LIGHTER SIDE OF THE WAR

SOCIAL LIFE AT THE FRONT

FROM PHILIP GIBBS. WAR CORRESPONDENTS’ HEADQUARTERS, FRANCE, WEDNESDAY. There is a queer kind of peace along the lines, some weeks of waiting until the wet earth dries, and in the beauty of the first days of spring when the infernal fires blaze up again, it is a good time to give a picture or two of the social life of our soldiers. The fighting men, thank Heaven, are not always fighting, and from the coast to the lines even during great battles there are thousands of soldiers, infantry, engineers, cavalry, tank units billeted in French and Flemish villages and making the best of life within narrow limits. Not much is written about that side of war, because it has not the drama of blood in it, yet it has its romance and its historical interest, because it is the way of life for a short time or a long time of great numbers of our men in exile. The war is long, so long that it is no more to be taken as an episode, but as life itself, so that officers and men take what they can get out of it, put as much as they can into it, and adapt themselves to its social opportunities. These are not many, because for the most part they are restricted to the billeting area of the unit, with the local estaminet, the EFC canteen or Church Army hut, the Divisional “Follies” and cinema show, and the company messes, but there are ways of escape from one area to another for a change of scene and a change of company, a meal in a good restaurant, and a glimpse into shop windows of the nearest French town. One of these ways is by a system of lifts. An officer steps into the roadway and hails the next car or the next lorry to pass him. With the best of luck he will get a ride to the very place of his heart’s desire. It is on the way back that the price has to be paid for a good adventure, for the lorries have gone to bed and the cars are not so many on the roads, and many a young officer has to tramp a weary way after a good dinner and a yarn with a good pal. But it’s worth it – every time. There are great nights in the officers’ messes, and very merry and bright if you happen to strike the right one. I struck the right one the other night, as many times before. There was a WAAC who served at table, with golden hair and an amused smile and a demure air of self-effacement, and that gave a sense of romance to the scene, because after all it is not to be expected in time of war. There were also three French interpreters who were musicians, and they took turns to play very modern music with a master touch, regardless of the tumult behind their chairs, when two officers danced in a primitive Oriental way, with a pas seul from another in the style of Pavlova, while four others fought ferociously at ping-pong, which has come into its own again as a war-game for heroic men. They were heroes all right, though they played the giddy goat like kids. The Pavlova young man – a major of tender years – won his MC not long ago in Flanders, where I met him up by the Damstrasse when he was not dancing to the “Spring Song.” Another major, not so young, who told Irish stories with a delicious brogue, led the HAC into Gavrelle, when the enemy made eight counter-attacks, and some of the tales he told me in a low voice over the dinner table would have made the little WAAC turn pale if she had heard them when she handed around the cheese.