But I fancy the young officer with me would have been
greatly disconcerted at such an action. The English
are not given to such demonstrations. But the
Canadians would have understood, I know.
Since that time the reports have brought great news
of these Canadian troops, of their courage, of the
loss of almost all their officers in the fighting
at Neuve Chapelle. But that sunny morning, when
I saw them in the north of France, they were untouched
by battle or sudden death. Their faces were eager,
intent, earnest. They had come a long distance
and now they had arrived. And what next?
Into this scene of war unexpectedly obtruded itself
a bit of peace. A great cart came down a side
road, drawn by two white oxen with heavy wooden yokes.
Piled high in the cart were sugar beets. Some
thrifty peasant was salvaging what was left of his
crop. The sight of the oxen reminded me that
I had seen very few horses.
“They are farther back,” said the officer,
“Of course, as you know, for the last two or
three months it has been impossible to use the cavalry
at all.”
Then he told me a curious thing. He said that
during the long winter wait the cavalry horses got
much out of condition. The side roads were thick
with mud and the main roads were being reserved for
transports. Adequate exercises for the cavalry
seemed impossible. One detachment discovered
what it considered a bright solution, and sent to England
for beagle hounds. Morning after morning the men
rode after the hounds over the flat fields of France.
It was a welcome distraction and it kept the horses
in working trim.
But the French objected. They said their country
was at war, was being devastated by an alien army.
They considered riding to hounds, no matter for What
purpose, an indecorous, almost an inhuman, thing to
do under the circumstances. So the hounds were
sent back to England, and the cavalry horses are now
exercised in dejected strings along side roads.
As we went north the firing increased in intensity.
More English batteries were at work; the German response
was insistent.
We were approaching Ypres, this time from the English
side, and the great artillery duel of late February
was in progress.
The country was slightly rolling. Its unevenness
permitted more activity along our road. Batteries
were drawn up at rest in the fields here and there.
In one place a dozen food kitchens in the road were
cooking the midday meal, the khaki-clad cooks frequently
smoking as they worked.
Ahead of this loomed two hills. They rose abruptly,
treeless and precipitous. On the one nearest
to the German lines was a ruined tower.
“The tower,” said the officer, “would
have been a charming place for luncheon. But
the hill has been shelled steadily for several days.
I have no idea why the Germans are shelling it.
There is nobody there.”
