SUNDAY AT THE CAMP.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 170, 24 August 1914, Page 3

SUNDAY AT THE CAMP.

VISITORS AND THE CHURCH PARADE. [Written for THE SUN - .] It remains for our peaceful Addingtou Show Grounds, where the only battlesfought have been for the prize of pastoral or agricultural distinction, to give us our first dim realisation of war.

A battalion of tents, shining; vrhitely through the grey of a fog-laden afternoon, lines of khaki-clad soldiers, marching with rhythmical precision to form a hollow square in front of the grand stand, officers issuing commands with the i '' parade rasp'' in their voices, seas of civilians with eyes for nothing and no one but the soldiers. That is Addiugton ; Show Ground as the writer saw it yesteiday afternoon. Somehow it brought one to a swifter, fuller realisation of battle than all that had gone before. The grim earnestness of it all came in a lightning-like Has:.. The wings of the eagle of battle cast, for a space, a sinister shadow over that pleasant landscape, where greening bud aud tentative leaf and blossom gave tremulous promise of the coming of spring. Over leagues of land and sea came the deep bay of the dogs of war. Visitors came —mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends. And those who were neither the one nor the other came too, for the crowd dearly loves a uniform. The visitors filled the stand, congregated around the fences, and gathered in groups about the grounds. They were still coming in solidly when the religious service set down for the afternoon commenced, and seldom did preacher speak to such a congregation. He stood at the impromptu pulpit that bravely fluttered the l-nion Jack, his clerical vestments replaced by soldierly khaki, his discourse a thing of wise counsel, of brave, heartening words, of courage, of kindliness, of honour, of truth. And then, from sojdier and civilian throat alike, came the hymn that holds the faith and comfort and peace of all the world in its beautiful words—"Abide With Me." A second after came a brief word of command ; the soldiers wheeled, marched to the outer grounds, and were dismissed. A few minutes afterwards soldier and civilian fraternised with no bar of rule and regulation between. At a tent flap stood a soldier and his mother. The relationship was unmistakable, although he was a great tall fellow, who towered head anil shoulders above the little woman who stood at his side. His eyes were alight, and his tall young frame buoyant with the enthusiasm- of the. soldier—not a doubt but that he had heard the bugle call from overseas, and, like a hound that strains at its leash, he was all impatient to answer its summons. He had been showing his mother his tent, his kit., his equipment, and she has been loud in her praise, unsparing in her approval, matching his delight and enthusiasm with hers just as mothers do all the world over. Her eyes were wistful, though—this tall young soldier was her baby once —in her inmost thoughts he is her baby still. He was going away, and her heart, her big, brave, loving, forgiving mother-heart, was going with him. In all his doubts and dangers and uncertainties and perils it will suffer twice as much as he, but he would never know. Few soldiers who go to battle are as brave as the mothers who bore them, lion-hearted though they may be. Cupid hovered over that place of soldiers and tents —Cupid, with his barbed shafts and his gleaming bow. A soldier boy and a little dark-liaired girl strolled along, parade and soldiering and most other things forgotten in the old-new magic of the moment. Poor little girl, there are lonesome days ahead for you when your soldier lover is away overseas and you have the doubtful consolation of hearing Kipling's "Absent-minded Beggar'' recited a dozen times a week— There are girls he walked with casual —they'll be sorry now he's gon-3, For an absent-minded beggar the/ will find him . . . But they never think of that as they walk amongst the tents at Addiugton. Loverlike, they Jive entirely in the present.

Two women talk to an officer —a keeneyed, soldierly, silent man. One is his wife and one his mother. The two are nearer to each other than they have ever been before, united by the common tragedy of sex. Kach gives up the one who is dearest in all the world to Iher, and their common loss draws them very near to one another. They tell him of many little things—the little, every-day domestic things that make up a woman's life, —and he listens and answers, but his thoughts are away in the future—■ fighting the battles that may have to be fought, leading his men forward into the press of the battle, maybe. II is eagle eyes look on another sight than peaceful Addington. What they will actually look upon when the future unveils itself, who knows ?

Tn a pavilion afternoon tea is spread, ami several orderlies, told off for the' purpose, wait on the visitors. The ladies drink out of the chipped enamel cups with a feeling that Sevres or Doulton could never give them—it makes them seem akin to the soldiers, gives them a pleasurable little thrill to think they are roughing it even as the boys in uniform

do. It is a little enough share, God knows,'but the women realise, with a certain wistfulness, that it is as far as they r niay go. In the essentials we are much as we were in the cave days—the man still fares forth to battle aud thfe woman still stays at home, to watch for his return, to keep the hearth fire burning, . to wait, to pray. It has been the part of I women always, and always it will be the same.

Those who leave us this week have many a one who will watch and pray for their safe return, if Sunday's indications count for anything.