I
The Somme Front,
January 1915.
There is an avenue of noble beeches leading to the Château, and in the shadow of each glimmers the pale oblong of an ambulance. We have to keep them thus concealed, for only yesterday morning a Taube flew over. The beggars are rather partial to Red Cross cars. One of our chaps, taking in a load of wounded, was chased and pelted the other day.
The Château seems all spires and towers, the glorified dream of a Parisian pastrycook. On its terrace figures in khaki are lounging. They are the volunteers, the owner-drivers of the Corps, many of them men of wealth and title. Curious to see one who owns all the coal in two counties proudly signing for his sou a day; or another, who lives in a Fifth Avenue palace, contentedly sleeping on the straw-strewn floor of a hovel.
Here is a rhyme I have made of such an one:
PRISCILLA
Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,
Driving a red-meat bus out there–
How did he win his Croix de Guerre?
Bless you, that’s all old stuff:
Beast of a night on the Verdun road,
Jerry stuck with a woeful load,
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