We went to the town of Cambrai on October 13, a famous day in the history of the town, for it was then that the British handed the town, captured by them from the Germans, over to the French. Sir Douglas Haig and Premier Clemenceau were there: the French troops furnishing a guard of honour.

In the distance, while the French were playing the Marseillaise on the town square, we could hear the dull thud of shells bursting in the fields outside the city.

In the afternoon a solemn thanksgiving for the relief of the town from the Germans was held in the old cathedral amidst the wreckage of war, AbbÉ Thuliez, the heroic priest who stayed in the town whilst it was in the occupation of the enemy, officiating. On entering the cathedral it could at once be seen that the Germans had left a trail of ruin over the sacred house of prayer. Seats were broken and overturned, a chair was attached to the sanctuary lamp and hung there idly, the pipes of the organ have been wrenched out and taken away, and candlesticks looted from the altar were found, on the entry of the British, tied up in bundles ready for removal.

Walking through the wide but irregular streets one was forcibly reminded of the cunning of those who had been in occupation. Here and there attached to the doors of houses were notices put up by the British engineers. One says "Dangerous," meaning that suspicious objects in the house are not to be touched lest they explode a booby trap, other houses bear the legend "Suspicious," and a third notice says "O.K.," meaning that the engineers have examined the house, removed anything dangerous and rendered it safe for habitation.

The big Town Hall is blown down and gutted with fire. Nothing remains save the bare walls. The ground floor is littered with rubble, curtains have been taken down and carried away, statuary and pictures have been removed.

We visited a large chÂteau on the outskirts of Cambrai, which was once the residence of the German Crown Prince. Inside one could see where the hand of the spoiler had been busy. Chairs and sofas were stripped of their tapestry, valuable books had been taken away and books of lesser value had been tampered with, slashed with knives and destroyed. In an upper corner of this building was a nursery with the children's dolls and rocking horses torn and lacerated, the doll's tea service broken and trampled to the ground.

Outside the house runs a light railway under a line of tall trees. These trees have been cut down and placed on the rails, blocking all transport and destroying the picturesque glory of a beautiful esplanade, on which stands the statue of Baptiste, the first maker of cambric, from which Cambrai has taken its name.

Many ancient towns of France famous in history and acquiring a fame even more lasting in their downfall, were visited by our party in turn. Yesterday it was Peronne, to-day Cambrai, Albert and Amiens to-morrow. Of Peronne and Cambrai we have spoken, but of the history of Albert we can say nothing, knowing so little of its past. And the Albert of to-day is humbled to the dust, its cathedral burned to the ground, its leaning Virgin gone.

On our way back to England we stopped for a night at Amiens, the one-time capital of Picardy, the town in which Peter the Hermit, Apostle of the First Crusade, and Ducange, the greatest of French scholars, were born.

Amiens was up till quite recently the objective of enemy guns and the dumping ground of bombs emptied from German aeroplanes. At the present time the refugees were again returning and many were already busy at the work of putting the city once again in order. But great harm has been done to Amiens, and here and there blocks of houses are levelled to the ground. Even the cathedral, begun in the early years of the thirteenth century, has not escaped the missiles of war. A German shell has come through the roof, but by good luck the shell was a dud and did no injury to the place beyond breaking a few tiles on the roof and smashing a flag on the floor.

Shells have fallen all round the building, smashing many houses in the immediate neighbourhood and particularly outside the main entrance, where a cafÉ has been levelled to the ground. In the big building itself a great deal of stained glass has been broken, its walls and flying buttresses are scarred and pitted with splinters from bursting shells. Within, the choir stalls of the Cathedral, the high altar, the pictures, pillars and statuary are protected by high sand-bagged walls that reach almost to the roof. It is said that the Germans did their utmost to spare the building. But judging by the number of houses in the vicinity knocked down by shell fire and broken by bombs, it looks as if the Germans tried to save the sacred pile by just missing it with the narrowest possible margin.

Though but three days had passed since we came through Amiens on our way to the front, a great change had taken place in the town. Three days ago it was practically deserted, for most of those who had gone away in the face of the big German advance had not yet returned. Windows were then shuttered, doors boarded, no traffic was to be seen in the street. Lamps were broken and the shattered glass lay on the pavements. Amiens was a dead city lacking light and radiance by night, movement and sound by day. Mourning and stupor lay like a pall over the town. But now on our return we could see that a great resurrection had taken place. Lights showed in the shops, women served in the cafÉs where the red and blue bottles flung back the reflection of many lamps, children were playing on the pavements, and newsboys were shouting out the daily papers, English and French, at every corner. Amiens with usual French perseverance was accommodating itself to the new life and settling down again to its ordinary every-day round of business.

Having seen Amiens Cathedral in the darkness, we returned to our hotel to find a number of fresh visitors who had joined our party. One was Mr. Hughes, Premier of Australia, who was visiting the troops then billeted in the back area, drilling and getting fit for further encounters on the battlefield. For the night he was stopping in Amiens at our hotel and on the morrow he was going back with us to London.

On our entrance to the dining-room we found one of the officers telling the story of the bayonet, which he held to be the greatest weapon used by the fighting man.

"The best weapon of all," he said. "Other weapons do their bit, the tank, the big gun, and the rifle, but none are as effective as the cold steel. When in the early days of the war the British soldiers went back from Mons 'twas the bayonet that saved them many a time. The gun did a share, the barbed wire entanglements were of some service, but when it came to hand-to-hand fighting there was only one weapon called into play, the bayonet."

"The Germans don't like it," some one said.

"Not they," said the officer, "it's cut and run when they are up against the steel. But with the Turk it's a different matter. When he's cornered he'll fight for his life and make a good fight of it. He's a splendid man, Johnnie Turk, a damned good fellow, and one that can give you a run for your money when you come in contact with him. And he has such a queer way of fighting with the steel. Twists and whirls his bayonet round in a queer tantalizing manner, and you never know where you are, whether he's doing it for a joke or not. But there's some plan in his capers, as we saw out on the Peninsula. Some of our boys were inclined to laugh at Johnnie's capers, but they knew better after a while, for suddenly the beggar would stop his gyrations and sweep forward and slash upwards and probably get home. I saw many of the Diggers fall to the Turks' bayonet, but never from a straight thrust forward. Johnnie always cut upwards.

"The surgeon has never dressed a bayonet wound," he added. "The weapon is always fatal."

During the evening we talked of many things, of incidents of war and peace. The Premier told us many entertaining stories of his life in Australia, and one I particularly remember.

Mr. Hughes in his early days was put forward as a political candidate for some little township. This was a place where party strife was rife and where now and again matters of import were decided not by peaceful argument and gentle discussion, but by the heavy fists of angry men. One party put Mr. Hughes forward, another party brought another person into the limelight and said that he should be a candidate in preference to Mr. Hughes. Eventually, it was decided to put the matter to a vote.

While the voting took place Mr. Hughes was in some other part of the town dealing with other affairs. He happened to be sitting in some house looking out on the street when he noticed a man in shirt sleeves coming tearing towards him, his face and neck beaded with perspiration.

"What's wrong?" Hughes exclaimed.

"The voting," was the answer. "You're chosen. Run for your life!"

The Old Platoon