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Page 31
You see the khaki in the French streets, the mingling
everywhere of French and English; but the ordinary visitor
can form no idea of the magnitude of this friendly invasion.
There is no formal delimitation of areas or spaces, in
docks, or town, or railways. But gradually the observer will
realise that the town is honeycombed with the temporary
locations of the British Army, which everywhere speckle the
map hanging in the office of the Garrison Quartermaster. And
let him further visit the place where the long lines of
reinforcement, training and hospital camps are installed on
open ground, and old England's mighty effort will scarcely
hide itself from the least intelligent. _Work, efficiency,
economy_ must be the watchwords of a base. Its functions may
not be magnificent--_but they are war_--and war is
impossible unless they are rightly carried out.
When we came back from the Loire in September, after our
temporary retreat, the British _personnel_ at this place
grew from 1,100 to 11,000 in a week. Now there are thousands
of troops always passing through, thousands of men in
hospital, thousands at work in the docks and storehouses.
And let any one who cares for horses go and look at the
Remount Depot and the Veterinary Hospitals. The whole
treatment of horses in this war has been revolutionised.
Look at the cheap, ingenious stables, the comfort produced
by the simplest means, the kind quiet handling; look at the
Convalescent Horse Depots, the operating theatres, and the
pharmacy stores in the Veterinary Hospitals.
As to the troops themselves, every Regiment has its own
lines, for its own reinforcements. Good food, clean cooking,
civilised dining-rooms, excellent sanitation--the base
provides them all. It provides, too, whatever else Tommy
Atkins wants, and _close at hand_; wet and dry canteens,
libraries, recreation huts, tea and coffee huts, palatial
cinemas, concerts. And what are the results? Excellent
behaviour; excellent relations between the British soldier
and the French inhabitants; absence of all serious crime.
Then look at the docks. You will see there armies of
labourers, and long lines of ships discharging horses,
timber, rations, fodder, coal, coke, petrol. Or at the
stores and depots. It would take you days to get any idea of
the huge quantities of stores, or of the new and ingenious
means of space economy and quick distribution. As to the
Works Department--camps and depots are put up "while you
wait" by the R.E. officers and unskilled military labour.
Add to all this the armies of clerks, despatch riders, and
motor-cyclists--and the immense hospital _personnel_--then,
if you make any intelligible picture of it in your mind, you
will have some idea of what bases like these mean.
Pondering these notes, it seemed to me that the only way to get some kind
of "intelligible picture" in two short days was to examine something in
detail, and the rest in general! Accordingly, we spent a long Sunday
morning in the Motor Transport Depot, which is the creation of Colonel B.,
and perhaps as good an example as one could find anywhere in France of the
organising talent of the able British officer.
The depot opened in a theatre on the 13th of August, 1914. "It began,"
says Colonel B., "with a few balls of string and a bag of nails!" Its
staff then consisted of 6 officers and 91 N.C.O.'s and men--its permanent
staff at present is about 500. All the drivers of some 20,000 motor
vehicles--nearly 40,000 men--are tested here and, if necessary, instructed
before going up to the fighting lines; and the depot deals with 350
different types of vehicles. In round figures 100,000 separate parts are
now dealt with, stored, and arranged in the depot. The system of records
and accounts is extraordinarily perfect, and so ingenious that it seems to
work itself.
Meanwhile Colonel B.'s relations with his army of chauffeurs, of whom
about 1,000 are always housed on the premises, are exceedingly human and
friendly in spite of the strictness of the army discipline. Most of his
men who are not married, the Colonel tells me, have found a "friend," in
the town, one or other of its trimly dressed girls, with whom the English
mechanic "walks out," on Sundays and holidays. There are many engagements,
and, as I gather, no misconduct. Marriage is generally postponed till
after the war, owing to the legal and other difficulties involved. But
marriage there will be when peace comes. As to how the Englishman and the
French girl communicate, there are amusing speculations, but little exact
knowledge. There can be small doubt, however, that a number of hybrid
words perfectly understood by both sides are gradually coming into use,
and if the war lasts much longer, a rough Esperanto will have grown up
which may leave its mark on both languages. The word "narpoo" is a case in
point. It is said to be originally a corruption of "_il n'y a plus_"--the
phrase which so often meets the Tommy foraging for eggs or milk or fruit.
At present it means anything from "done up" to "dead." Here is an instance
of it, told me by a chaplain at the front. He was billeted in a farm with
a number of men, and a sergeant. All the men, from the chaplain to the
youngest private, felt a keen sympathy and admiration for the women of the
farm, who were both working the land and looking after their billetees,
with wonderful pluck and energy. One evening the chaplain arriving at the
open door of the farm, saw in the kitchen beyond it the daughter of the
house, who had just come in from farm work. She was looking at a pile of
dirty plates and dishes which had to be washed before supper, and she gave
a sigh of fatigue. Suddenly in the back door on the other side of the
kitchen appeared the sergeant. He looked at the girl, then at the dishes,
then again at the girl. "Fattigay?" he said cheerfully, going up to her.
"Narpoo? Give 'em me. Compree?" And before she could say a word he had
driven her away, and plunged into the work.
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