It is this caprice of shell-fire that makes such a veritable hell of it.
Trenches with sides blown in; here a hole like a good-sized cellar; there a traverse filled to the level of the ground around it; a gap in the defence wall in front; iron-work twisted into grotesque shapes; stone-work pulverised; débris in piles; with clothing, bedding, household implements, farm machinery and gear, child's toys, religious emblems, personal effects, and bundles of every description, all jumbled together in such an odd, unnatural way, that a laugh and a catch in the throat often came together.
Vermelles on that sodden day in January was full of French soldiers in reserve—men of the 131st and 262nd Infantry Brigades, some from 16th and some from 18th Corps units. The firing line proper was from three to four kilometres to the eastward. On the west side of the town a French battery was firing regularly, the shells singing over our heads. The German shells were falling frequently half a mile in front of us.
It was my good fortune to discover a French soldier who had seen the actual final bayonet attack which won the position. His story was graphic, but told in few words. The creeping up to the forward French trenches, the fierce bombardment, the wild charge, the discovery that in spite of the fact that the place had been literally blown to bits, and German dead strewn everywhere, some defenders still held on and manned the murderous machine-guns, until they felt the cold steel—it all seemed so matter-of-fact, and such a matter-of-course sort of story in such surroundings.
In each of the yards of the better-class dwellings and farms, including the grounds of the château and brewery, were graves of German soldiers. Many of these were marked with rude crosses bearing touching inscriptions. One such epitaph that caught my eye described the dead soldier as a good comrade; another as a brave man who had died for the Fatherland. Many of them bore a simple religious touch. One grave covered a German officer, buried by the French after the capture of the town. The French soldiers had marked his name and a respectful word or two on the rude cross above it, in obvious keeping with the inscriptions the Germans had written on adjacent crosses raised while they were in occupation.
In an effort to tell me how full the redoubts were of German dead, when Vermelles was at last taken, my soldier guide found that words failed him. They were everywhere, he said.
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Many of the graves, particularly those of the French soldiers buried thereabouts, were headed by black or white metal wreaths.
"It cost dear," said my soldier, "and we paid. But a Boche who lived through the last few days of the fighting here, and escaped from that last charge, will be able to tell a story."
The deep cellar of a ruined house—a mere brick arched cell of a place without a ray of daylight—had been quite habitably fitted up as a cave-dwelling by the Germans, who had saved a piano from one of the wrecked rooms above and cosily stowed it away in a corner.
One or two underground caves just back of the German front line of trenches, bomb-proofs for the officers apparently, were ingeniously secure.
Though Vermelles at the time of our visit had been in French hands for more than a month, one could find many such souvenirs as shell-heads and timing-fuses without troubling to stir the piles of wreckage.
I could, I thought, sit in Vermelles and write reams of detail in description of the terrible havoc of war, but I found that mere generality as to the scenes of desolation wrought in the town soon used up my vocabulary. The place was no less a graveyard of brave men than of strenuous human effort, none the less to be admired because it proved abortive. Over all brooded the horror of war and the more specific and tangible horror of gun-fire. "Low trajectory and high explosive are twin demons, and this is their devil's work," the shattered town seemed to say.
Knots of French soldiers or visiting British officers walked about sombrely and spoke in low tones, as if in the actual presence of the dead, in spite of the weeks that had flown by since Vermelles had echoed to the crash of a bursting shell.
The French soldiers were a tough-looking lot of customers. A bit nondescript as to uniform, and universally campaign worn, unshaven, and mud-plastered, they looked stout and fit for anything. A friendly class of men, respectful to British officers to a degree, a fact that spoke not only of good discipline, but of fine French traditions of politeness. They impressed me as splendid war material, and more, as men of fine character and indomitable determination.
Sport behind the lines began to assume quite a healthy state in January. Packs of beagles and hounds and pairs of greyhounds were brought "out" by enthusiasts, and cross-country courses with rare jumps were carefully mapped out.
Alas! for "Le Sport." An order came along one day from G.H.Q. which stated that "the Commander-in-Chief regrets that it is necessary to prohibit any more hunting, coursing, shooting, or paper-chasing. This order comes into effect at once."
The 2nd Cavalry Brigade drew up a splendid steeplechase programme, which the state of the ground would not have allowed, had no order from G.H.Q. been promulgated.
A card of "beagle-meets" was issued, and formed the following somewhat pretentious propaganda:—
"THE 2ND CAVALRY BRIGADE BEAGLES
WILL MEET—
| Sunday | Jan. | 3rd, | C Squadron 4th Dragoon Guards. |
| Tuesday | Jan. | 5th, | St-Jans-Cappel, Berthen, Cross Roads. |
| Thursday | Jan. | 7th, | Headquarters 9th Lancers. |
| Saturday | Jan. | 9th, | Berthen. |
| Monday | Jan. | 11th, | H Battery. |
| Wednesday | Jan. | 13th, | Headquarters 18th Hussars. |
| Friday | Jan. | 15th, | St-Jans-Cappel Church. |
| Sunday | Jan. | 17th, | Headquarters 4th Dragoon Guards. |
| Each day at One o'clock." | |||
The Prince of Wales ran more than once with that pack of beagles, and ran well.
Football matches were allowed, and were daily fought out between the various regimental teams.
General Robertson succeeded General Murray as Chief of the Staff at G.H.Q., a change generally welcomed, as Robertson