s packed every night for the most part with
fighting boys from the Salient, who had come in for a couple of hours
to eat, drink, play the piano and sing, forgetting their misery and (p. 032)
discomfort for the moment. It was enormously interesting to watch and
study what happened in that room. One saw gaiety, misery, fear,
thoughtfulness and unthoughtfulness all mixed up like a kaleidoscope.
It was a well-run, romantic little hotel, built round a small
courtyard, which was always noisy with the tramp of cavalry horses and
the rattle of harness. The hotel was managed by Madame Loorius and her
two daughters, Suzanne and Blanche, who were known as "The Peaches."

Suzanne was undoubtedly the Queen of the Ypres Salient, as sure as
Marguerite was that of the Somme. One look from the eyes of Suzanne,
one smile, and these wonderful lads would go back to their
gun-pits--or who knows where?--proud.

Suzanne wore an R.F.C. badge on her breast. She was engaged to be
married to an R.F.C. officer at that time. Whether the marriage ever
came off I know not. Certainly not before the end of the war, and now
Madame is dead, and they have given up the "Sauvage," and are, as far
as I am concerned, lost.

Here the Press used to come when any particular operation was going on
in the North. In my mind now I can look clearly from my room across
the courtyard and can see Beach Thomas by his open window, in his
shirt-sleeves, writing like fury at some terrific tale for the _Daily
Mail_. It seemed strange his writing this stuff, this mild-eyed,
country-loving dreamer; but he knew his job.

Philip Gibbs was also there--despondent, gloomy, nervy, realising to
the full the horror of the whole business; his face drawn very fine,
and intense sadness in his very kind eyes; also Percival
Phillips--that deep thinker on war, who probably knew more about it (p. 033)
than all the rest of the correspondents put together.

[Illustration: XI. _German 'Planes visiting Cassel._]

The people of Cassel loved the Tommy, so the latter had a good time
there.

One day I drew German prisoners at Bailleul. They had just been
captured, 3,500 in one cage, all covered with lice--3,500 men, some
nude, some half-nude, trying to clean the lice off themselves. It was
a strange business. The Boche at the time were sending over Jack
Johnsons at the station, and these men used to cheer as each shell
shrieked overhead.

It was at Cassel I first began to realise how w