside that of the Warrior—"Not by might, nor by power, but by Mv Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts'" Tno Spirit! The Spirit from above that had prevailed all through the ages, when men had at last gone humbly on their knees, having seen earthly power and might overthrown, and all their little vain images and idols crumbling into du3t. . . . Twentieth Armistice Day Comforted, I passed out into the thunderous roar of the street, and made my way round the Abbey. Through the iron railings, I saw the tender young grass lying like a piece of emerald tapestry over the black earth, its edges unfolding against the dark stone walls of the ancient building. In a few weeks, these lawns would all be marked off in little plots, and thousands of tiny silken poppies would bloom in memory of the dead. The twentieth Armistice Day! What would it bring to England, to the world? The mockery, the unutterable tragedy of new and overwhelming disaster, or thankfulness that once again the prayers of the world had been heard, and the Spirit had prevailed? As I passed up Whitehall, Big Ben boomed eleven deep, slow notes. Newspaper boys raced by, shouting the latest special editions, with Hitler's broadcast speech. Groups of men and women formed under the street lamps, tearing the sheets apart, reading eagerly, their faces tense and set. The Cenotaph gleamed tall and white against the dull red glare of the «ky, intensified with misty rain, like a sullen fire in the starless gloom of night. There was a bank of glorious flowers right round the base of the memorial, and groups of people stood silently beside them, heedless of the unceasing roar of traffic

all round, gazing upon their beauty. I glanced toward Downing Street, thinking perhaps on this memorable night I would join the crowds at No. 10. But there were no crowds at No. 10! There was not a soul in the street. Twelve of London's most massive policemen stood side by side across the entrance, from Whitehall, and even as I paused a moment at the pavement's edge, one of them called "Cross over at once, please!" Peace—and Gas Masks!

It was all very strange and unreal, that walk up Whitehall. The pavement was littered with handbills, printed in black letters: "To get Peace, surrender to violence must end! Save Czechoslovakia! Save Peace! Come to the Albert Hall Rally!" But how would that save peace, I wondered ? How would anything in,the world save peace, if the demon of war held sway in the heart of the man who held Europe's destiny in his hand?

On the wall of a building was posted a large notice, bearing in startling black letters the headline, "Air Raid Precautions —Fitting of Gas Masks." "Notice is hereby given that all persons residing in Westminster are required to attend for the fitting of gas masks at. one of the undermentioned centres; doors open daily from September to October 1. . . ." In Trafalgar Square Just before midnight, I came .to Trafalgar Square, and drawn up in front of Canada House was a great red bus, with a flaring poster on its side, "Hair and Beauty Fair, Olympia. Dancing to-night!" The irony of it! From the bus was pouring forth a stream of men in khaki, packs on their backs, waterbottles and tin hats at thoir side, looking ready for inarching orders. They were carrying something very heavy into the building, long, sinister looking black boxes . . more boxes . . and still more boxes. "Who are they? What are they carrying in?" I asked a man beside me. "Ammunition," he replied. "Its a detachment of Royal Artillery men, and they are mounting an anti-aircraft gun on the roof." I stood in a kind of incredulous horror in the crowd, watching in fas- 1 cinated silence the passing and repassing of the soldiers. Then a woman spoke. "My God!" she said in a kind of bitter wonderment. "Have we got to go through all that again?" A boy standing near her laughed, and lit a cigarette. Then he drew his arm closely through that of the girl beside him. "Come on, Ann!" he said lightly. "Time to get busv! Lot's go and help dig a trench in Hyde Park!" Laughing together, they moved off into the darkness.