idle—and that the old man has a wonderfully idle life.
His wife in the city, his children gone, no one around the house, he can go and relax in the fields with his newspaper. Sometimes
he sits up and reads it, sometimes he just lies down and covers his face with it. You can never be too careful with the sun.
Especially at this time of the year. If you're not careful, you can get sunstroke. That would be unfortunate, for then you
couldn't read the paper, could you?
He stops for a breath.
The three of us spend an enjoyable Socratic moment together, the old man posing questions then running away with the answers.
When it's time for me to resume hiking, my two companions, satisfied that I'm idle but not looking for a job, direct me to
a cow track leading to the village of Aubers. I promise, nodding my way out the door, to stay in the shade as much as I can,
to avoid sunstroke, to enjoy idleness, to take a bus if I get tired, to profit from my youth.
A UBERS, WHICH CAN be made out in the distance, sits on a slight rise in this transitional area between Flanders and Artois.
In May of 1915, the British tried to storm the rise, to prove to their French allies that they were willing to take casualties.
In that respect the attack was a success. They were mowed down by machine guns, and about 12,000 men were lost. At Fromelles,
in 1916, it was the Australians' turn. Advancing without reinforcements, they stormed the German trenches, then were cut off,
surrounded, and massacred. In some Australian battalions, more than 80 percent of the men were killed.
The pastures between Fromelles and Aubers are dotted with the crumbling remains of pillboxes. Beside one of them, as if just
placed there, is a bouquet of fresh flowers. There is no card.
The flowers in the field hint at the profusion of blossoms in the handsome red village of Aubers. Despite the old man's opinion,
his is not a village of the indolent. The houses, neatly rebuilt from the heaps of broken brick that were left after the armies
had moved off in 1918, look well maintained and welcoming. The Front, a strip of Europe where nothing is old, where most things
were reconstructed on the cheap in the 1920s and 1930s, has thus far been a succession of sad villages and soulless towns.
Aubers seems determined to shake off the past, or at least cover it up with flowers.
At a fork in the road below Aubers, signs indicate the way to "Salome" and "Lorgies." Both destinations sound like a good
time, but my route lies elsewhere, down a gentle grade to the southwest, toward the village of Neuve Chapelle, another name
in the annals of folly. The British made a successful surprise attack here in 1915. It was a surprise despite themselves—they
did not have enough shells to launch a long preliminary bombardment and thereby give away their intentions. In one morning,
they took the town and even managed to break through into the countryside beyond it. The 1,400 Germans holding the lines at
Neuve Chapelle could not withstand the onslaught. They were outnumbered thirty-five to one.
Then the British stopped, as a result of the indescribable confusion reigning in the command structure. Reinforcements were
sent up far too late, officers in adjacent units did not answer to the same commanders, and communication became a tangle
of orders and counterorders. For most of the afternoon of March 10, 1915, there was a gaping hole in the German lines, but
it was not exploited. Tens of thousands of men sat on the ground smoking, waiting to be told to go forward. The generals,
as can only be expected of Great War stories, ordered the attacks renewed long after the Germans had had the time to shore
up their defenses. Slaughter ensued. The Germans counterattacked and regained much of the yardage they had lost.
This did not play well in Britain, where expectations had been raised by reports of early success. The war, rejoiced the editorialists,
was almost
His wife in the city, his children gone, no one around the house, he can go and relax in the fields with his newspaper. Sometimes
he sits up and reads it, sometimes he just lies down and covers his face with it. You can never be too careful with the sun.
Especially at this time of the year. If you're not careful, you can get sunstroke. That would be unfortunate, for then you
couldn't read the paper, could you?
He stops for a breath.
The three of us spend an enjoyable Socratic moment together, the old man posing questions then running away with the answers.
When it's time for me to resume hiking, my two companions, satisfied that I'm idle but not looking for a job, direct me to
a cow track leading to the village of Aubers. I promise, nodding my way out the door, to stay in the shade as much as I can,
to avoid sunstroke, to enjoy idleness, to take a bus if I get tired, to profit from my youth.
A UBERS, WHICH CAN be made out in the distance, sits on a slight rise in this transitional area between Flanders and Artois.
In May of 1915, the British tried to storm the rise, to prove to their French allies that they were willing to take casualties.
In that respect the attack was a success. They were mowed down by machine guns, and about 12,000 men were lost. At Fromelles,
in 1916, it was the Australians' turn. Advancing without reinforcements, they stormed the German trenches, then were cut off,
surrounded, and massacred. In some Australian battalions, more than 80 percent of the men were killed.
The pastures between Fromelles and Aubers are dotted with the crumbling remains of pillboxes. Beside one of them, as if just
placed there, is a bouquet of fresh flowers. There is no card.
The flowers in the field hint at the profusion of blossoms in the handsome red village of Aubers. Despite the old man's opinion,
his is not a village of the indolent. The houses, neatly rebuilt from the heaps of broken brick that were left after the armies
had moved off in 1918, look well maintained and welcoming. The Front, a strip of Europe where nothing is old, where most things
were reconstructed on the cheap in the 1920s and 1930s, has thus far been a succession of sad villages and soulless towns.
Aubers seems determined to shake off the past, or at least cover it up with flowers.
At a fork in the road below Aubers, signs indicate the way to "Salome" and "Lorgies." Both destinations sound like a good
time, but my route lies elsewhere, down a gentle grade to the southwest, toward the village of Neuve Chapelle, another name
in the annals of folly. The British made a successful surprise attack here in 1915. It was a surprise despite themselves—they
did not have enough shells to launch a long preliminary bombardment and thereby give away their intentions. In one morning,
they took the town and even managed to break through into the countryside beyond it. The 1,400 Germans holding the lines at
Neuve Chapelle could not withstand the onslaught. They were outnumbered thirty-five to one.
Then the British stopped, as a result of the indescribable confusion reigning in the command structure. Reinforcements were
sent up far too late, officers in adjacent units did not answer to the same commanders, and communication became a tangle
of orders and counterorders. For most of the afternoon of March 10, 1915, there was a gaping hole in the German lines, but
it was not exploited. Tens of thousands of men sat on the ground smoking, waiting to be told to go forward. The generals,
as can only be expected of Great War stories, ordered the attacks renewed long after the Germans had had the time to shore
up their defenses. Slaughter ensued. The Germans counterattacked and regained much of the yardage they had lost.
This did not play well in Britain, where expectations had been raised by reports of early success. The war, rejoiced the editorialists,
was almost
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