The cafÉ was crowded, for the Diggers out of the trenches were making the most of their short stay in the back area. To-morrow or the day after they would be going back again and anything might happen up there. "Laugh and be happy, for to-morrow we die," seemed to be the motto of the evening.

The place was crowded, principally with Australian soldiers, though here and there in the room, sitting at tables playing dominoes, were a number of Frenchmen. Cordial relations bind the poilu and the Digger in terms of friendship, for the Australians love the French, and the French love the Australians.

The Diggers appreciate that everyday good-humour, generous warmth and eager hospitality which gives tone and colour to the lives of the French people. This courtesy and kindness is not for a certain occasion with these people, it is their very nature. They seem to like to see everybody happy and in good spirits, and go out of their way to befriend and succour the men in khaki when these latter are in need of help. Nothing goes farther to show the temper of a people than their behaviour in matters of trifling importance, for when all is said and done trifles make up the great sum of human existence; take them away from life and what is left?

The civilian population of France show their appreciation of the Australians in many ways. They are ready at any moment to give rooms in their homes to men back from the lines, to prepare hot meals for them, dry their clothes, wash and mend their underclothing.

On one occasion the Prefect of the Department of the Somme on behalf of the French Government conveyed to the Australian Commander the admiration and appreciation of the French people for the Australian Army, not only for the work done by the soldiers in the field when they fought against the invaders of France, but also for the behaviour of the troops when quartered in the back area with the civilian population, and the care taken of all property belonging to the people.

Wherever the Diggers go they seem to win the universal affection of women and children. An officer told me how these big men, rough in many ways, fiery in language and frank to the point of brutality at times, when they came to the ruined homes near Villers-Bretonneux, set themselves during lulls in the fighting to the kindly job of repairing the houses, salving the property, setting the religious pictures at correct angles on the walls and mending the broken shrines. They placed cradles and children's toys in the safety of the cellars so that these might be ready to hand when the little ones returned to their homes again. Having done this they took up the fighting again, so that the country might be made ready for the home-coming of the refugees.

Among the soldiers in the cafÉ were many of those who had fought at Villers-Bretonneux and made history in defence of Amiens. But at present a distance removed from the scene of war they were absorbed in amusements and games that caused them to forget all about the life of the firing line.

At one corner of the room half a dozen men were playing "Two up," winning and losing much money, others were talking of past operations on the field, tracing with beer-wetted fingers the lines held by themselves and the enemy. A tall dark man sat by the stove, his half-empty glass on the floor at his feet and a big bowled pipe in his mouth.

"What's your battalion?" he suddenly inquired, fixing his eye on a man near him, one whom he had never met before. This Digger, a youngster with a slight fringe of down on his upper lip, was leaning both elbows on the table and gazing contemplatively at the empty glass which stood in front of him.

"I'm fifth——" was the answer.

"Know old Harry C——?" inquired the tall man.

"Should think I do," said the other. "Knew him in Brighton. Played football against his team. Fine fellow, old Harry."

"Killed?"

"Ay. On the Peninsula. Met him there one day," said the youngster. "God's truth! You could have knocked me down dead. 'Harry!' I said. 'Where have I struck you?' he asked me. 'I've kicked some goals against your team,' said I. 'And to meet you here. But wait till we go back again and have another game of football. I'll kick your head off.' 'Not much chance of a boose here,' said Harry, 'might as well be cinder humping in hell.' That was all at the time. He was going up to the front line, but he promised to call round and see me when he came out that night. We were supports. And I waited for old Harry. 'Twas dark when his platoon came out. I went to meet him. 'Where's Harry C——?' I called to the fellows. 'The footballer?' some one asked me. 'Yes, old Harry C——' I told the man. 'He's killed,' said the man, 'blown to pieces.'"

"It's hard when you look back on it," said the tall dark soldier by the stove. "So many...."

At this moment a man rose from a table near the door and commenced to recite a poem. All stopped their various pursuits to listen, for the Australians love poetry, especially when it recalls memories of the land they have left. The game of "Two up" was discontinued and the French soldiers stopped their draughts and dominoes to listen.

The man who stood on the floor spoke his lines in a manner exalted and serious, his hat thrust back on his head and the movement of arms and hands accompanying the recital adding to its force and passion. In the utterance it was impossible to discover anything beyond the deep feeling which he had called up to interpret the spirit of the poem. The verses written long ago had in them a gift of prophecy. They told of a war to be, the war in which the Australian soldier was now taking part.

This was but a beginning. Other men rose and declaimed verses that told of life in the homeland. One poem after another was recited. "The Old Whim Horse," "Out Back," "Sheedy Was Dying," poems dealing with the swagman, shearer and sundowner and telling of the Paroo parched with long drouths or blooming with the wattle blossoms. For the moment all the company were back there, and the patronne, with bottles red and blue gleaming on the shelves over her head, viewed the big boys with eyes that from time to time were moist with tears.

For did she not know them, those who were now for a moment under the roof of her cafÉ, who would leave to-morrow night, go up to the trenches, and come back again in a week or a fortnight. But not all. In that was the tragedy: some would come back again. But not all. Some would remain up there resting for ever near the lip of the trench. She knew of the grim tragedy of the trenches and felt for the boys. Her own husband dead and buried at Verdun! But it was war.

And at that moment the tall, dark man by the stove rose, squared his shoulders, gave a preliminary cough and started a poem.

It was now on the verge of closing time and military policemen were already standing at the door, listening to the poems and loth to put a stop to the performance in the cafÉ. A young giant, in the making of whom the gods forgot none of their ancient craft, was standing in the centre of the room telling the story of "Clancy of the Overflow."

The poem told of an incident of years far back and the young reciter, if he had once wrought as a clerk, was living a life now such as Clancy of the Overflow had never known and never would know unless, as perhaps was the case, he had given up shearing and taken to the life of soldiering.

But away here in a cafÉ of the back area, where the patronne sold weak red wine and weaker beer, the Diggers' thoughts were of home, of the land they left and for which they were fighting.

These men who dwell in France are creating for Australia a national sentiment, and gaining for themselves a wide outlook in their travels and accomplishments afield. At present the war waged ten thousand miles away from the Southern Continent is welding together the people's outlook, aspiration and sympathy. Men from all parts of the continent, from out back and from the sea-coast are grouped together in one great brotherhood, fighting for a common cause, and the ground over which they fight is the one central point on which all eyes of Australia are directed. Back home many voices are raised in declamation or praise of this or that political move or industrial policy, but on one point there is complete and unanimous acquiescence, and that one point is the prosecution of the war towards a successful conclusion. It must be waged till the end, until Germany is beaten and the wrong done to the world, to France and Belgium, righted.

And so the Australians make great battle in the mud of France and Flanders, fighting with heroic persistence, carving the way to victory. As we remember what the Diggers have done at Gallipoli, Polygon, Pozieres and Peronne, we may quote the famous couplet from the prologue to "The Revenge," played by a company of convicts in Sydney, 1796, and thereto add two lines of our own making:

L' Envoi

(Written on the day the British Fleet entered the Dardanelles)