TWO LEAVE TAKINGS.

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 9, 14 May 1920, Page 15

TWO LEAVE TAKINGS.

(By "B.H.")

HAIL AND FAREWELL. TWO HOURS— TWO WOMEN.

(Published by permission of Ihe Christchurch "Sun"). (Copyright.) We trooped through the narrow gateway into tiie dingy vastness of Eustoji station, an unassorted mob — Tommies, Canadians, Jocks, Aussies, New Zealanders — keeping some rsort of order by virtue of military habit, and cohering into distinctive groups, national or regimental, impelled by that elemental clannishness which, even in these piping times of intemationalism, suspects the en,emy in the stranger. We were leave men returning to France, with our realisation of what wo were returning to make all the more vivid by contrast with the few gwift, spendthrift days of our leave, and were ruorose and silent, and cursed the packs and riSes whose weight we had for a while so gladly forgotten. The great arc-lights still burned pallidiy in the dirty glass dome of the echoing station, for it was early morning, bleak and chill with the fog that enveloped the streets. The regular bustle of the day had not begun, and the traffic of the night had ceased ; trains with glaring headlights and lighted carriage windows stood by the platforms, and a few station officiais hurried about. Towards the iron gates of the platform by which the soldiers' train waited there drixted a f.ew women, London women, for the most part shabbily reI'qoectable, drab and. ainxious-looking — women who liad come to see the last of hushand or son as they r.eturned to that Golgotha called "The Front." TIIE PRETTY LADY. The long frle of soldiers shuffled gradually through the gates, and was ushered towards the carriages by "red caps," after the manner of drovers when they manoeuvre sheep into the cattle trucks, and as we moved up in our turn we saw her standing near the gates, a vivid note, defmite and apart from the greyness surrounding her. Whatever motive had brought her to Euston station in the chill of morning, there she was— a piquant figure on which, after their manner, the group of Aussies, and New Zealanders looked with unabashed interes. Not that she was abashed either — she was so conscious of her interest as she stood there, obviously well-dressed — too obviousIy — in her fawn costume, with cream stockings jnst revealed between the short, full skirt and the suede tops of high cut boots in the , extrerae of the pr.evailing fashion. The heavy grey fur stole about her neck and the big muff looked expensive, but in harmony, if it had not been for the jaunty velvet cap of crimson and black which sat rakishly on her fluffy brown hair, and by its clamant discord, made insignificant tbe correct suavity of her trappings, and called attention to a face too lavishly powdered, to lips too vividly rouged. But she was not conscious of any discord as she stood there, pert as any London sparrow, her full lips parted above white teeth in a generous smile, now and cgain waving impartial farewells with a hand from which depended a dorothy bag of purple leather. GOOD-BYE-EE. Her smile seemed to take on a more gleaming friendliness as she caught sight of the bunch of Australians and New Zealanders. "Cheerio! New Zealand — Good-bye-ee, Aussie ! Good luck!" she cried in a high, hard Cockney voice, and there were answering "cheerios" and handwaves from the file. As he passed her an Australian bov said in a caressing drawl : Gherrio! little sister ; good hunting— and good luck to you." He did not know her, and yet there was a note oi humorous tenderness in his voice. . . . perhaps in his heart he was saying good-bve to another woman— to all women? And was it that she felt an unintended irony in those last words, or that some real emotion reached her, some realisation of why men died, for, of a sudden, the smile facled and her face became grave. It seemed that her gaiety wilted — and as we passed through the gate she was still standing at gaze after us. SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE. Tbe little village of Alquinnes was ctreary and desolate under the bleak rain of the late autumn, fast merging into winter, when we came there, towards tbe end of October, to rest after the misery of

Passchendaele. But it was rest, even though wo crawled from the comfortable straw of our billets in the dark of frozen mornings to breakfast on stew, and to preparo ourselves for parado. Even though we drilled' all day (save when the rain was heavy) in drenched fields, amidst the muddy stubble, yet it was rest, for we were far away from the line and amongst friendly people, though they did not speak our bmguage. Except for the very old- and the very young all the men were away at the war, and so many would ncver return. Some of the farm buildings were already in ruins, all were falling into disrepair. I Tlie untended roads were trampled into black slush with the marching to and fro of the troops ; the dripping liedges straggled untrimmed, and the denuded poplars sent fluttering their last yellowing leaves to add to the sense of unkempt decreptitude which seemed to enshroud the place. LA PETITE CLAIRE. Yet we were content enough, and made the best of things. We slept, some of us, amongst the straw of a fairly waterproof barn, and in the evenipgs there were a few who would visit little Claire and her marrtan in their bare two-roomed cottage which stood in front of our billet. There we would crowd about the tiriy stove in the stone-ilagged kitchen, and huy the black coffee of Claire's maman, while those who knew a little French would strive to learn more, and would endeavour to teach Claire the English — until she learned to say, "'Ello, Diggaire, 'ow are you?" quite recognisably. Claire was sixteen, she said, bixt with her thin, undeveloped figure and her pinched little face, she did not look it. Her one beauty lay in her grey eyes, which could be mischievous at times, but were most-ly wistful. La petite pauvre, she had a club foot, and walked with the aid of a stick. Yet she worked in the fields with her mother — for they were very poor — and ofien as we marched by the crucifix at the cross-roads, on our way to drill, we would sce Claire amongst the other women, | stooping at her labour in the frost-bound earth. And when our day was finished we would pass her again as she worked by her mother, standing in the cold wind, topping and scraping the heet which was to be stored as winter food for the cattle. Whether she reccgnised anyone or not Claire had one greeting for all New Zealand soldiers — she would straighten herself and wave, and cry, " 'Ello, Diggaire." THE INEVITABLE DAY. Tlie few who made maman's kitchen their meeting-place did their best to spoil Claire. They bought her gifts of chocolates and sweets, even sardines, from the canteen; they played with her, and, with some sort of half-shy chivalry, they would make laughing prctence of love to her. Perhaps Claire felt the pity behind it- all — who knows? but she would also laugh. Maybe even she had her small "dot" set aside against the day when she would marry, and perhaps she, too, had her trousseau and store of household linen, as all French girls have. But at last there came tha inevitable day which no one longed for. We had been paraded and told to hold ourselves in r,eadiness to mar-cli out the following morning, and as we dismissed and marched by the. gannt fields in which women and old men still laboured, past the crucifix at the crossroads, we knew regret. For all its dreary dilapidation, its wintry lenness in our hearts as we packed our us for a while, and, whatever the morrow might bring forth, we would not pass that way again. We knew we were going back to the Ypres sector, and there was only sulleimes in our hearts as we packed our kits in the morninig, and rolled our blankets about our packs, carefully adjusting the straps of onr equipment to the weight. We tidied our billets, burned refuse, paraded to the cooker and received our breakfast of porridge, bacon and tea ; we washed our mess-tins and strapped them to our packs, and then, everything in readiness, we made our adieux to Claire and maman. Maman was volnble in regret. "Ah! Ah ! La guerre," she said, "Quel malheur ! quel grand malheur." She brushed her ample face with her sleeve and continued to lament the 'great misfortune of - our departure, but Claire, as we each took her rough, red hand, and said only "Bon chance, m'sieu, bon voyage et bon chance." ADIEU, ET BON CHANCE. On the roadway outside our billets we fell in and hoisted the heavy packs to onr shoulders, and as the other conrpanies tramped steadily past, platoon after platoon, heads forward, packs high, and rifles slung, ascending the long incline of

the hill, we stood at ease. 'Ihe low clouds began to drift down a fine drizzle of rain as we watched the foremost company turn tlie bend on the hillside and march out of sight. "Form — FOURS! Right! Quick — MARCH!" and we took up our place in the long column of the battalion. Claire stood, leaning upon her stick, by the tumbLe-down entrance to the yard, a pathetic little figure in her coarse aress, her grey woollen stockings, and clumsy boots, her pale hair knotted tightly back. On that grey day she seemed to epitomise all the tragedy of the women who both toil and weep. Yet, perhaps she was not unhappy, for to such poor folk the hardness of life is accepted as being in the nature of things, they having no other experience for compassion. But she was sorry. We waved to her, and shouted "Au 'voiri" but she shook her head : "Ah, non ! Adieu, messieurs, adieu, et bon chance. . . bon chance." And so, with eyes intent and wistful, she watched the great adventure march out of her life.