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One day on a route march we were approaching the crest of a hill which was decorated by the unusual sight of two horsemen. Even from a distance they seemed to be spectacularly smart; one of them was carrying a lance from which a pennant fluttered. As the head of our column, now a company almost at full strength, neared the crest a commotion of orders broke out – clearly ‘some ruddy general’. For the life of me I couldn't think whose army we were supposed to be in. We were all marching at attention and just before it was my turn to give the order, “Eyes right”, I saw that the officer we were saluting was General Haig.
I suppose we were all glad, for once, that the order gave an opportunity for a long, hard, legitimate stare. The tramp of marching boots and the faint rustling patter of the lancer pennant in the breeze – that was all. As we marched away we heard the clatter of the horses' hooves and Haig and his escort were gone.
Amongst tank men it was held against Haig that he blamed the hold-up of the advance at Cambrai on the tank which destroyed a bridge by crashing through it. He was not ‘good old Haig’ as Plumer was ‘good old Plumer’. He was too soldierly for one thing. He was suspect, like the rest of the Staff, but not as suspect as the politicians; no one would have said ‘good old Lloyd George’.
Nor for that matter would it have occurred to anyone to think, let alone say, ‘good old God’ or to have any ideas about His Staff. A padre had to be pretty bad to excite any interest whatever. Corporal Smith's ‘funeral’ soon became one man's obsession and then faded out – just another unfinished story.
Our last Church parade in England was addressed by the Chaplain General to the Forces. His sermon had as its text 'Soldiers be
content with your wages'. “Some of you”, he said, “may think this a queer thing for me to talk about when you are about to leave for the Front.” Well, yes, we did a bit; I almost began to think the closing hymn would be ‘Goodbye Dolly I must leav