Chapter 7 - Lights in the Darkness
How time does go whizzing by ! It goes far too quickly for me ever to catch it up, and I always feel a bit behind hand. In fact just now this strikes me rather forcibly because as I write this I have just retumed to England from a second trip across the Channel to call on Guides in Sweden and Norway and Denmark ; and yet I am still only beginning to describe to all of you the early part of my first trip to France after the war.
I was telling you about Normandy. Do you care about things that are beautiful ? Of course, you do ! But what do you count, I wonder, as the most beautiful thing to look at, and to which you give a sort of rapturous devotion as well as your admiration ?
Personally in my own mind I divide them into two natural categories—God-made or man-made—and I prefer the first, as I expect most of you would.
It seems to me far the nicest to walk amongst trees, to watch the clouds and birds, the wild flowers and things, roaming the countryside or striding by rivers or sea, where there is room to breathe and move, rather than to go visiting a town.
Is there anything more lovely than a towering beech tree, standing alone in a field ? Is there anything more delicious than a little patch of fern moss on a stone in the middle of a stream ?
On the other hand, of course, there are the man made beauties in plenty for the town dweller—museums stuffed with interest, picture galleries filled with beautiful things, and glorious antique houses, castles and buildings that have their own great appeal and charm.
To people who feel that the height of beauty can be found in things fashioned by loving and artistic hands, bricks and mortar matter a very great deal.
So if things made by men of the past are your beau ideal, then what do you feel like when you see them shattered and destroyed and in ruins before your eyes ?
You Guides who live in some of our towns of England know to your cost what it means to see churches, streets and homes laid waste. You who live in old-world cities like Chester, York, Gloucester and Winchester, where our great Cathedrals are mercifully still standing, can perhaps picture in some degree
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what it has been like for the people of Normandy to see their towns and old famous buildings so broken and battered as the price of their deliverance from the hands of their enemy.
It is all so tragic, and in this part of France it does not make their loss and their grief any the less hard to bear when it is realised that so much of the destruction had to be done by bombs and shells and arms and the might of Britain — their Ally — in the common endeavour to defeat the common foe.
As we neared Rouen, bridges everywhere were lying broken in pieces across the rivers, which now were stranded by temporary pontoon bridges, wonderfully quickly erected to keep traffic going.
Over a thousand Guides and Scouts were there to greet us when we came into the famous old town—rows and rowscame striding along the street, out into the big open Place, flags flying and bands playing.
The Commissaire de la Republique was there, the Prefet and the Sous-Prefet, the Commandant, the Chief Constable, the Admiral, the Air Marshal, civic authorities and Church dignatories — all manner of friendly people had collected there at the Town Hall to watch and to admire the March Past.
They showed me the town's 'Livre D'Or' and I was invited to inscribe my name in this 'Golden Book' in which information and accounts of the town 's history and achievements are recorded.
I saw many of these books in different parts of France, and they are rather on a par with our Company Log Books, telling of efforts and doings, and being of real value in keeping alive facts and tales of the towns' tradition.
In the case of Rouen the book had something special about it, for during the occupation the book had been found, and the German oppressors wrote in its pages, expressing contempt as well as an arrogant pride in being the conquerors of this ancient city.
These pages could not be removed from the great bound book, but they are now firmly stuck down and sealed up, with a striking picture on the outside, depicting the fact that though those pages of her tragic time had to be written, those years of Rouen 's history shall be blacked out and hidden for ever.
The Scouts and Guides here were simply splendid. They marched proudly through the streets and down to the War Memorial, where we laid wreaths in memory of the heroes of the wars, flags were dipped, and other ceremonies took place.
And then that evening, through a cold wintry wind, the whole
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thousand of them went trekking off up the long hill to the empty Chateau of Bellebeuf.
The Guides camped in the Chateau, windowless and bare ; and the Scouts camped in tents scattered over the wide park. There was hail and an icy wind, but a Camp Fire had been planned and so a Camp Fire we had, all sitting wrapped up in cloaks on the sodden ground in a great clearing flanked by great tall trees, the whole scene lit by huge bonfires casting a glowing searchlight on the actors and singers who performed and on the hundreds of up-turned faces of the wildly enthusiastic audience, who would burst into song whenever permitted to do so !
Never have I been colder ! Though wrapped in blankets that magically arrived from nowhere, my knees were literally knocking together in that chilly night air. But it didn't matter one bit ! We were all there together, celebrating the St. George's Day festival, the war was nearly at an end in Europe. Scouting and Guiding had survived and had upheld our courage and our faith through years of trial and tribulation and were growing and going strong ; France, though scarred and sick, was free and nothing could prevent us from rejoicing over getting together round a Camp Fire once more. It was a stirring scene. We could now sing and be merry at long last, and the bonfires blazing up into the night, were a symbol of the fires of great Scouting enthusiasm buming in the hearts of us all.
2S
