In
it all, the watching, the waiting, and the warring, is the mystery,
the enchantment, and the glamour of romance; and romance is dear to
the heart of the young soldier.
I have looked towards the horizon when the sky was red-rimmed with (p. 302)
the lingering sunset of midsummer and seen the artillery rip the
heavens with spears of flame, seen the star-shells burst into fire and
drop showers of slittering sparks to earth, seen the pale mists of
evening rise over black, mysterious villages, woods, houses,
gun-emplacements, and flat meadows, blue in the evening haze.
Aeroplanes flew in the air, little brown specks, heeling at times and
catching the sheen of the setting sun, when they glimmered like flame.
Above, about, and beneath them were the white and dun wreathes of
smoke curling and streaming across the face of heaven, the smoke of
bursting explosives sent from earth to cripple the fliers in mid-air.
Gazing on the battle struggle with all its empty passion and deadly
hatred, I thought of the worshipper of old who looked on the face of
God, and, seeing His face, died. And the scene before me, like the
Countenance of the Creator, was not good for mortal eye.
He who has known and felt the romance of the long night marches can
never forget it. The departure from barn billets when the blue evening
sky fades into palest saffron, and the drowsy ringing of church (p. 303)
bells in the neighbouring village calling the worshippers to evensong;
the singing of the men who swing away, accoutred in the harness of
war; the lights of little white houses beaming into the darkness; the
stars stealing silently out in the hazy bowl of the sky; the trees by
the roadside standing stiff and stark in the twilight as if listening
and waiting for something to take place; the soft, warm night, half
moonlight and half mist, settling over mining villages with their
chimneys, railways, signal lights, slag-heaps, rattling engines and
dusty trucks.
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