They walked in groups or singly. There were no women
with them. Their wives and sweethearts were far away. A Sunday in
Calais, indifferent food at a hotel, a saunter in the sunlight, and
then--Monday and war again, with the bright colours replaced by sombre
ones, with mud and evil odours and wretchedness.
They wandered about, smoking eternal cigarettes and watching the
harbour, where ships were coaling, and where, as my car waited, the
drawbridge opened to allow a great Norwegian merchantman to pass. The
blockade was only two days old, but already this Norwegian boat had
her name painted in letters ten feet high along each side of her hull,
flanked on both sides by the Norwegian flag, also painted. Her crew,
leaning over the side, surveyed the quay curiously. So this was
war--this petulant horse with its soldier rider, these gay uniforms!
It had been hoped that neutral shipping would, by thus indicating
clearly its nationality, escape the attacks of submarines. That very
ship was sunk three days later in the North Sea.
Convalescent soldiers limped about on crutches; babies were wheeled in
perambulators in the sun; a group of young aviators in black leather
costumes watched a French biplane flying low. English naval officers
from the coaling boats took shore leave and walked along with the free
English stride.
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