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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
made inquiry about my silver roses. A deputy-lieutenant may
not be much in England, but when translated into French –
my French anyhow – it has an awe-inspiring effect, and I was
looked upon by them as an inscrutable but very big person
with a uniform all of his own.
It was in May when I had my meeting with Lord Newton,
and towards the end of the month I received a pass which
would take me to the British lines. I remember the solicitude
of my family, who seemed to think that I was going on active
service. To quiet their kindly anxieties I said: “My dears, I shall
be held in the extreme rear, and I shall be lucky if ever I see
a shell burst on the far horizon.” The sequel showed that my
estimate was nearly as mistaken as theirs.
I had had some correspondence with General Robertson,
and had dedicated my History of the war to him, so much was
I impressed with the splendid work he had done behind the
line in the early days, when Cowans and he had as much strain
and anxiety from their position in the wings as any of those
who were in the limelight of the stage. He was, as it happened,
going over to France, and he sent me a note to ask whether
I would like to share his private compartment on the train
and then use his destroyer instead of the ordinary steamer.
Of course I was delighted. General Robertson is a sturdy, soldierly, compact man, with a bull-dog face, and looks as if he
might be obstinate and even sullen if crossed. Such men are
splendid if they keep their qualities for the enemy, but possibly dangerous if they use them on their associates. Certainly
Robertson had a great deal of fi ghting to do at home as well as
abroad, and was in the latter days of the war in constant con-
441
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
fl ict with the authorities, and with an open feud against the
Prime Minister, but it is hard to say who was right. Perhaps, if
it were not for the pressure which Robertson, Repington and
others exercised, it would have been more diffi cult to raise
those last few hundred thousand men who saved us in 1918.
Like so many big men, his appearance was most deceptive, and
though he looked every inch the soldier, there was nothing to
show that great capacity for handling a large business, which
would surely have put him at the head of any commercial concern in the country. There was a Cromwellian touch in him
which peeped out in occasional religious allusions. He was
very engrossed in papers and fi gures, and I hardly had a word
with him between London and Newhaven.
We went straight on to the destroyer and she cast off her
moorings within a few minutes. The Channel crossing was
a great experience for me, and I stood on the bridge all the
time looking about for traces of war – which were not numerous. Just under the bridge stood a sturdy seaman in pea jacket
and fl apped cap, an intent, crouching, formidable fi gure, with
his hand on the crank of a quick-fi ring gun. He never relaxed,
and for the whole hour, as we tore across, his head, and occasionally his gun, was slowly traversing from right to left. The
captain, a young lieutenant whose name I have forgotten, told
me what hellish work it was in the winter, though perhaps
“hellish” is not the mot juste for that bitterly cold vigil. His
ship was called the Zulu. Shortly afterwards it was blown up,
as was its consort theNubian, but as two of the halves were still
serviceable, they stuck them together and made one very good
ship, the Zubian. You can’t beat the British dockyard any more
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
than you can the British Navy which it mothers. That evening
we ran through some twenty miles of Northern France, and
wound up at the usual guest-house, where I met several travelling Russians. Colonel Wilson, a dark, quiet, affable man, who
had the thorny job of looking after the press, and Brig.-General
Charteris, a pleasant, breezy, fresh-complexioned soldier, head
of the British Intelligence Department, joined us at dinner. Everything was quite comfortable, but at the same time properly
plain and simple. There is nothing more hateful than luxury
behind a battle-line. Next day I had a wonderful twelve hours
in contact with the soldiers all the time, and I will take some
account of it from the notes I made at the time, but now I can
expand them and give names more freely.
The crowning impression which I carried away from that
wonderful day was the enormous imperturbable confi dence of
the Army and its extraordinary effi ciency in organization, administration, material, and personnel. I met in one day a sample of many types, an army commander, a corps commander,
two divisional commanders, staff offi cers of many grades, and,
above all, I met repeatedly the two very great men whom Britain has produced, the private soldier and the regimental offi cer. Everywhere and on every face one read the same spirit
of cheerful bravery. Even the half-mad cranks whose absurd
consciences prevented them from barring the way to the devil
seemed to me to be turning into men under the prevailing
infl uence. I saw a batch of them, neurotic and largely bespectacled, but working with a will by the roadside. There was
no foolish bravado, no underrating of a dour opponent, but
443
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
a quick, alert, confi dent attention to the job in hand which was
an inspiration to the observer.
“Get out of the car. Don’t let it stay here. It may be hit.”
These words from a staff offi cer gave you the fi rst idea that
things were going to happen. Up to then you might have been
driving through the black country in the Walsall district with
the population of Aldershot let loose upon its dingy roads.
“Put on this shrapnel helmet. That hat of yours would infuriate the Boche” – this was an unkind allusion to my uniform.
“Take this gas mask. You won’t need it, but it is a standing order. Now come on!”
We crossed a meadow and entered a trench. Here and there
it came to the surface again where there was dead ground. At
one such point an old church stood, with an unexploded shell
sticking out of the wall. A century hence folk may journey to
see that shell. Then on again through an endless cutting. It
was slippery clay below. I had no nails in my boots, an iron
pot on my head, and the sun above me. I remember that walk.
The telephone wires ran down the side. Here and there large
thistles and other plants grew from the clay walls, so immobile
had been our lines. Occasionally there were patches of untidiness. “Shells,” said the offi cer laconically. There was a racket
of guns before us and behind, especially behind, but danger
seemed remote with all these Bairnsfather groups of cheerful
Tommies at work around us. I passed one group of grimy, tattered boys. A glance at their shoulders showed me that they
were of a public-school battalion, the 20th Royal Fusiliers.
“I thought you fellows were all offi cers now,” I remarked. “No,
444
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
sir, we like it better so.” “Well, it will be a great memory for
you. We are all in your debt.”
They saluted, and we squeezed past them. They had the
fresh brown faces of boy cricketers. But their comrades were
men of a different type, with hard, strong, rugged features, and
the eyes of men who have seen strange sights. These were veterans, men of Mons, and their young pals of the public schools
had something to live up to.
Up to this we only had two clay walls to look at. But now
our interminable and tropical walk was lightened by the sight
of a British aeroplane sailing overhead. Numerous shrapnel
bursts were all around it, but she fl oated on serenely, a thing
of delicate beauty against the blue background. Now another
passed – and yet another. All the morning we saw them circling and swooping, and never a sign of a Boche. They told me it
was nearly always so – that we held the air, and that the Boche
intruder, save at early morning, was a rare bird. “We have never met a British aeroplane which was not ready to fi ght,” said
a captured German aviator. There was a fi ne, stern courtesy between the airmen on either side, each dropping notes into the
other’s aerodromes to tell the fate of missing offi cers. Had the
whole war been fought by the Germans as their airmen conducted it (I do not speak, of course, of the Zeppelin murderers),
a peace would eventually have been more easily arranged.
And now we were there – in what was surely the most
wonderful spot in the world – the front fi ring trench, the outer breakwater which held back the German tide. How strange
that this monstrous oscillation of giant forces, setting in from
east to west, should fi nd their equilibrium across this particu-
445
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
lar meadow of Flanders. “How far?” I asked. “One hundred and
eighty yards,” said my guide. “Pop!” remarked a third person
just in front. “A sniper,” said my guide; “take a look through
the periscope.” I did so. There was some rusty wire before me,
then a fi eld sloping slightly upwards with knee-deep grass, and
ragged dock and fennel and nettles, then rusty wire again, and
a red line of broken earth. There was not a sign of movement,
but sharp eyes were always watching us, even as these crouching soldiers around me were watching them. There were dead
Germans in the grass before us. You need not see them to
know that they were there. A wounded soldier sat in a corner
nursing his leg. Here and there men popped out like rabbits
from dug-outs and mine-shafts. Others sat on the fi re-step or
leaned smoking against the clay wall. Who would dream, who
looked at their bold, careless faces, that this was a front line,
and that at any moment it was possible that a grey wave might
submerge them? With all their careless bearing, I noticed that
every man had his gas mask and his rifl e within easy reach.
A mile of front trenches and then we were on our way
back down that weary walk. Then I was whisked off upon
a ten-mile drive. There was a pause for lunch at Corps Headquarters, and after it we were taken to a medal presentation in
the market square of Bethune. Generals Munro, Haking, and
Landon, famous fi ghting soldiers all three, were the British
representatives. Munro, with a ruddy face, all brain above, all
bulldog below; Haking, pale, distinguished, intellectual; Landon, a pleasant genial country squire. An elderly French General stood beside them. British infantry kept the ground. In
front were about fi fty Frenchmen in civil dress of every grade
446
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
of life, workmen and gentlemen, in a double rank. They were
all so wounded that they were back in civil life, but today they
were to have some solace for their wounds. They leaned heavily on sticks, their bodies twisted and maimed, but their faces
were shining with pride and joy. The French General drew his
sword and addressed them. One caught words like “honneur”
and “patrie.” They leaned forward on their crutches, hanging
on every syllable which came hissing and rasping from under
that heavy white moustache. Then the medals were pinned
on. One poor lad was terribly wounded and needed two sticks.
A little girl ran out with some fl owers. He leaned forward and
tried to kiss her, but the crutches slipped and he nearly fell
upon her. It was a pitiful but beautiful little scene.
Next the British candidates marched up one by one for
their medals, hale, hearty men, brown and fi t. There was
a smart young offi cer of Scottish Rifl es; and then a selection
of Worcesters, Welsh Fusiliers and Scots Fusiliers, with one
funny little Highlander, a tiny fi gure with a soup-bowl helmet, a grinning boy’s face beneath it, and a bedraggled uniform. “Many acts of great bravery” – such was the record for
which he was decorated. Even the French wounded smiled at
his quaint appearance, as they did at another Briton who had
acquired the chewing-gum habit, and came up for his medal
as if he had been called suddenly in the middle of his dinner,
which he was still endeavouring to bolt. Then came the end,
with the National Anthem. The British battalion formed fours
and went past. To me that was the most impressive sight of any.
They were the Queen’s West Surreys, a veteran battalion of
the great Ypres battle. What grand fellows! As the order came,
447
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
“Eyes right,” and all those fi erce, dark faces fl ashed round at
us I felt the might of the British infantry, the intense individuality which is not incompatible with the highest discipline.
Much they had endured, but a great spirit shone from their
faces. I confess that as I looked at those brave English lads, and
thought of what we owed to them and to their like who have
passed on, I felt more emotional than befi ts a Briton in foreign
parts. How many of them are left alive to-day!
Now the ceremony was ended, and once again we set out
for the front. It was to an artillery observation post just opposite the Loos Salient that we were bound. In an hour I found
myself, together with a razor-keen young artillery observer
and an excellent old sportsman of a Russian prince, jammed
into a very small space, and staring through a slit at the German lines. In front of us lay a vast plain, scarred and slashed,
with bare places at intervals, such as you see where gravel pits
break a green common. Not a sign of life or movement, save
some wheeling crows. And yet down there, within a mile or
so, was the population of a city. Far away a single train was
puffi ng at the back of the German lines. We were here on
a defi nite errand. Away to the right, nearly three miles off, was
a small red house, dim to the eye but clear in the glasses, suspected as a German post. It was to go up this afternoon. The
gun was some distance away, but I heard the telephone directions. “Mother’ will soon do her in,” remarked the gunner boy
cheerfully. “Mother” was the name of the gun. “Give her fi ve
six three four,” he cried through the ‘phone. “Mother” uttered
a horrible bellow from somewhere on our right. An enormous
spout of smoke rose ten seconds later from near the house.
448
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
“A little short,” said our gunner. “Two and a half minutes left,”
added a little small voice, which represented another observer
at a different angle. “Raise her seven fi ve,” said our boy encouragingly. “Mother” roared more angrily than ever. “How
will that do?” she seemed to say. “One and a half right,” said
our invisible gossip. I wondered how the folk in the house
were feeling as the shells crept ever nearer. “Gun laid, sir,” said
the telephone. “Fire!” I was looking through my glass. A fl ash
of fi re on the house, a huge pillar of dust and smoke – then
it settled, and an unbroken fi eld was there. The German post
had gone up. “It’s a dear little gun,” said the offi cer boy.
“And her shells are reliable,” remarked a senior behind
us. “They vary with different calibres, but ‘Mother’ never goes
wrong.” The German line was very quiet. “PourquoI ne repondent-ils pas?” asked the Russian prince. “Yes, they are quiet
to-day,” answered the senior. “But we get it in the neck sometimes.” We were all led off to be introduced to “Mother,” who
sat, squat and black, amid twenty of her grimy children who
waited upon her and fed her. A dainty eater was “Mother,” and
nothing served her but the best and plenty of it. But she was
an important and as the war progressed it became more and
more evident that in spite of that upstart family of quick-fi rers
it was really the only big, heavy, well-established gun which
could fl atten out a road to the Rhine.
I had the great joy that night of seeing my brother Innes,
who had been promoted to Colonel, and was acting as Assistant Adjutant-General of the 24th Division, the Head-quarters
of which were at Bailleul, where I dined at mess and occupied
a small lodging in the town, which was about six miles from
449
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
the front. One more experience wound up that wonderful day.
That night we took a car after dark and drove north, and ever
north, until at a late hour we halted and climbed a hill in the
darkness. Below was a wonderful sight. Down on the fl ats, in
a huge semicircle, lights were rising and falling. They were
very brilliant, going up for a few seconds and then dying down.
Sometimes a dozen were in the air at one time. There were the
dull thuds of explosions and an occasional rattat-tat. I have
seen nothing like it, but the nearest comparison would be an
enormous ten-mile railway station in full swing at night, with
signals winking, lamps waving, engines hissing and carriages
bumping. It was a terrible place, a place which will live as long
as military history is written, for it was the Ypres Salient. What
a salient too! A huge curve, as outlined by the lights, needing
only a little more to be an encirclement. Something caught the
rope as it closed, and that something was the British soldier.
But it was a perilous place by day and by night. Never shall
I forget the impression of ceaseless, malignant activity which
was borne in upon me by the white, winking lights, the red
sudden fl ares, and the horrible thudding noises in that place
of death beneath me.
In old days we had a great name as organizers. Then came
a long period when we deliberately adopted a policy of individuality and “go as you please.” Now once again in our sore
need we had called on all our power of administration and
direction. And it had not deserted us. We still had it in a supreme degree. Even in peace time we have shown it in that
vast, well-oiled, swift-running noiseless machine called the
British Navy. But our powers had risen with the need of them.
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