From the military landing officer’s placard, telling you where to report and what to do, which faces you on the quay before landing in France, to the stencilled board informing you that the recently captured portion of German trench you are standing in was called ‘Stellung 19,’ the ‘Front’ is plastered with notices and signs of every description.

Some are bald official orders of little interest, others are full of meaning and sometimes bring the grim realities of war home to one more than any other feature of the landscape, and yet others—the unofficial ones—are full of humour and eloquent of the cheerful spirit which comes uppermost in the British soldier, be his surroundings ever so miserable.

The most conspicuous ones are those that are intended to be seen by the swiftly passing motor-car—Speed Limit X Miles Per Hour,—Go Slow Past The Column,—Aerodrome, Dead Slow To Avoid Dust Spoiling The Engines.

It is regrettable that sufficient notice is not always taken of such injunctions and those who are affected often have recourse to other tactics. Some are frankly threatening: Drivers’ Numbers Taken And Reported To The A.P.M. Others appeal to our better feelings—the notice is put in the form of a request, and a large Thank You at the end of the restricted stretch shames the scorcher who has kept his foot on the throttle. Others again resort to subterfuges, such as Mind The Bump! There is, of course, no bump, but by the time the driver has found this out and got up his speed again the column of lorries, or whatever it may have been by the roadside, is passed.

In addition to the military road restrictions there are still, of course, the curious mystic signs of the French Auto Club—the grid showing the level crossing gate, the cross for the cross roads and the V or Z for single or double corners.

In order not to make things too easy for the Hun agent most units do not label their billets or transport with their full title, but adopt certain devices and signs which are allotted to them. These assume the form of flowers, animals, or geometric designs of every conceivable pattern and colour. They are to be seen everywhere—few people know what they mean and the spy who would sort out the signs and the units they represent has an unenviable job.

In some cases, however, where secrecy does not appear to be necessary, appropriate emblems are used. I remember one day my car broke down opposite a column of lorries belonging to an Australian unit. On the side and back of each of these vehicles was painted a white kangaroo.

My Scottish Sergeant-Major, though a fervent admirer of the gallant colonials, could not resist a gentle leg-pull. With an air of ignorant innocence he went up to a group of men and asked them what on earth they painted pictures of mice all over their lorries for! He affected to be immensely interested in their explanation.

As one approaches the front there are signs and directions innumerable—the arrows and flags showing the way to casualty clearing stations, signposts of all kinds showing the way to dumps, divisional baths, watering places for horses, canteens, headquarters, field cashiers, the local cinema show, or the Y.M.C.A. hut.

It is in the villages where the troops nearest the line are billeted that the greatest variety of amusing inscriptions is to be found. At a badly strafed cross roads in a certain village there is a small round shell hole, not unlike a booking office, in the wall of a house. Above it are the words: Blighty Corner—Book Here! It was in the same village that the Xth Siege Battery had the whole side of their mess knocked out—you could drive a gun team through the hole where the door had been. On a bit of remaining wall are the words: Don’t Stand Out There Knocking—Come Right In!

The streets are often labelled with names which at once give evidence as to the present or late occupants of the billets in them—Piccadilly, Prince’s Street, Black Watch Street, Quebec Street, Springbok Laager.

The French names have, however, often been retained, and everywhere, for the benefit of the civilian population, one sees the warning—Taisez Vous, Méfiez Vous—Les Oreilles Ennemies Vous Écoutent. In more than one French office this notice is decorated with amusing pictures of Huns with huge ears listening from round corners.

In one place it has been possible to devise a bi-lingual notice—

A ‘poilu,’ who had come back to his village near the firing line on ‘permission’ and who wished to indulge in a little quiet gardening in the diminutive plot behind his cottage, was confronted with a large notice—Danger—Blind Shell. His wife had to explain to him that a German 8-inch ‘dud’ had buried itself there. Being one whose duties lie on the lines of communication, he had not acquired that contempt for the unexploded shell which the ‘Bairnsfather’ Tommy has and so the garden was left severely alone!

The position of this good French soldier is worthy of remark. He was a farrier at some way back supply depot and, in his whole life, had not heard a shot fired in anger. It was only when he came home on leave that he experienced the thrills of being under shell fire, and it was from his women folk that he had to learn the precise moment when he could decently retire to the cellar without an undue display of timidity! Ye Gods! What a leave! We may well be thankful if we get nothing more alarming than a Zeppelin raid when doing our week in town!

The French villagers who sell groceries, eggs, wine, or ‘Anglish Beere’ in the many half-ruined shops in the shelled area advertise their goods often with notices in the weirdest of Anglo-French spelling, and it is extraordinary in what surroundings some of them manage to carry on business.

I know of one little ‘épicerie’ which does a roaring trade in a house that has no roof and practically only three walls. The place has been made more or less weatherproof with some pieces of tin and a few planks. The rest of the village has been smashed to pieces. The neighbourhood is shelled almost daily, and whenever I pass I look, not without anxiety, to see if the plucky old lady’s sign is still there.

At the ruined railway station of a certain town near the line the notice—‘Billets’—still stands over the shattered booking office, and, sure enough, if you hunt around among the débris you will find tickets to Charing Cross! At another station a few miles away and also within sight of the German trenches the door labelled—‘Sortie’—is barred with wreckage and is about the only part of the building you can not walk in and out of at will!

Not very far away some of my own unit were once billeted in part of what was once a French Barracks, and it was here that I was shown some inscriptions of quite historical interest.

On the ground floor the walls bear the initials and names of ‘regular,’ ‘terrier,’ and K.’s army, together with those of many a French poilu. The top storey has been smashed in by a 15-centimetre shell, but the stonework round the windows remains, and there, cut in the limestone, are to be found records of British soldiers who had tenanted those rooms under very different circumstances! J. Jemison, Prisoner of War—Taken August 1806—Alderson—Ellis—Wheatley P. of W. 1806, 07, 08, 09, 10. Rather a long spell! but, knowing our French friends as we do now, we can be sure their imprisonment was not wholly unpleasant.

Some of the most incongruous of signs are the ordinary hand-posts at cross roads indicating the way to places over ‘the other side.’ I seldom pass one of these plain iron signs without thinking of the strange contrast between the life now and that of three years ago. An arrow points towards a straight white road leading over the hill—Bapaume X Kilomètres. Not so very far either and yet no man on earth could get there!—though a whole army can, and will in time. Over the crest the smooth surface is cut by innumerable trenches and barred with wire entanglements. Even here, at the cross roads, though well out of view, it is unwise to linger—the Huns have a machine-gun trained down the road and open indirect fire at intervals.

On first coming to the front it is curious to see an immortal name like Neuve Chapelle displayed on an ordinary everyday signpost—what would an American souvenir hunter give for such a relic!

When travelling towards the line, as you begin to get near things the type of traffic notice alters. Motorists are no longer asked to ‘mind the bump’ nor horsemen to ‘keep off the crops.’ Road Closed to all but Single Vehicles or Infantry in Small Parties shows that it is unwise to attract the attention of the German observation balloon opposite. Then you may come to a sentry with a red flag who stops you and points to a large placard—VEHICLES 4 MILES AN HOUR. Dust must not be Raised. The Hun has probably got a gun or two laid on this bit of road and his observer is watching patiently for a tell-tale wisp of dust! After this it will probably not be very long before you have to get out and walk. Road under Enemy Observation—No Traffic of any Kind Beyond this Point During Daylight Hours.

There will be another sentry here and he will show you the way to the communication trench unless your work is of some special nature and you have a pass that entitles you to walk on and risk it.

As soon as the trench zone is reached notices and signboards are more frequent than ever. In addition to our own direction posts and trench names there are also, frequently, relics of the French occupation. Vers le Front, Vers l’Arrière, or the names of communication and fire trenches, such as Boyau Rideau, Tranchée Illot.

Again as we approach the firing line the remarks of the wag and the humorist are more frequent. In one place there is a board with a finger pointing to a peculiarly unhealthy sap and inscribed—To The War! A frequently shelled trench junction bears the legend—Don’t Stand About Here—There’s A War On!

The signpost To Berlin is of course common—or was.

Many of the dug-outs bear fantastic names and, in addition to notices giving the designation of those who occupy them, often have other inscriptions, hospitable or otherwise, such as Dew Drop Inn or No Room Here. Those with a double entrance sometimes display the most fearful threats to those who would attempt to go in by the ‘out’ passage, whereas some such remark as The Only Way is inscribed over the correct entrance.

It must be remarked, however, that any apparent inhospitality is usually in the interests of the service—the nearer one gets to the front line the more hospitable are the Messes.

The mural decorations of the dug-outs are also worthy of more than superficial notice, as they often reflect the interests or character of the occupants. The pretty faces of ‘Harrison Fisher,’ ‘Philip Boileau,’ and other girls smile at one from the walls of many of these abodes, and Bairnsfather pictures caricaturing the very scenes of the life going on outside are to be seen everywhere. Grim pictures of the war from the pen of Matania and other artists may be found in the dug-outs of some of the more serious-minded, while others show their hankering after yachting, shooting, or racing. A total of many thousands of square feet of wall space must be taken up by cuttings from the ‘Vie Parisienne,’ and in many cases, more especially in the French lines, the occupant himself has been responsible for the pictures and designs in his quarters.

The enemy, too, has his notice boards, and some of them are written and stuck up on the parapet for our benefit or otherwise. Insulting remarks are not infrequently displayed in this way. Sometimes he brags about some big gun he is bringing up to shell our back billets with, sometimes we are told that he is quite ready for our attack on such and such a date—information which is usually incorrect. The German notice with which continental travellers were, perhaps, most familiar before the war is conspicuous by its absence—Nicht Hinauslehnen; it would, however, be a most appropriate warning for visitors to the trenches!

On captured ground some of the German notices and signs still remain, but many have been replaced. A spot which had once been used by the Germans as a dump for stores is now labelled—Fritz’s Dump—Under Entirely New Management!

Those who have their being in the observation posts are particularly shy of visitors and—No Admittance—placards of all descriptions greet one at their entrances. In this the observers show their wisdom, for the inexperienced may unwittingly give away the position to the enemy.

It is not always necessary to show oneself to do this. A few puffs of smoke from a pipe, or the use of a telescope without a protecting cowl to keep the sun from reflecting in it, may bring about destruction. I remember a careless Hun drawing attention to an otherwise well concealed post by flourishing an unshaded telescope in the sunlight!

A comic relief to a scene of havoc and destruction in an observation post was once presented to me by a portion of a printed notice giving instructions as to what observers were to look out for and report. The post had been spotted, and after the expenditure of many rounds, the enemy had at last obtained a direct hit. Crawling in through the débris to report the damage, I was confronted by a broken beam to which item 2 of the notice was still adhering—What Are The German Guns Firing At? Would that the answer had been less easy to guess!