It was impossible to doubt that they meant well, these soldiers of France greeting their comrades of England.  One man behaved like a buffoon, or as though he had lost his wits.  Grasping the hand of a young engineer he danced round him, shouting “Camarade! camarade!” in a joyous sing-song which was ridiculous, and yet touching in its simplicity and faith.  It was no wonder, I thought, that the French people believed in victory now that the British had come.  A Jingo pride took possession of me.  These Tommies of ours were the finest soldiers in the world!  They went to war with glad hearts.  They didn’t care a damn for old Von Kluck and all his hordes.  They would fight like heroes, these clean-limbed chaps, who looked upon war as a great game.  Further along the train my two friends, the Philosopher and the Strategist, were in deep conversation with different groups.  I heard gusts of laughter from the truck-load of men looking down on the Philosopher.  He had discovered a man from Wapping, I think, and was talking in the accent of Stratford-atte-Bow to boys from that familiar district of his youth.  The Strategist had met the engineers in many camps in England.  They were surprised at his knowledge of their business.  And what were we doing out here?  Newspaper correspondents?  Ah, there would be things to write about!  When the train passed out, with waving hands from every carriage, with laughing faces caught already by the sun of France, with farewell shouts of “Good luck, boys!” and “Bonne chance, camarades!” three Englishmen turned away silently and could not speak for a minute or two.  Why did the Philosopher blink his eyes in such a funny way, as though they smarted at specks of dust?  And why did the Strategist look so grave all of a sudden, as he stood staring after the train, with his cap in his hand, so that the sunlight gleamed on his silver-grey hair?

15

So the British Army had come to France, and a strange chapter was being written in the history of the world, contrasting amazingly with former chronicles.  English battalions bivouacked by old French houses which had looked down upon scenes of revolution in 1789, and in the shadow of its churches which rang for French victories or tolled for French defeats when Napoleon’s generals were fighting English regiments exactly one hundred years ago.  In seaport villages and towns which smell of tar and nets and absinthe and stale wine I saw horses stabled in every inn-yard; streets were littered with straw, and English soldiers sauntered about within certain strict boundaries, studying picture postcards and giving the “glad eye” to any little French girl who peeped at them through barred windows.  Only officers of high rank knew where they were bound.  The men, devoid of all curiosity, were satisfied with the general knowledge that they were “on the continong,” and well on the way to “have a smack at the Germans.”  There was the rattle and rumble of English guns down country highways.  Long lines