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Then just for a moment the veil was lifted and Lord Kitchener allowed the British people to know that their soldiers had landed on the other side.  Even then we who knew more than that were not allowed to mention the places to which they had gone.  Never mind.  They were here.  We heard quite suddenly the familiar accents of English Tommies in provincial towns of France, and came unexpectedly upon khalfi-clad battalions marching and singing along the country roads.  For the first time there rang out in France the foolish ballad which has become by a queer freak the war song of the British Army:  “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” learnt with comical accent by French peasants and French girls, who, in those early days, in the first fine thrill of enthusiasm, sang it emotionally as though it were a hymn, holding all their love for England, all their hope of England’s help, all their admiration of these clean-shaven boys going to war in France in a sporting spirit as though it were a great game.  I went back to Paris for a day when General French arrived, and even now in remembrance I hear those shouts of “Vive l’Angleterre!” which followed the motor-car in which our General made his triumphant progress.  The shopgirls of Paris threw flowers from the windows as the car passed.  Dense crowds of citizens thronged the narrow street of the Faubourg St. Honore, and waited patiently for hours outside the Embassy to catch one glimpse of the strong, stern, thoughtful face of the man who had come with his legions to assist France in the great hour of need.  They talked to each other about the inflexibility of his character, about the massive jaw which, they said, would bite off Germany’s head.  They cheered in the English manner, with a “Heep! heep! hooray!”—­when they caught sight for the first time of the khaki uniforms of English officers on the steps of the Ministry of War.  The arrival of English troops here was red wine to the hearts of the French people.  It seemed to them the great guarantee of victory.  “With England marching side by side with us,” they said, “we shall soon be in Berlin!”

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A train-load of Royal Engineers came into one of the stations where I happened to be waiting (my memory of those days is filled with weary hours on station platforms).  It was the first time I was able to talk to British Tommies in France, and to shake their hands, and to shout out “Good luck!” to them.  It was curious how strong my emotion was at seeing those laughing fellows and hearing the cockney accent of their tongues.  They looked so fine and clean.  Some of them were making their toilet in the cattle trucks brushing their hair as though for, a picnic party, shaving before little mirrors tacked up on the planks.  Others, crowding at the open doorways of the trucks, shouted with laughter at the French soldiers and peasants, who grabbed at their hands and jabbered enthusiastic words of welcome.

“Funny lingo, Bill!” said one of the men.  “Can’t make out a bit of it.  But they mean well, I guess!”