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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
The expansion of the Navy was a miracle, the management of
the transport a greater one, the formation of the new Army
the greatest of all time. To get the men was the least of the diffi culties. To put them in the fi eld, with everything down to the
lid of the last fi eld saucepan in its place, that was the marvel.
The tools of the gunners and of the sappers, to say nothing of
the knowledge of how to use them, were in themselves a huge
problem. But it had all been met and mastered. So don’t let us
talk too much about the muddling of the War Offi ce. It has
become just a little ridiculous.
I was the guest at Head-quarters of a divisional General,
Capper, brother of the heroic leader of the 7th Division, who
might truly be called one of the two fathers of the British fl ying
force, for it was he, with Templer, who laid the fi rst foundations
from which so great an organization has arisen. My morning
was spent in visiting two fi ghting brigadiers, Mitford and Jelf,
cheery weather-beaten soldiers, respectful, as all our soldiers
are, of the prowess of the Hun, but serenely confi dent that
we could beat him. In company with one of them I ascended
a hill, the reverse slope of which was swarming with cheerful
infantry in every stage of déshabille, for they were cleaning up
after the trenches. Once over the slope we advanced with some
care, and fi nally reached a certain spot from which we looked
down upon the German line. It was an observation post, about
1,000 yards from the German trenches, with our own trenches
between us. We could see the two lines, sometimes only a few
yards, as it seemed, apart, extending for miles on either side.
The sinister silence and solitude were strangely dramatic. Such
vast crowds of men, such intensity of feeling, and yet only that
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
open rolling country-side, with never a movement in its whole
expanse.
In the afternoon my brother drove me to the Square at
Ypres. It was the city of a dream, this modern Pompeii, destroyed, deserted and desecrated, but with a sad, proud dignity
which made you involuntarily lower your voice as you passed
through the ruined streets. It was a more considerable place
than I had imagined, with many traces of ancient grandeur.
No words can describe the absolute splintered wreck that the
Huns had made of it. The effect of some of the shells had been
grotesque. One boiler-plated water tower, a thing 40 or 50 feet
high, was actually standing on its head like a great metal top.
There was not a living soul in the place save a few pickets of
soldiers, and a number of cats which had become fi erce and
dangerous. Now and then a shell still fell, but the Huns probably knew that the devastation was already complete.
We stood in the lonely grass-grown Square, once the
busy centre of the town, and we marvelled at the beauty of
the smashed cathedral and the tottering Cloth Hall beside it.
Surely at their best they could not have looked more wonderful. If they were preserved even so, and if a heaven-inspired
artist were to model a statue of Belgium in front, Belgium with
one hand pointing to the treaty by which Prussia guaranteed
her safety and the other to the sacrilege behind her, it would
make the most impressive group in the world. It was an evil
day for Belgium when her frontier was violated, but it was
a worse one for Germany. I venture to prophesy that it will be
regarded by history as the greatest military as well as political
error that has ever been made. Had the great guns that de-
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
stroyed Liège made their fi rst breach at Verdun, what chance
was there for Paris? Those few weeks of warning and preparation saved France, and left Germany like a weary and furious
bull, tethered fast in the place of trespass and waiting for the
inevitable pole-axe.
We were glad to get out of the place, for the gloom of it lay
as heavy upon our hearts as the shrapnel helmets did upon
our heads. Both were lightened as we sped back past empty
and shattered villas to where, just behind the danger line, the
normal life of rural Flanders was carrying on as usual. A merry
sight helped to cheer us, for scudding down wind above our
heads came a Boche aeroplane, with two British at her tail
barking away with their machine guns, like two swift terriers
after a cat. They shot rat-tattatting across the sky until we lost
sight of them in the heat haze over the German line.
The afternoon saw us on the Sharpenburg, from which
many a million will gaze in days to come, for from no other
point can so much be seen. It was a spot forbid, but a special
permit took us up, and the sentry on duty, having satisfi ed
himself of our bona-fi des, proceeded to tell us tales of the war
in a pure Hull dialect which might have been Chinese for all
that I could understand. That he was a “Terrier” and had nine
children were the only facts I could lay hold of. But I wished
to be silent and to think – even, perhaps, to pray. Here, just
below my feet, were the spots which our dear lads, three of
them my own kith, had sanctifi ed with their blood. Here,
fi ghting for the freedom of the world, they cheerily gave their
all. On that sloping meadow to the left of the row of houses on
the opposite ridge the London Scottish fought to the death on
453
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
that grim November morning when the Bavarians reeled back
from their shot-torn line. That plain away on the other side of
Ypres was the place where the three grand Canadian brigades,
fi rst of all men, stood up to the damnable gases of the Hun.
Down yonder was Hill 60, that blood-soaked kopje.
The ridge over the fi elds was held by the cavalry against
two army corps, and there where the sun struck the red roof
among the trees I could just see Gheluvelt, a name for ever to
be associated with Haig and the most vital battle of the war.
As I turned away I was faced by my Hull Territorial, who still
said incomprehensible things. I looked at him with other eyes.
He had fought on yonder plain. He had slain Huns, and he
had nine children. Could any one better epitomize the duties
of a good citizen in days like these? I could have found it in
my heart to salute him had I not known that it would have
shocked him and made him unhappy.
Next day, it was June 1, I left my brother’s kindly care.
I had fears for him, for he was much overworked and worried as Adjutant-Generals of busy divisions are likely to be.
However, he was never one to admit it or to pity himself, and
he begged me to carry the cheeriest report back to his wife. It
was a great pleasure to me that so many offi cers took me aside
to say how effi cient he was, and how popular. He would not
have wished me to say it were he alive, but I can leave it on
record now.
Yesterday had been full, but the next day was not less
so, for I had been asked (or ordered) to lunch at the General Head-quarters at Montreuil, the funny old town on a hill
which I had learned to know well in days of peace. As we drove
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
down a winding drive I saw two offi cers walking towards us.
The younger of them stooped and beat the ground with his
stick, from which we gathered that we were to go slow and
raise no dust. We rightly conjectured that so curt an order
could only come from the Chief’s own aide. We saluted as we
passed and carried away an impression of a heavy moustache
and of abstracted blue eyes.
I had a very much more defi nite impression when he
came back presently, and we were all shown into the diningroom. I should certainly put Douglas Haig, as I saw him that
day, among the handsomest men I have ever known. He was
not tall, but he was upright and well proportioned with every sign of EXPERIENCES ON THE BRITISH FRONT 357
strength and activity. But his face was remarkable for beauty
and power. His eyes were very full and expressive, devoid of
the fi erceness of Kitchener and yet with quite as much determination. But the long powerful jaw was the feature which
spoke particularly of that never-to-be-beaten quality which
saved the army when the line was broken in the fi rst Ypres
battle and was destined to save it again in April, 1918, when
he gave out his “back to the wall” order of the day. He was
courteous but not talkative at lunch. After lunch he took me
into a side room where he showed me the line of the divisions
on the map, saying that I could remember but should not take
notes, which was rather maddening. Then we had a long talk
over the coffee, but there were several present and nothing
intimate was said. He must be worried to death with casual
visitors, but still I suppose he need not invite all of them to
Head-quarters. He had, I thought, a truly British distrust of
455
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
foreigners. “He is the worst foreigner I have met yet,” he said,
speaking of some Italian General. His kind heart was shown
when I said that my son was in the line. He gave a curt order,
and then nodded and smiled. “You’ll see him to-morrow,”
said he.
I naturally heard a good deal about our Generalissimo, besides what I actually saw. I think that he had some of the traits
of Wellington, though since the war he has concerned himself
with the fortunes of his comrades-in-arms a great deal more
than the Iron Duke seems ever to have troubled himself to do.
But in other things the parallel is close. Haig is not a gameplaying man, though fond of horse exercise. Neither was the
Duke. Both were abstemious with wine and tobacco. Both were
reserved, reticent and had no magnetic connection with those
under them. Neither Haig nor the Duke were human fi gures
to the soldiers, nor were they often if ever seen by them, and
yet in each case there was the same confi dence in their judgment. Haig was a very serious man, he seldom joked and did not
meet a joke half way, so that his mess was the dullest in France.
I have known a staff offi cer apply for an exchange so weary was
he of this oppressive atmosphere. All this could equally have
been said of the Duke. But these are trivialities compared to
the great main fact that each brought rare qualities to the service of their country at critical moments of the world’s history.
There was only one other man who might have fi lled Haig’s
place, and that man was the conqueror of Palestine.
Extraordinary are the contrasts of war. Within three hours
of leaving the quiet atmosphere of the Head-quarters Château I was present at what in any other war would have been
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
looked upon as a brisk engagement. As it was it would certainly fi gure in one of our desiccated reports as an activity of
the artillery. The noise as we struck the line at this new point
showed that the matter was serious, and indeed we had chosen
the spot because it had been the storm centre of the last week.
The method of approach chosen by our experienced guide was
in itself a tribute to the gravity of the affair. As one comes from
the settled order of Flanders into the actual scene of war, the
fi rst sign of it is one of the stationary, sausage-shaped balloons,
a chain of which marks the ring in which the great wrestlers
are locked. We passed under this, ascended a hill, and found
ourselves in a garden where for a year no feet save those of
wanderers like ourselves had stood. There was a wild, confused
luxuriance of growth more beautiful to my eye than anything
which the care of man can produce. One old shell-hole of vast
diameter had fi lled itself with forget-me-nots, and appeared
as a graceful basin of light blue fl owers, held up as an atonement to Heaven for the brutalities of man. Through the tangled bushes we crept, then across a yard – “Please stoop and
run as you pass this point” – and fi nally to a small opening in
a wall, whence the battle lay not so much before as beside us.
For a moment we had a front seat at the great world-drama,
God’s own problem play, working surely to its magnifi cent
end. One felt a sort of shame to crouch here in comfort, a useless spectator, while brave men down yonder were facing that
pelting shower of iron.
There was a large fi eld on our left rear, and the German
gunners had the idea that there was a concealed battery therein. They were systematically searching for it. A great shell ex-
457
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
ploded in the top corner, but got nothing more solid than a few
tons of clay. You could read the mind of Gunner Fritz. “Try the
lower corner!” said he, and up went the earth-cloud once again.
“Perhaps it’s hid about the middle. I’ll try.” Earth again, and
nothing more. “I believe I was right the fi rst time after all,” said
hopeful Fritz. So another shell came into the top corner. The
fi eld was full of pits as a Gruyère cheese, but Fritz got nothing
by his perseverance. Perhaps there never was a battery there at
all. One effect he obviously did attain. He made several other
British batteries exceedingly angry. “Stop that tickling, Fritz!”
was the burden of their cry. Where they were we could no more
see than Fritz could, but their constant work was very clear
along the German line. We appeared to be using more shrapnel and the Germans more high explosives, but that may have
been just the chance of the day. The Vimy Ridge was on our
right, and before us was the old French position, with the Labyrinth of terrible memories and the long hill of Lorette. When,
the year before last, the French, in a three weeks’ battle, fought
their way up that hill, it was an exhibition of sustained courage
which even their military annals can seldom have beaten.
Next day we travelled through Acheux and hit the British
line once more to the east of that place. Our offi cial chauffeur
had had his instructions, and so had other people, with the result that as we swung into the broad main street of a village –
Mailly, I think, was the name – there was a tall young offi cer
standing with his back turned. He swung round at the noise
of the car, and it was my boy Kingsley with his usual jolly grin
upon his weather-stained features. The long arm of G.H.Q. had
stretched out and plucked him out of a trench, and there he
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
was. We had an hour’s talk in a fi eld, for there was nowhere
else to go. He was hard and well and told me that all was nearly ready for a big push at the very part of the line where his
battalion, the 1st Hampshires, was stationed. This was the fi rst
intimation of the great Somme battle, on the fi rst day of which
every offi cer of the Hampshires without exception was killed
or wounded. I learned afterwards that before the battle for ten
nights running Kingsley crept out to the German wire and
stuck up crosses where he found the wire uncut, which were
brown towards the enemy and white towards the British, as
a guide to the gunners. He lay on his face sometimes with the
machine guns fi ring just above him. For this service Colonel
Palk thanked him warmly and said he should certainly have
a decoration, but Palk and both majors were killed and no
recommendations went forward. Two shrapnel bullets in the
neck were all Kingsley got out of the battle, and two months
on his back in a hospital. However, he was not a medal hunter and I never heard him complain, nor would he wear his
wound badges until he was compelled.
An hour later I met another member of my household, for
my Secretary, Major Wood of the 5th Sussex Territorials, was
Town Major of Beauquesne, where I found him at the convenient hour of lunch. He had done nearly two years of hard
active service, which was pretty good for a civilian of fi fty; and
had led his company at Festubert and other engagements. He
was now using his excellent powers of organization and administration in making Beauquesne a well-ordered village, as
later he made Doullens a well-ordered town. I expect that the
British administration will remain as a wonderful legend of
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
sanitation and cleanliness in many of these French towns of
the North-East.
After inspecting Major Wood’s work I went on to Amiens
with him and he packed me into the train to Paris, the fi rst
part of my task thoroughly done so far as time would permit.
I came away with a deep sense of the diffi cult task which lay
before the Army, but with an equally deep one of the ability
of those men to do all that soldiers can be called upon to perform. But I saw no end to the war.
I had two days in Paris – .a very dead and alive Paris, such
a Paris as has seldom or never been seen before, with darkened streets and the shops nearly all closed. I stayed at the
Hotel Crillon, where were a few Russian and British offi cers.
It was extraordinary the difference which the public made between the two. A British offi cer was disregarded, while a Russian General – I took a walk with one – was looked upon
with an adulation which was quite comic. Men came up and
made a low obeisance before him. And yet it was our Army,
our purse, our factories, above all our Navy, which were saving
the situation both for France and Russia, to whom we were
bound by no alliance. There was certainly not much sign of
appreciation or gratitude. It is a very singular thing how the
whole world alternately leans upon and depreciates the British Empire.
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