- from ‘the Sphere’ May 29, 1915
- 'Behind the British Trenches
- in ‘Plug-Street Wood'
- a Personal Narrative by F. Matania, Special Artist of the ‘Sphere’ at Ypres, April 1915
An Artist Visits the Front Lines
ONLY when we had reached the second line of the trenches could we straighten our backs with a sigh of relief. For the moment we were safe. A long line of sand bags a little higher than a man provided sufficient defence. I left my companions, who were stretching themselves after the tiring march, during which we had been bent nearly double, with noses almost touching the ground from fear that a well-aimed bullet might give us a longer rest than we needed.
The wood, which occupied a large extent of flat ground, was covered with a thick vegetation of high slender trees; not a single spot of green anywhere broke the prevailing monotony of silver grey. Shortly before our visit the ground must have been a mass of mud; to-day it was almost dry. Mixed in the hardening mass were the branches which fell from the trees owing to the constant action of the German bullets. They fly through the branches or they disappear into the trunk of a tree which has interrupted their whistling flight with a sharp little blow. Many of the trees are split by shells, which must have fallen on them like rain. At a height of above six feet all the trees are riddled by bullets. This wood being the nearest shelter behind the trenches has given the soldiers the opportunity of improvising very clever constructions with material found on the spot. They have made roads to avoid the mud ; these are constructed of wood in the fashion of very long bridges.
'Regent Street' as depicted by F. Matania for 'the Sphere'
"Piccadilly" and " Regent Street"
Miles of these roads wind and twist in all directions, and they were very precious during the time when the mud nearly paralysed all war movements. Each road has its own name, the principal one, which ran straight through the wood and reached the communication trenches, being christened "Regent Street" ; "Piccadilly" and "Fleet Street" ran in other directions. At nearly all the corners notices have been engraved on wooden boards and fixed on to the trees by the cheerful Tommies. Several are stuck in the mud, and I remember one where the hardened mud had still the shape of sea- waves. The notice was, " Keep off the grass." An officer who was acting as guide informed me that another soldier, in order to justify the existence of the notice, had carefully brought a tuft of grass and planted it just at the foot of the board. Then I saw it for myself ; it was not bigger than a water-colour brush.
A little further on there was one of the many graves which make the wood an international burial ground. It was the grave of a German officer. I stood admiring the way in which it was kept; it was decorated with brightly-growing plants, neatly arranged by British soldiers. There was also a newly-made cross carefully finished by a Tommy — a countryman, clever with his hands, who occupies his leisure time by constructing these little monuments which reveal a world of sentiment. Nothing had been found, except two initials, to identify this fallen officer, but these initials were engraved on the cross.
The Broken Mirror
Here and there shelters have been constructed, fortified on three sides by sand bags. They are the soldiers' improvised club house, and they were there intent on many different occupations. Several were making tea, others were sleeping peacefully on straw ; some were writing letters, licking the point of the pencil at every phrase. Near one of the dug-outs there was a man kneeling down and shaving himself in front of a little triangular mirror, whispering something like a prayer. When I drew near him I became aware that he was swearing calmly and quietly for his exclusive satisfaction. I questioned him, and he told me that a bullet had smashed his mirror and he was compelled to shave in much discomfort. "Look at it! Isn't it a shame ? That was once a fair-sized mirror, over 6 in., and look at it now.”
I asked him, "Why do you expose your mirror to rifle firing ?" and he, jumping to his feet, replied :—
"Expose it? I didn't expose it at all; it was where you see it now; a nasty sniper who is behind those trees made the mess."
"Is he still there ? " I asked.
"Yes ; he will not be there for long, but he is still there."
Here the affair began to more than interest me, and after careful inquiries as to the exact spot whence these underhand bullets came, and affecting a certain indifference, I moved to the other side of the dug-out, inviting my companion to do the same. In that manner we should have been under more effective cover. He took no notice, and continued scratching his skin, smiling at me with a sidelong glance. After a pause he told me that it was useless for me to have changed my place as there was another sniper located in the opposite direction. He had been quite a nuisance for many days, and he had not been spotted. I understood it was waste of time to find a shelter when the sniper was there unseen. He generally chooses a place from which he can dominate the trench by enfilade fire. Then he proceeds to shoot at standing soldiers, even if he has a chance of hitting others sitting or lying down. He aims at the one standing up so that the responsibility of the shot is attributed to the trench in front and not to him. He determines on his hiding place, and goes there at night, taking enough food and ammunition with him to last perhaps for some weeks. He nearly always acts alone, and leisurely picks off his victims. Suddenly the soldier is hit in his shelter and falls to the ground. His comrades, surprised and angry, look round to discover the origin of this successful shot; for a moment it may be the eyes of the two unconsciously meet.
"Chateau du Marquis d'Atklns"
Crossing the wood, another novelty strikes me; a little museum of war relics, arranged on a flat mound of earth, forming a sort of counter on which are exhibited fragments of shell, bayonets, and many other little things which belong to the fallen. I particularly remember a post card on which a soldier's sweetheart was photographed in the attitude of writing to him, and in a corner of the same post card there was a portrait of the soldier smiling. Poor boy! I wonder if she knows.
There were an infinite number of badges torn from caps, and each one bore a label, written sometimes with a quaint humour and on others in simple and touching terms. This little museum also had its border of flowering plants.
At other places in front of the dug-outs there are little gardens, not more than a yard square, which are tended with loving care by the soldiers, who do not hesitate to christen them with pompous names, such as "Primrose Hill," "Kew Gardens," and so forth. The dug-outs also boast pretentious names. One is known as the "Chateau du Marquis d'Atkins." I could have noted down many jeux d'esprit if time had permitted, but we were obliged to proceed.
To the left of us I passed by "Spy Corner." Goodness knows what it means. To the right was "Dead Horse Corner." It is by these labyrinths of wooden roads that the troops come from and go to the trenches, carrying with them all the impedimenta which means life to them and death to the enemy. Continuous rifle firing was going on during my visit, and it was impossible to distinguish British from German. However, by now I too was quite used to it, and I crossed the last part of the wood without more than a poetic interest in the flight of the whistling bullets.
In spite of the spring, the wood still remained bare. The birds sing here no more ; they have fled from a place which affords them no refuge. Instead, the bullets sing through the splintered branches.
