FLAMING JUNE OF WAR.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 12083, 11 August 1917, Page 7

FLAMING JUNE OF WAR.

THE SPIRIT OF BRITAIN BEHIND THE LINES. (By PHILIP GIBBS, in the "Daily Chronicle. 1 ') War Correspondents' Headquarters, FRANCE, Juno 3. It is flaming June—the flaming June of war. Behind the country of shell craters and barren earth there is a flaming beauty—fields of red clover and fields of golden flowers. The trees aro in full leaf, rich and dense, and alight with chestnut and may, grass and buttercups. The wheat is already whitening in the ear for arc early harvest, and tho roads of war are white with dust, which blows up like smoke in the trail of moving columns of transport mules, guns, lorries and marching men. Tlie men aro powdered so that they seem to wear white masks under their steel hnt«. Despatch riders, wearing like shuttles through the tangled skeins of traffic, aro grotesque figures, as though they had rolled themselves in flour before mounting their motor " bikes." But underneath the dust the faces of our men are burnt to the stain of mahogany by a month in hot sun after many months in foul weather, and the knees of our marching Jocks aro browner tluin the khaki aprons to their kilts or tho gas-bags which they wear as sporrans. INFANTRY IN SHORTS. There are other men besides the Jocks who show brown knees. Many of our troops are now wearing shorts, as : though going to the football fields in- I stead of to tho battlefields, and it gives | these boys a tine, easy look as they como swinging along under their heavy packs —Christian in the " Pilgrim's Progress did not carry a heavier burden—with tho sweat making runnels down their faces in the heat of tho day. Thoir lips are too dry to whistle. Wayside notices of "English beer sold bore " are. mocking words to men whoso thirst must wait for the end of the march. Behind the batteries in action, the gunners work stripped to the waist, und their skin is bronzing to the colour of ripe wheat. From tho fields away from the zone of fire, yet not beyond earshot of the guns, and behind the whitewashed cottages and mouldering old barns which are I tho billets of British soldiers resting be- i tween ono battle and another, there j comes ail day long, until the evening ' shades creep down the treo trunks and stretch across tho meadows, the sound , of music. It is the music of pipes blending in a kind of wild harmony with all this June Inusic of Nature—the lowing of cattle j and the humming of bees and tho end- ! less chorus of birds—aud the music of brass bands playing English tunes, old and new, so that in tho hot sunlight one has queer, silly visions of Phyllis Court, Henley and tli6 lawns of Ranelagh, and English meadows where stniw-hattod hoys and girls in flimsy frocks ato ices round a school cricket match—before the war. I followed the rausio yesterday through an old French archway and between two rows of huts and came into j a field where one of tho bands was play- | ing. My guide was a young officer of j the Kensingtons—" Do you know Iverna ' Gardens?" he asked—who has been in j every great battle sinco the autumn of 1914, including this last great battle. He talked like an old, old soldier, very wise in war, and—can you believe it?— he is now nineteen years of age. "With this young Napoleon of Kensington I went through tho French farmyard and into the field where tho baud was playing, and there, all around the field, were

those men of London whose lighting I described a week or two ago. It is only recent history, but yesterday while the band played it was forgotten. This was the sports day of tho London men, and they wero making the most of its peace and sunshine and laughter, making the most of every glorious minute of it. Laughter and cheers swept continuously along all sides of that hollow square about the playing field. They laughed and cheered mightily at a bicycle race between padres and doctors riding on French boneshakers over rough ground and won by a longlegged Church of England padre, who has walked with them on many fields of battle, and comforted them in body and soul in many hours of horror with a fine devotion and an utter truthfulness oi spirit, which will have nothing to do with the falsity .which slurs over the frightful conflict between Christian I ideals and the devilries of war, so that his men go to him with their doubts and despairs, and find a human, honest, understanding heart. A close second to him was a Roman Catholio padre, to whom his own men are devoted, because he also has courage and sympathy. Years ago T met him on another lawn when another band was playing to crowds of boys who have learnt their last lesson—so j many of them—in the grim school of | war. Cheers rang out again and roars j of laughter. There was a hundred yards race between field officers, and a colonel I won it, panting to a fine finish. There was a tremendous tug-cf-war, delirious, ly exciting. But the great event of the afternoon was an imitation Derby, with comic characters, including a real jockey, a Rod Indian chief in full war paint. Pyjamas Percy and Widow Twankv in cloflhes borrowed from a lady of his billet, and with a white umbrella. with which he strolled down tho course, making insulting remarks , to tho crowd. I SPIRIT OF LONDON. All the spirit of London was here, all its Cocknov humour, in this field of France behind the battle line. Some of them wero hnving an uproarious time round some comrades, acting as imaginary bookmakers, with all the patter of Epsom Downs. " Four to one on the field!" " Fivo to ono bar one!" "Don't forget the old firm!" "Will .you 'ave a favourite, sir, or an outsider?" " Tf you can't pay in cash, pny in iron rations; Woodbines will be accepted as paper money!" " Queer, isn't it?" said a man by my side. "In the Inst show that fellow was buried by shell burst, and that other chap—he's a comic lad—killed three Germans single-handed." The man by my side drew me apart a little and spoke of bis wifo and children and of the Old London which was such a long way ofF and of the war which seems to last for ever. "We hope' and hope for the end," ho said, " buti it seems a long way off." "Days like this are good," he said, " One forgets what, one has l>een through and the things that are corning. It. does the men a power of good. Thoy just fling themselves into all the fun while it lasts. People at' home don't understand —they don't understand." Ono of tho imaginary bookmakers came to mo with a box of snuff. "Take a pinch, sir. My missus and I always used to enjoy n little snuff between the races on Derby Day. 1 learned the habit in a biscuit, factory down Farringdon Road." I took a. pinch, and all the men laughed loudly because I sneezed with violence. The Red Indian's horse was scattering the crowd bv buck-jumping demonstrations, and the laughter rose all tho timo above the music of the band. Tho

colonel smiled and said, "This is what helps us to carry on. We should never have got as' far in this war without a senso of humour." On tiho wa.y back I went into an old barn, which had been made into a; chapel. Shafts of light struck aslant twisted beams. An old peasant woman came outside, and held out a bunch of paeonies as a. love gift to the London men. the roads again the white dust swirled about the troops on tho march, going up to the linos again after such a day as this, when the war was forgotten in the playing fields.