Here in a flat field, well beyond the
danger zone, some of the new British Army was digging practice
trenches in the mud. Their tidy uniforms were caked with dirt, their
faces earnest and flushed. At last the long training at Salisbury
Plain was over, and here they were, if not at the front, within
hearing distance of the guns. Any day now a bit of luck would move
them forward, and there would be something doing.
By now, no doubt, they have been moved up and there has been something
doing. Poor lads! I watched them until even their khaki-coloured tents
had faded into the haze. The tall, blonde, young officer, Lieutenant
Puaux, pointed out to me a detachment of Belgian soldiers mending
roads. As our car passed they leaned on their spades and looked after
us.
"Belgian carabineers," he said. "They did some of the most heroic work
of the war last summer and autumn. They were decorated by the King.
Now they are worn out and they mend roads!"
For--and this I had to learn--a man may not fight always, even
although he escapes actual injury. It is the greatest problem of
commanding generals that they must be always moving forward fresh
troops. The human element counts for much in any army. Nerves go after
a time. The constant noise of the guns has sent men mad.
More than ever, in this new warfare, is the problem serious.
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