Now it can be Told by Philip Gibbs — Read

The town of Béthune was the capital of our army in the Black Country of the French coalfields. It was not much shelled in those days, though afterward -- years afterward -- it was badly damaged by long-range guns, so that its people fled, at last, after living so long on the edge of war.

Its people were friendly to our men, and did not raise their prices exorbitantly. There were good shops in the town -- "as good as Paris," said soldiers who had never been to Paris, but found these plate-glass windows dazzling, after trench life, and loved to see the "mamzelles" behind the counters and walking out smartly, with little high-heeled shoes. There were teashops, crowded always with officers on their way to the line or just out of it, and they liked to speak French with the girls who served them. Those girls saw the hunger in those men's eyes, who watched every movement they made, who tried to touch their hands and their frocks in passing. They knew they were desired, as daughters of Eve, by boys who were starved of love. They took that as part of their business, distributing cakes and buns without favor, with laughter in their eyes, and a merry word or two. Now and then, when they had leisure, they retired to inner rooms, divided by curtains from the shop, and sat on the knees of young British officers, while others played ragtime or sentimental ballads on untuned pianos. There was champagne as well as tea to be had in these bun-shops, but the A. P. M. was down on disorder or riotous gaiety, and there were no orgies. "Pas d'orgies," said the young ladies severely when things were getting a little too lively. They had to think of their business.