THE STRANGE ROAD TO THE TRENCHES.

Hokitika Guardian, 7 June 1918, Page 4

THE STRANGE ROAD TO THE TRENCHES.

(By Hamilton Fyfo.)

War Corke sponpent,s’ Headquarters, 8.E.F., France,

I call it “ the road ” because all roads to the front are the..same. To begin with,' being French roads, they are straight. You see them running up and down for miles ahead of you, like the one in Mr Levinson’s pictures at the front. Next, they are hard and smooth. The British Army sees to that. Steam-rollers from all parts of England meet upon them. You pass now a group of turbaned Indiana working at them, after tlmt a band of smiling, sturdy Chinese. You may see in the same hour Arabs and Nubians, natives of Senegal and Ceylon. Their dress supplies in the grey northern winter landscape welcome touches of colour. The gorgeous East, you would say, must have been ransacked for roadmenders.

On all roads to the front are the same strings of motor-lorries ; the same horsemen to whose kindly English faces the steel helmet lends a quality of sternness ; the same bodies of infantry, perhaps hound for the baths with towels on their shoulders, perhaps with picks and spades, or may be in full marching order, with all their goods and chattels slung around them, on their way to or from the line. The same games of football being played in fields alongside, the same well-tnnied-ont young officers taking exercise on well-groomed horses, the same faßt staff cars speeding on errands that admit of no delay. And then, bordering all roads to the front are identical settlements of wooden or tin lints; identical headquarters of this, that, or tlio other unit, lying back a little, with perhaps an attempt, at a garden ; villages whose only inhabitants seem to be British soldiers, for whose benefit the cottage windows display notices such as “Eggs and Chips” (evidently a favourite dish), “ Stout and Paleale, ’ “Washing Done Here,” or sometimes more ambitions efforts like this which I saw : “ Compare our prices ; everything reasonable.” ***** Way back these villages are just what they were in peace, tidy and comfortable. Suddenly you notice that they and the landscape have altered. Trees no longer shade the road. No trees are to be seen, only their stumps or blackened skeletons.

There are no more cultivated fields. The soil is rank and sour. Weeds and grasses cover it. It is all holes and mounds. Tangles of barbed wire, ploughs or reapers twisted . pitifully into useless shapes of iron, wheels sticking out of rubbish heaps, make desolation eloquent.

In place of tidy, comfortable villages are piles of brick or broken stone, part of a wall here, there a fragment of a church, ruin savage and complete. Passing through such a scene yesterday I saw on a board the name of a village I once knew. With a shock 1 said to myself: “ Why, this was that village.” “ Was ” is the right word.

Our Army sign-posts are abundant and plain. Every place is labelled in large letters. Notice-Wards are numerous. Well back from the line we are warned of the “ Precautionary Gas Zone.” Nearer the announcements read “ Albert Zone.” Then, nearer still, “ East of this board respirators must be worn in the ‘ ready ’ position.” At a certain distance from the line warning is also given that steel helmets must be put on.

As evening draws in the road to the front becomes more lively. You see men with mess tins fetching their evening meal. You see men strolling after their day’s work, as fit as fresh air and good food and regular, healthful occupation can make them ; and cheerful because they are fit. In the hut settlements lights begin to twinkle. They radiate suggestions of well-earned, well-nourished repose.

Very different the impression that a ruined city like Arras makes upon me at nightfall. I think ot all the pleasant domesticity which reigned, especially at this hour, when men went home to dinner and children begged for one more game or story. So much quiet happiness destroyed! The jagged walls and shells of houses open to the gaze strike a note of' al most intolerable sadness.

Yet one soon forgets it, watching the Verey lights and trellis fireworks going up from "the German trenches, and skimming along swiftly to a fire and food A train holds us up at a level crossing, A North-Western engine drawing War Department trucks made in England! After that it seems natural to hear a boy in Saint Pol crying “ Dylee Myeel.” For you must by this time have discovered the road to the front’s chief characteristic. It is far more Engl’sh than Freucli