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Yii Application
Development
Cookbook
Second Edition

A Cookbook covering both practical Yii application

development tips and the most important Yii features

Alexander Makarov

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
Yii Application Development Cookbook
Second Edition

Copyright © 2013 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher,
except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of the
information presented. However, the information contained in this book is sold without
warranty, either express or implied. Neither the author, nor Packt Publishing, and its dealers
and distributors will be held liable for any damages caused or alleged to be caused directly
or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all of the companies
and products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals. However, Packt
Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: August 2011

Second edition: April 2013

Production Reference: 1150413

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place
35 Livery Street
Birmingham B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-78216-310-7

www.packtpub.com

Cover Image by Alexander Makarov (sam@rmcreative.ru)

 Credits

Author Project Coordinator

Alexander Makarov Kranti Berde

Reviewers Proofreaders
Maurizio Domba Maria Gould
Thomas Jantz Paul Hindle
Lawrence A. Herman
Acquisition Editor
Usha Iyer Indexer
Hemangini Bari
Lead Technical Editor
Joel Noronha Graphics
Ronak Dhruv
Technical Editors
Hardik B. Soni Production Coordinator
Ankita Meshram Nilesh R. Mohite

Cover Work
Nilesh R. Mohite
 About the Author

Alexander Makarav is an experienced engineer from Russia and has been a Yii
framework core team member since 2010. Before joining the Yii core team, he participated
in the CodeIgniter community growth in Russia. In 2009, he finished the Russian translation
of the framework documentation and created the Russian community website. In 2012, he
released the Russian version of the book along with Russian community members. In the
same year, he was the technical reviewer for three more books:

ff The Yii Book: Developing Web Applications Using the Yii PHP Framework,
Larry Ullman
ff Web Application Development with Yii and PHP, Jeff Winesett
ff Yii Rapid Application Development Hotshot, Lauren O'Meara and James Hamilton

In his free time, Alexander writes technical blog at http://rmcreative.ru/, speaks at

conferences, and enjoys movies, music, traveling, photography, and languages. He currently
resides in Voronezh, Russia with his beloved wife and daughter.
 About the Reviewers

Maurizio Domba is a frontend and backend web developer with over 20 years of
professional experience in computer programming and 10 years in web development.
He is part of the Yii core development team since August 2010 and is an active member
of the Yii community.

At the moment he is developing intranet web applications for an export-import enterprise and
working on other international projects, always trying to help others to improve their code and
project usability.

When not programming the Web, he is programming his wife and kids, always with a smile on
his face, open-hearted and open-minded. He loves climbing, martial arts, meditation,
and salsa.

Thomas Jantz brings his background in language and art to his career as a web application
development consultant at Plum Flower Software. His projects include an emphasis on rapid
application development and user experience.
 www.PacktPub.com

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 Table of Contents
Preface 1
Chapter 1: Under the Hood 7
Introduction 7
Using getters and setters 7
Using Yii events 10
Using import and autoloading 17
Using exceptions 20
Configuring components 24
Configuring widget defaults 27
Using Yii core collections 28
Working with requests 32
Chapter 2: Router, Controller, and Views 37
Introduction 38
Configuring URL rules 38
Generating URLs by path 41
Using regular expressions in URL rules 45
Creating URL rules for static pages 48
Providing your own URL rules at runtime 51
Using a base controller 55
Using external actions 57
Displaying static pages with CViewAction 61
Using flash messages 63
Using the controller context in a view 64
Reusing views with partials 66
Using clips 68
Using decorators 70
Defining multiple layouts 71
Paginating and sorting data 73
Table of Contents

Chapter 3: AJAX and jQuery 77

Introduction 77
Loading a block through AJAX 77
Managing assets 83
Including resources in the page 88
Working with JSON 92
Passing configuration from PHP to JavaScript 95
Handling variable number of inputs 98
Rendering content at the client side 105
Chapter 4: Working with Forms 119
Introduction 119
Writing your own validators 119
Uploading files 122
Adding CAPTCHA 126
Customizing CAPTCHA 131
Creating a custom input widget with CInputWidget 134
Chapter 5: Testing Your Application 139
Introduction 139
Setting up the testing environment 139
Writing and running unit tests 143
Using fixtures 149
Testing the application with functional tests 155
Generating code coverage reports 160
Chapter 6: Database, Active Record, and Model Tricks 165
Introduction 166
Getting data from a database 166
Defining and using multiple DB connections 172
Using scopes to get models for different languages 175
Processing model fields with AR event-like methods 178
Applying markdown and HTML 181
Highlighting code with Yii 183
Automating timestamps 189
Setting up an author automatically 191
Implementing single table inheritance 193
Using CDbCriteria 197
Chapter 7: Using Zii Components 199
Introduction 199
Using data providers 199
Using grids 206

ii
 Table of Contents
Using lists 214
Creating custom grid columns 219
Chapter 8: Extending Yii 225
Introduction 225
Creating model behaviors 226
Creating components 232
Creating reusable controller actions 236
Creating reusable controllers 239
Creating a widget 243
Creating CLI commands 245
Creating filters 249
Creating modules 251
Creating a custom view renderer 258
Making extensions distribution-ready 263
Chapter 9: Error Handling, Debugging, and Logging 267
Introduction 267
Using different log routes 267
Analyzing the Yii error stack trace 274
Logging and using the context information 277
Implementing your own smart 404 handler 281
Chapter 10: Security 287
Introduction 287
Using controller filters 287
Using CHtml and CHtmlPurifier to prevent XSS 292
Preventing SQL injections 296
Preventing CSRF 301
Using RBAC 305
Chapter 11: Performance Tuning 313
Introduction 313
Following best practices 313
Speeding up session handling 317
Using cache dependencies and chains 321
Profiling an application with Yii 327
Leveraging HTTP caching 337
Chapter 12: Using External Code 343
Introduction 343
Using Zend Framework from Yii 343
Customizing the Yii autoloader 348
Using Kohana inside Yii 353

iii
Table of Contents
Using PEAR inside Yii 361
Using Composer with Yii 363
Chapter 13: Deployment 367
Introduction 367
Changing the Yii directory layout 367
Moving an application out of webroot 370
Sharing the framework directory 372
Moving configuration parts into separate files 374
Using multiple configurations to simplify the deployment 378
Implementing and executing cron jobs 381
Maintenance mode 383
Index 387

iv
 Preface
Yii is a very flexible and high-performance application development framework written in
PHP. It helps building web applications, from small to large-scale enterprise applications.
The framework name stands for Yes It Is (Yii). This is often the accurate and most concise
response to inquiries from those new to Yii such as: Is it fast? Is it secure? Is it professional?
Is it right for my next project? But the answer is an unequivocal, yes it is!

This cookbook contains 13 independent chapters full of recipes that will show you how to use
Yii efficiently. You will learn about the hidden framework gems, using core features, creating
your own reusable code base, using test-driven development, and many more topics that will
bring your knowledge to a whole new level!

What this book covers

Chapter 1, Under the Hood, provides information about the most interesting Yii features
hidden under the hood: events, import, autoloading, exceptions, component, widget
configuration, and many more.

Chapter 2, Router, Controller, and Views, is about handy things concerning the Yii URL
router, controllers, and views: URL rules, external actions and controllers, view clips,
decorators, and more.

Chapter 3, AJAX and jQuery, focuses on the Yii's client side that is built with jQuery—the most
widely used JavaScript library out there. It is very powerful and easy to learn and use. This
chapter focuses on Yii-specific tricks rather than jQuery itself.

Chapter 4, Working with Forms, shows how Yii makes working with forms a breeze and
documentation on it is almost complete. Still, there are some areas that need clarification
and examples. Some of the topics covered in this chapter are creating validators and input
widgets, uploading files, and using and customizing CAPTCHA.

Chapter 5, Testing Your Application, covers unit testing, functional testing, and generating
code coverage reports. Recipes follow a test-driven development approach. You will write tests
for several small applications and then implement functionality.
Preface

Chapter 6, Database, Active Record, and Model Tricks, is about working with databases
efficiently, when to use models and when not to, how to work with multiple databases, how to
automatically pre-process Active Record fields, and how to use powerful database criteria.

Chapter 7, Using Zii Components, covers data providers, grids, and lists: How to configure
sorting and searching, how to use grids with multiple related models, how to create your own
column types, and more.

Chapter 8, Extending Yii, shows not only how to implement your own Yii extension but also
how to make your extension reusable and useful for the community. In addition, we will focus
on many things you should do to make your extension as efficient as possible.

Chapter 9, Error Handling, Debugging, and Logging, reviews logging, analyzing the exception
stack trace, and own error handler implementation.

Chapter 10, Security, provides information about keeping your application secure according
to the general web application security principle "filter input, escape output." We will cover
topics such as creating your own controller filters, preventing XSS, CSRF, and SQL injections,
escaping output, and using role-based access control.

Chapter 11, Performance Tuning, shows how to configure Yii to gain extra performance. You
will learn a few best practices for developing an application that will run smoothly until you
have very high loads.

Chapter 12, Using External Code, focuses on using third-party code with Yii. We will use
Zend Framework, Kohana, and PEAR but you will be able to use any code after learning
how it works.

Chapter 13, Deployment, covers various tips that are especially useful on application
deployment, when developing an application in a team, or when you just want to make your
development environment more comfortable.

What you need for this book

In order to run the examples in this book, the following software will be required:

ff Web server: The 2.x version of Apache web server is preferred. Other versions and
web servers will work too, but configuration details are not provided.
ff Database server: The database server that can be used is MySQL 4+ with InnoDB
support (MySQL 5 or higher is recommended).
ff PHP: The PHP 5.2 or PHP 5.3 version can be used (PHP 5.3 recommended).
ff Yii: The latest Yii version can be used (1.1.x is recommended).

2
 Preface

Additionally, the following tools are not strictly required but are used for specific recipes:

ff PHPUnit
ff Xdebug
ff Selenium RC
ff PEAR
ff Smarty
ff memcached

Who this book is for

If you are a developer with a good knowledge of PHP5, are familiar with the basics of Yii, have
checked its definitive guide, and have tried to develop applications using Yii, then this book is
for you. Knowledge of the object-oriented approach and MVC pattern will be a great advantage
as Yii uses these extensively.

Conventions
In this book, you will find a number of styles of text that distinguish between different kinds of
information. Here are some examples of these styles, and an explanation of their meaning.

Code words in text, database table names, folder names, filenames, file extensions,
pathnames, dummy URLs, user input, and Twitter handles are shown as follows: "To declare
an event in your CComponent child class, you should add a method with a name starting
with on."

A block of code is set as follows:

defined('YII_DEBUG') or define('YII_DEBUG', false);
defined('YII_TRACE_LEVEL') or define('YII_TRACE_LEVEL', 0);

$yii=dirname(__FILE__).'/../framework/yii.php';
$config=dirname(__FILE__).'/../app/config/production.php';

require($yii);

Yii::createWebApplication($config)->run();

Any command-line input or output is written as follows:

cd path/to/protected/tests
phpunit unit/BBCodeTest.php

3
Preface

New terms and important words are shown in bold. Words that you see on the screen, in
menus or dialog boxes for example, appear in the text like this: "Now, go to the Gii controller
generator and enter SecureController into the Base Class field."

Warnings or important notes appear in a box like this.

Tips and tricks appear like this.

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To send the author feedback about the book, simply fill in the form at
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Now that you are the proud owner of a Packt book, we have a number of things to help you to
get the most from your purchase.

Downloading the example code

To get the example code files for this book visit http://yiicookbook.org/code.

Errata
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happen. If you find a mistake in one of our books—maybe a mistake in the text or the
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the details of your errata. Once your errata are verified, your submission will be accepted and
the errata will be uploaded on the book website at http://yiicookbook.org/errata.

4
 Preface

Piracy
Piracy of copyright material on the Internet is an ongoing problem across all media. At Packt,
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having a problem with any aspect of the book, and he will do his best to address it.

5
 Under the Hood
1
In this chapter, we will cover:

ff Using getters and setters

ff Using Yii events
ff Using import and autoloading
ff Using exceptions
ff Configuring components
ff Configuring widget defaults
ff Using Yii core collections
ff Working with requests

Introduction
In this chapter, we will cover the most interesting Yii features that are hidden "under the
hood". These are mostly described in the framework API, but since they are not mentioned
in the official guide (http://www.yiiframework.com/doc/guide/) or only mentioned
very briefly, only experienced Yii developers usually use these. However, the features
described here are relatively simple and using them makes development with Yii much
more fun and productive.

Using getters and setters

Yii has many features that came from other languages, such as Java or C#. One of them is
defining properties with getters and setters for any of the classes extended from CComponent
(that is, virtually any Yii class).
Under the Hood

From this recipe, you will learn how to define your own properties using getters and setters,
how to make your properties read-only, and how to hide custom processing behind native
PHP assignments.

How to do it...
1. As PHP does not have properties at the language level, we can only use getters and
setters in the following way:
class MyClass
{
// hiding $property
private $property;

// getter
public function getProperty()
{
return $this->property;
}

// setter
public function setProperty($value)
{
$this->property = $value;
}
}

$object = new MyClass();

// setting value
$object->setProperty('value');

// getting value
echo $object->getProperty();

2. This syntax is very common in the Java world but it is a bit long to use in PHP.
Still, we want to use the same functionality that C# properties gives us: calling
getters and setters like class members ($model->property instead of $model-
>getProperty()). With Yii, we can do it in the following way:
// extending CComponent is necessary
class MyClass extends CComponent
{
private $property;

public function getProperty()

{

8
 Chapter 1
return $this->property;
}

public function setProperty($value)

{
$this->property = $value;
}
}

$object = new MyClass();

$object->property = 'value'; // same as $object->
setProperty('value');
echo $object->property; // same as $object->getProperty();

3. Using this feature, you can make properties read-only or write-only while keeping the
simple PHP syntax as follows:
class MyClass extends CComponent
{
private $read = 'read only property';
private $write = 'write only property';

public function getRead()

{
return $this->read;
}

public function setWrite($value)

{
$this->write = $value;
}
}

$object = new MyClass();

// gives us an error since we are trying to write

// to read-only property. Note that there's no setRead setter
// method.
$object->read = 'value';

// echoes 'read only property'

echo $object->read;

// gives us an error since we are trying to read

// to write-only property. Note that there's no getWrite getter
// method.
echo $object->write;

// writes 'value' to private $write

$object->write = 'value';

9
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
“Parade! Tchern!!” shouted Sergeant-Major Shandon; and a moment
later the four company commanders came to attention and saluted
as the Colonel passed in, sprinkling “Good mornings” to right and
left.

I had one very uninteresting case of drunkenness; “A” had a couple

of men who had overstayed their pass in England; “C” had a case
held over from the day before for further evidence, and was now
dismissed as not proven; while “D” had an unsatisfactory sergeant
who was “severely reprimanded.” All these cases were quickly and
unerringly disposed of, and we company commanders saluted again
and clattered down the winding staircase out into the sunshine.

I had to pass from one end of the village to the other. The orderly-
room was not far from our company “Mess” and was at a cross-
roads. Opposite, in one of the angles made by the junction of the
four roads, was a deep and usually muddy horse-pond. But even
here the mud was getting hard under this spell of warm May
weather, and the innumerable ruts and hoof-marks were crystallising
into a permanent pattern. As I walked along the streets I passed
sundry Tommies acting as road-scavengers; “permanent road
fatigue” they were called, although they were anything but
permanent, being changed every day. Formerly they had seemed to
be engaged in a Herculean, though unromantic, task of scraping
great rolling puddings of mud to the side of the road, in the vain
hope that the mud would find an automatic exit into neighbouring
gardens and ponds; for Morlancourt did not boast such modern
things as gutters. To-day there were large pats of mud lining the
street, but these were now caked and hard, and even crumbling into
dust, that whisked about among the sparrows. The permanent road
fatigue was gathering waste-paper and tins in large quantities, but
otherwise was having a holiday.

Women were working, or gossiping at the doorsteps. The estaminet

doors were flung wide open, and the floors were being scrubbed and
sprinkled with sawdust. A little bare-legged girl, in a black cotton
dress, was hugging a great wide loaf; an old man sat blinking in the
sunshine; cats were basking, dogs nosing about lazily. A party of
about thirty bombers passed me, the sergeant giving “eyes right”
and waking me from meditations on the eternal calm of cats. Then I
reached the headquarter guard, and the sentry saluted with a
rattling clap upon his butt, and I did my best to emulate his
smartness. So I passed along all the length of the shuttered houses
of Morlancourt.

“A great day, this,” I thought, as I came to the small field where “B”
Company was paraded; not two hundred and fifty men, as you will
doubtless assume from the text-books, but some thirty or forty men
only; one was lucky if one mustered forty. Where were the rest, you
ask? Well, bombers bombing; Lewis gunners under Edwards; some
on “permanent mining fatigue,” that is, carrying the sand-bags from
the mine-shafts to the dumps; transport, pioneers, stretcher-
bearers, men under bombing instruction, officers’ servants,
headquarter orderlies, men on leave, etc. etc. The company
sergeant-major will make out a parade slate for you if you want it,
showing exactly where every man is. But here are forty men. Let’s
drill them.

Half were engaged in arm-drill under my best drill-sergeant; the

other half were doing musketry in gas-helmets, an unpleasant
practice which nothing would induce me to do on a sunny May
morning. They lay on their fronts, legs well apart, and were working
the bolts of their rifles fifteen times a minute. After a while they
changed over and did arm-drill, while the other half took over the
gas-helmets, the mouthpieces having first been dipped in a solution
of carbolic brought by one of the stretcher-bearers in a canteen.
These gas-helmets were marked D.P. (drill purposes), and each
company had so many with which to practise.

When both parties were duly exercised, I gave a short lecture on the
measures to be adopted against the use of Flammenwerfer, which is
the “Liquid Fire” of the official communiqués. I had just been to a
demonstration of this atrocity in the form of a captured German
apparatus, and my chief object in lecturing the men about it was to
make it quite clear that the flaming jets of burning gas cannot sink
into a trench, but, as a matter of fact, only keep level so long as
they are propelled by the driving power of the hose apparatus; as
water from a hose goes straight, and then curves down to the
ground, so gas, even though it be incandescent, goes straight and
then rises. In the trench you are unscathed, as we proved in the
demonstration, when they sprayed the flaming gas over a trench full
of men. Indeed, the chief effect of this flammenwerfer is one of
frightfulness, as the Germans cannot come over until the flames
have ceased. The men were rather inclined to gape at all this, but I
found the words had sunk in when I asked what should be done if
the enemy used this diabolical stuff against us. “Get down at the
bottom of the trench, sir, and as soon as they stop it, give the ——’s
’ell!”

The rest of the morning we spent “on the range,” which meant firing
into a steep chalk bank at a hundred yards. Targets and paste-pot
had been procured from the pioneers’ shop, and after posting a
couple of “look-out” men on either side, we started range practice.
The men are always keen about firing on the range, and it is really
the most interesting and pleasant part of the infantryman’s training.
I watched these fellows, hugging their rifle-butt into their shoulder,
and feeling the smooth wood against their cheeks; they wriggled
their bodies about to get a comfortable position; sometimes they
flinched as they fired and jerked the rifle; sometimes they pressed
the trigger as softly, as softly.... And gradually, carefully, we tried to
detect and eliminate the faults. Then we ended up with fifteen
rounds rapid in a minute. The “mad minute” it used to be called at
home. After which we fell the men in, and Paul marched them back
to the company “alarm post” outside the company office, where “B”
Company always fell in; while Owen, Nicolson, and I walked back
together.

II. Afternoon
“I still maintain,” said I, an hour later, as we finished lunch, “that
bully-beef, some sort of sauce or pickle, and salad, followed by
cheese, and ending with a cup of tea, is the proper lunch for an
officer. I don’t mind other officers having tinned fruit, though, if they
like it,” I added with a laugh.

Owen and Syme were newly joined officers for whom the sight of
tinned pears or apricots had not yet lost a certain glamour that
disappeared after months and months. They were just finishing the
pear course. Hence my last remark.

“I bet if we allowed you to have bully every day,” came from

Edwards, our Mess president, “you’d soon get sick of it.”

“Try,” said I, knowing that he never would. I always used to eat of

the hot things that would appear at lunch, to the detriment of a
proper appreciation of dinner; but I always maintained the position
laid down in the first sentence of this section.

I lit a pipe and strolled out into the garden. This was undoubtedly an
ideal billet, and a great improvement on the butcher’s shop, where
they used always to be killing pigs in the yard and letting the blood
run all over the place. It was a long, one-storied house, set back
about fifty yards from the road; this fifty yards was all garden, and,
at the end, completely shutting off the road, was a high brick wall.
On each side of the garden were also high walls formed by the sides
of stables and outhouses; the garden was thus completely walled
round, and the seclusion and peace thus entrapped were a very
priceless possession to us.

The garden itself was full of life. There were box-bordered paths up
both sides and down the centre, and on the inner side of the paths
was an herbaceous border smelling very sweet of wallflowers and
primulas of every variety. Although it was still May, there were
already one or two pink cabbage-roses out; later, the house itself
would be covered with them; already the buds were showing yellow
streaks as they tried to burst open their tight green sheaths. In the
centre of the garden ran a cross path with a summer-house of
bamboo canes completely covered with honeysuckle; that, too, was
budding already. The rest of the garden was filled with rows of
young green things, peas, and cabbages, and I know not what,
suitably protected against the ravages of sparrows and finches by
the usual miniature telegraph system of sticks connected by cotton
decorated with feathers and bits of rag. Every bit of digging, hoeing,
weeding and sowing were performed by Madame and her two black-
dressed daughters in whose house we were now living, and who
were themselves putting up in the adjoining farmhouse, which
belonged to them.

I said that they had done all the digging in the garden. I should
make one reservation. All the potato-patch had been dug by our
servants, with the assistance of Gray, the cook. Nor did they do it in
gratitude to Madame, as, doubtless, ideal Tommies would have
done. A quarter of it was done by Lewis, for carelessness in losing
my valise; nearly half by the joint effort of the whole crew for a
thoroughly dirty turn-out on commanding officer’s inspection; and
the rest for various other defalcations! We never told Madame the
reasons for their welcome help; and I am quite sure they never did!

“The worst of this war,” said I to Edwards, puffing contentedly at a

pipeful of Chairman, “is this: it’s too comfortable. You could carry on
like this for years, and years, and years.”

“Wasn’t so jolly last time in,” muttered the wise Edwards.

“That’s exactly the point,” I answered; “life in the trenches we all

loathe, and no one makes any bones about it or pretends to like it—
except for a few rare exciting minutes, which are very few and far
between. But you come out into billets, and recover; and so you can
carry on. It’s not concentrated enough.”

“It’s more concentrated for the men than for us.”

“Well, yes, very often; but they haven’t the strain of responsibility.
Yes, you are right though; and it’s less concentrated for the C.O., still
less for the Brigadier, and so on back to the Commander-in-Chief;
and still further to men who have never seen a trench at all.”

“I dare say,” said Edwards; “but, as the phrase goes, ‘What are you
going to do abaht it?’ Here’s Jim. Old Muskett’s going to send me a
nag at five, so I’m going out after tea. Will you be in to tea?”

“Don’t know.”

As I tightened my puttees preparatory to mounting the great Jim,

Edwards started his gramophone; so leaving them to the strains of
Tannhäuser, I bestrode my charger and steered him gracefully down
the garden path, under the brick archway, and out into the street.

Myself on a horse always amused me, especially when it was called

an “officer’s charger.” Jim was not fiery, yet he was not by any
means sluggish, and he went fast at a gallop. He suited me very well
indeed when I wanted to go for an afternoon’s ride; for he was quite
content to walk when I wanted to muse, and to gallop hard when I
wanted exhilaration. I hate a horse that will always be trotting. I
know it is best style to trot; but my rides were not for style, but for
pleasure, exercise, and solitude. And Jim fell in admirably with my
requirements. But, as I say, the idea that I was a company-
commander on his charger always amused me.

I rode, as I generally did, in a south-easterly direction, climbing at a

walk one of the many roads that led out of Morlancourt towards the
Bois des Tailles. When I reached the high ground I made Jim gallop
along the grass-border right up to the edge of the woods. There is
nothing like the exhilaration of flying along, you cannot imagine
how, with the great brown animal lengthening out under you for all
he is worth! I pulled him up and turned his head to the right, leaving
the road, and skirting the edge of the wood. At last I was alone.
In the clearings of the wood the ground was a sheet of blue
hyacinths, whose sweet scent came along on the breeze; their
fragrance lifted my spirit, and I drank in deep breaths of the early
summer air. I took off my cap to feel the sun full on my face. On the
ground outside the wood were still a few late primroses interspersed
with cowslips, stubborn and jolly; and as I rounded a bend in the
wood-edge, I found myself looking across a tiny valley, the opposite
face of which was a wooded slope, with all the trees banked up on it
as gardeners bank geraniums in tiers to give a good massed effect.
So, climbing the hill-side, were all these shimmering patches of
green, yellow-green, pea-green, yellow, massed together in
delightful variety; and dotted about in the middle of them were
solitary patches of white cherry-blossom, like white foam breaking
over a reef, in the midst of a great green sea. And across this perfect
softness from time to time the bold black and white of magpies cut
with that vivid contrast with which Nature loves to baffle the poor
artist.

“Come on, old boy,” I said, as I reached the bottom of this little
valley; and trotting up the other side, and through a ride in the
wood, I came out on the edge of the Valley of the Somme. I then
skirted the south side of the wood until I reached a secluded corner
with a view across the valley: here I dismounted, fastened Jim to a
tree, loosened his girths, and left him pulling greedily at the grass at
his feet. Then I threw myself down on the grass to dream.

My thoughts ran back to my conversation with Edwards. Perhaps it

was best not to think too hard, but I could no more stifle my
thoughts than can a man his appetite. Responsibility. Responsibility.
And those with the greatest responsibility endure and see the least;
no one has more to endure than the private soldier in the infantry,
and no one has less responsibility or power of choice. I thought of
our last six days in the trenches. When “A” Company were in the
line, the first three days, we had been bombarded heavily at “stand-
to” in the evening. In Maple Redoubt it had been bad enough. There
was one sentry-post a little way up Old Kent Road; by some mistake
a bomber had been put on duty there, whereas it was a bayonet-
man’s post, the bombers having a special rôle in case of the enemy
attacking. I found this mistake had been made, but did not think it
was worth altering. And that man was killed outright by a shell.

In the front line “A” Company had had several killed and wounded,
and I had had to lend them half my bombers; as I had placed two
men on one post, a canister had burst quite a long way off, but the
men cowered down into the trench. I cursed them as hard as I
could, and then I saw that in the post were the two former
occupants lying dead, killed half an hour ago where they lay, and
where I was placing my two men. I stopped my curses, and inwardly
directed them against myself. And there I had to leave these fellows,
looking after me and thinking, “He’s going back to his dug-out.” Ah!
no, they knew me better than to think like that. Yet I had to go
back, leaving them there. I should never forget that awful weight of
responsibility that suddenly seemed visualised before me. Could I
not see their scared faces peering at me, even as now I seemed to
smell the scent of pear-drops with which the trench was permeated,
the Germans having sent over a few lachrymatory shells along with
the others that night?

Ah! Why was I living all this over again, just when I had come away
to get free of all this awhile, and dream? I had come out to enjoy
the sunshine and the peace, just as Jim was enjoying the grass
behind me. I listened. There was a slight jingle of the bit now and
again, and a creaking of leather, and always that drawing sound,
with an occasional purr, as the grass was torn up. I could not help
looking round at last. “You pig,” I said; but my tone did not
altogether disapprove of complacent piggishness.

In front of me lay the blue water of the Somme Canal, and the pools
between it and the river; long parallel rows of pale green poplars
stretched along either bank of the canal; and at my feet, half hidden
by the slope of the ground, lay the sleepy little village of Etinehem.
There was a Sunday afternoon slumber over everything. Was it
Sunday? I thought for a moment. No, it was Thursday, and to-
morrow we went “in” again. I deliberately switched my thoughts
away from the trenches, and they flew to the events of the morning.
I could see my fellows lying, so keen—I might almost say so happy—
blazing away on the range. One I remembered especially. Private
Benjamin, a boy with a delicate eager face, who came out with the
last draft: he came from a village close up to Snowdon; he was
shooting badly, and very concerned about it. I lay down beside him
and showed him how to squeeze the trigger, gradually, ever so
gradually. Oh! these boys! Responsibility. Responsibility.

“This is no good,” I said to myself at last, and untied Jim and rode
again. I went down into the valley, and along the green track
between an avenue of poplars south of the canal until at last I came
to Sailly-Laurette, and so back and in to Morlancourt from the south-
west. It was six o’clock by the time I stooped my head under the
gateway into our garden, and for the last hour or so I had almost
forgotten war at last.

“Hullo,” was the greeting I received from Owen. “There’s no tea left.”

“I don’t want any tea,” I answered. “Has the post come?”

There were three letters for me. As I slept at a house a little

distance away, I took the letters along with me.

“I’m going over to my room to clean up,” I shouted to Owen, who

was reading inside the Mess-room. “What time’s old Jim coming in?”

“Seven o’clock!”

“All right,” I answered. “I’ll be over by seven.”

III. Evening

As I walked up the garden path a few minutes before seven, I had

to pass the kitchen door, where the servants slept, lived, and cooked
our meals. I had a vision of Private Watson, the cook, busy at the
oven; he was in his shirt-sleeves, hair untidy, trousers very grimy,
and altogether a very unmartial figure. There seemed to be a
dispute in progress, to judge from the high pitch to which the voices
had attained. On these occasions Lewis’ piping voice reached an
incredible falsetto, while his face flushed redder than ever.

Watson, Owen’s servant, had superseded Gray as officers’ mess

cook; the latter had, unfortunately, drunk one or two glasses of beer
last time in billets, and, to give his own version, he “somehow felt
very sleepy, and went down and lay under a bank,” and could
remember nothing more until about ten o’clock, when he humbly
reported his return to me. Meanwhile Watson had cooked the dinner,
which was, of course, very late; and as he did it very well, and as
Gray’s explanation seemed somewhat vague, we decided to make
Watson cook, let Gray try a little work in the company for a change,
and get the sergeant-major to send Owen another man for servant.
Watson had signalised the entry to his new appointment by a quarrel
with Madame (the Warwicks had managed to “bag” this ideal billet
of ours temporarily, and we were in a much less comfortable one the
last two occasions out of trenches); eventually Madame had hurled
the frying-pan at him, amid a torrent of unintelligible French; neither
could understand a word the other was saying, of course. Gray had
been wont, I believe, to “lie low and say nuffin,” like Brer Fox, when
Madame, who was old and half-crazed, came up and threw water on
the fire in a fit of unknown anger. But Watson’s blood boiled at such
insults from a Frenchwoman, and hence had followed a sharp
contention ending in the projection of the frying-pan. Luckily, we
were unmolested here: Watson could manage the dinner, anyway.

I entered our mess-room, which was large, light, and boasted a

boarded floor; it was a splendid summer-room, though it would have
been very cold in winter. There I found a pile of literature awaiting
me; operation orders for to-morrow, giving the hour at which each
company was to leave Morlancourt, and which company of the
Manchesters it was to relieve, and when, and where, and the route
to be taken; there were two typed documents “for your information
and retention, please,” one relating to prevention of fly-trouble in
billets, the other giving a new code of signals and marked “Secret”
on the top, and lastly there was Comic Cuts. Leaving the rest, I
hastily skimmed through the latter, which contained detailed
information of operations carried out, and intelligence gathered on
the corps front during the last few days. At first these were intensely
interesting, but after seven months they began to pall, and I grew
expert at skimming through them rapidly.

Then Jim Potter came in, and Comic Cuts faded into insignificance.

“Here, Owen,” said I, and threw them over to him.

Captain and Quartermaster Jim Potter was the Father of the

battalion. He had been in the battalion sixteen years, and had come
out with them in 1914; twice the battalion had been decimated, new
officers had come and disappeared, commanding officers had
become brigadiers and new ones taken their place, but “Old Jim”
remained, calm, unaltered, steady as a rock, good-natured, and an
utter pessimist. I first introduced him in Chapter I, when I spent the
night in his billet prior to my first advent into the trenches. I was a
little perturbed then by his pessimism. Now I should have been very
alarmed if he had suddenly burst into a fit of optimism.

“Well, Jim,” we said, “how are things going? When’s the war going to
end?”

“Oh! not so very long now.” We gaped at this unexpected reply.

“Because,” he added, “you know, Bill, it’s the unexpected that always
happens in this war. Hullo! You’ve got some pretty pictures, I see.”
We had been decorating the walls with the few unwarlike pictures
that were still to be found in the illustrated papers.

“Not a bad place, Blighty,” he resumed, gazing at a picture entitled

“Home, Sweet Home!” There had been a little dispute as to whether
it should go up, owing to its sentimental nature. At last “The
Warwicks will like it,” we had said, and up it had gone. The Warwicks
had our billet, when we were “in.”

“Tell us about your leave,” we said, and Jim began a series of

delightful sarcastic jerks about the way people in England seemed to
be getting now a faint glimmering conception that somewhere there
was a war on.

The joint was not quite ready, Edwards explained to me, drawing me
aside a minute; would old Jim mind? The idea of old Jim minding
being quite absurd, we decided on having a cooked joint a quarter of
an hour hence, rather than a semi-raw one now; and we told Jim
our decision. It seemed to suit him exactly, as he had had tea late.
There never was such an unruffled fellow as he; had we wanted to
begin before the time appointed, he would have been ravenous. So
he continued the description of his adventures on leave. Meanwhile I
rescued Comic Cuts from the hands of Paul, and despatched them,
duly initialled, by the trusty Davies to “C” Company. Just as I had
done so the sergeant-major appeared at the door.

“You know the time we move off to-morrow?” I said.

Yes, he had known that long before I did, by means of the
regimental sergeant-major and the orderly sergeant.

“Fall in at 8.15,” I said. “Everything the same as usual. All the

officers’ servants, and Watson, are to fall in with the company; this
straggling in independently, before or after the company, will stop
once and for all.” Lewis’ face, as he laid the soup-plates, turned half
a degree redder than usual.

“There’s nothing more?” I said.

“No, that’s all, sir.”

The sergeant-major drained off his whiskey with a dash of Perrier,

and prepared to go. Now was the psychological moment when one
learnt any news there was to learn about the battalion.

“No news, I suppose?” I asked.

“The fellows are still talking about this ‘rest,’ sir. No news about that,
I suppose?” said the sergeant-major.

“Only that it’s slightly overdue,” I answered, with a laugh. “What do

you think, Jim? Any likelihood of this three weeks’ rest coming off?”

“Oh, yes; I should think so,” said the quartermaster. “Any time next
year.”

“Good night, sir,” said Sergeant-Major Brown, with a grin.

“Good night, Sergeant-Major,” came in a chorus as he disappeared

into the garden.

“Soup’s ready, sir,” said Lewis. And we sat down to dine.

The extraordinary thing about having Jim Potter in to dinner was

that an extra elaborate menu was always provided, and yet old Jim
himself always ate less than anyone else; still, he did his share nobly
with the whiskey, so that made up for it, I suppose. To-night
Edwards planned “sausages and mash” as an entrée; but, whether
through superior knowledge or a mere misunderstanding, the
sausages arrived seated carefully on the top of the round of beef,
like marrons-glacés stuck on an iced cake. As the dish was placed,
amid howls of execration, on the table, one of the unsteadier
sausages staggered and fell with a splash into the gravy, much to
everyone’s delight; Edwards, wiping the gravy spots off his best
tunic, seemed the only member of the party who did not greet with
approbation this novel dish.

After soup, sausages and beef, and rice-pudding and tinned fruit,
came Watson’s special dish—cheese au gratin on toast. This was a
glutinous concoction, and a little went a long way. Then followed
café au lait made in the teapot, which was the signal for cigarettes
to be lit up, and chairs to be moved a little to allow of a comfortable
expansion of legs. Owen proposed sitting out in the summer-house,
but on going outside reported that it was a little too chilly. So we
remained where we were.

Edwards was talking of Amiens: he had been there for the day
yesterday, and incidentally discovered that there was a cathedral
there.

“I know it,” said I. “I used to go there every Saturday when I was at

the Army School.”

“You had a good time at the Army School, didn’t you?” asked Jim.

“Tip-top time,” said I. “It’s a really good show. The Commandant

was the most wonderful man we ever met. By the way, that concert
Tuesday night was a really good show.”

Jim Potter and Edwards had got it up; it had been an al fresco affair,
and the night had been ideally warm for it. Edwards had trained a
Welsh choir with some success. Several outsiders had contributed,
the star of the evening being Basil Hallam, the well-known music-
hall artist, whose dainty manner, reminding one of the art of Vesta
Tilley, and impeccable evening clothes had produced an
unforgettably bizarre effect in the middle of such an audience and
within sound of the guns. He was well known to most of the men as
“the bloke that sits up in the sausage.” For any fine day, coming out
of trenches or going in, you could see high suspended the
“sausage,” whose home and “base” was between Treux and
Mericourt, and whose occupant and eye was Basil Hallam. And so
the “sausage bloke” was received enthusiastically at our concert.

As we talked about the concert, Owen began singing “Now Florrie

was a Flapper,” which had been Basil Hallam’s most popular song,
and as he sang he rose from his chair and walked about the room;
he was evidently enjoying himself, though his imitation of Basil
Hallam was very bad indeed. As he sang, we went on talking.

“A good entry in Comic Cuts to-night,” I remarked. “‘A dog was

heard barking in Fricourt at 11 p.m.’ Someone must have been hard
up for intelligence to put that in.”

“A dog barking in Fricourt,” said old Jim, warming up. “‘A dog
barking in Fricourt.’ What’s that—Corps stuff? I never read the thing;
good Lord, no! That’s what it is to have a Staff—‘A dog barking in
Fricourt!’”

“The Corps officer didn’t hear it,” said I. “It was some battalion
intelligence officer that was such a fool as to report it.”

“Fool?” said old Jim. “I’d like to meet the fellow. He’s the first fellow
I’ve ever met yet who has a just appreciation of the brain capacity of
the Staff. You or I might have thought of reporting a dog’s mew, or
roar, or bellow; but a dog’s bark we should have thought of no
interest whatever to the—er—fellows up there, you know, who plan
our destinies.” And he gave an obsequious flick of his hand to an
imaginary person too high up to see him at all.
“He’s a good fellow,” he repeated, “that intelligence officer. Ought to
get a D.S.O.”

Old Jim had two South African medals, a D.C.M. and a D.S.O.

“The Staff,” he went on, with the greatest contempt he could put
into his voice. “I saw three of them in a car to-day. I stood to
attention: saluted. A young fellow waved his hand, you know;
graciously accepted my salute, you know, and passed on leaning
back in his limousin. The ‘Brains of the British Army,’ I thought. Pah!”

We waited. Jim on the Staff was the greatest entertainment the

battalion could offer. We tried to draw him out further, but he would
not be drawn. We tried cunningly, by indirect methods, enquiring his
views on whether there would be a push this year.

“Push!” he said. “Of course there will be a push. The Staff must have
something to show for themselves. ‘Shove ’em in,’ they say; ‘rather a
bigger front than last time.’ Strategy? Oh, no! That’s out of date, you
know. Five-mile front—frontal attack. Get a few hundred thousand
mown down, and then discover the Boche has got a second line. The
Staff. Pah!!” And no more would he say.

Then Clark came in, and the Manchester Stokes gun officer. Clark
immediately joined Owen in a duet on “Florrie.” Then we went
through the whole gamut of popular songs, with appropriate actions
and stamping of feet upon the floor. Meanwhile the table was
cleared, only the whiskey and Perrier remaining. Soon there were
cries of “Napoleon—Napoleon,” and Owen, who bears a remarkable
resemblance to that great personage, posed tragically again and
again amid great applause. And then, in natural sequence, I, as “Bill,
the man wot won the Battle of Waterloo,” attacked him with every
species of trench-mortar I could lay hands on, my head swathed in a
remarkable turban of Daily Mail. At last I drove him into a corner
behind a table, and bombarded him relentlessly with oranges until
he capitulated! All the time Edwards had been in fear and trembling
for the safety of his gramophone.

At length peace was signed, and we grew quiet again beneath the
soothing strains of the gramophone, until at last Jim Potter said he
must really go. Everyone reminding everyone else that breakfast was
at seven, we broke up the party, and Owen, Paul, Jim Potter and I
departed together. But anyone who knows the psychology of
conviviality will understand that we had first to pay a visit to a
neighbouring Mess for one last whiskey-and-soda before turning in.

As I opened the door of my billet, I heard a “strafe” getting up.

There was a lively cannonade up in the line; for several minutes I
listened, until it diminished a little, and began to die away. “In” to-
morrow, I thought. My valise was laid out on the floor, and my
trench kit all ready for packing first thing next morning. I lost no
time in getting into bed. And yet I could not sleep.

I could not help thinking of the jollity of the last few hours, the
humour, the apparently spontaneous outburst of good spirits; and
most of all I thought of old Jim, the mainspring somehow of it all.
And again I saw the picture of the concert a few nights ago, the
bright lights of the stage, the crowds of our fellows, all their bodies
and spirits for the moment relaxed, good-natured, happy, as they
stood laughing in the warm night air. And lastly I thought again of
Private Benjamin, that refined eager face, that rather delicate body,
and that warm hand as I placed mine over his, squeezing the trigger.
He was no more than a child really, a simple-minded child of Wales.
Somehow it was more terrible that these young boys should see this
war, than for the older men. Yet were we not all children wondering,
wondering, wondering?... Yes, we were like children faced by a wild
beast. “Sometimes I dislike you almost,” I thought; “your dulness,
your coarseness, your lack of romance, your unattractiveness. Yet
that is only physical. You, I love really. Oh, the dear, dear world!”

And in the darkness I buried my face in the pillow, and sobbed.

 CHAPTER XV
“A CERTAIN MAN DREW A BOW AT A
VENTURE”

I T was ten o’clock as I came in from the wiring-party in front of

Rue Albert, and at that moment our guns began. We were in
Maple Redoubt. The moon had just set, and it was a still summer
night in early June.

“Come and have a look,” I called to Owen, who had just entered the
dug-out. I could see him standing with his back to the candlelight
reading a letter or something.

He came out, and together we looked across the valley at the

shoulder of down that was silhouetted by the continuous light of
gun-flickers. Our guns had commenced a two hours’ bombardment.

“No answer from the Boche yet,” I said.

“They’re firing on C 2, down by the cemetery.”

“Yes, I hardly noticed it; our guns make such a row. By Jove, it’s
magnificent.”

We gazed fascinated for a long time, and then went into the dug-out
where Edwards and Paul were snoring rhythmically. I read for half an
hour, but the dug-out was stuffy, and the smell of sand-bags and the
flickering of the candle annoyed me for some reason or other.
Somehow “Derelicts” by W. J. Locke failed to grip my attention.
Owing to our bombardment, there were no working-parties, in case
the Germans should take it into their head to retaliate vigorously.
But at present there was no sign of that.

I went outside again, and walked along Park Lane until I came to the
Lewis-gun position just this side of the corner of Watling Street. The
sentry was standing up, with his elbows on the ground level (there
was no parapet) gazing alert and interested at the continuous flicker
of our shells bursting along the enemy’s trenches. Lance-Corporal
Allan looked out of the dug-out, and, seeing me, came out and
stood by us. And together we watched, all three of us, in silence.
Overhead was the continual griding, screeching, whistling of the
shells as they passed over, without pause or cessation; behind was a
chain of gun-flickers the other side of the ridge; and in front was
another chain of flashes, and a succession of bump, bump, bumps,
as the shells burst relentlessly in the German trenches. And where
we stood, under the noisy arch, was a steady calm.

“This is all right, sir,” said Lance-Corporal Allan. He was the N.C.O. in
charge of this Lewis-gun team.

“Yes,” said I. “The artillery are not on short rations to-night.”

For always, through the last four months, the artillery had been
more or less confined to so many shells a day. The officers used to
tell us they had any amount of ammunition, yet no sooner were they
given a free hand to retaliate as much as we wanted, than an order
came cancelling this privilege. To-night at any rate there was no
curtailment.

“I believe this is the beginning of a new order of things,” I said, half

musing, to myself; “that is, I believe the Boche is going to get lots
and lots of this now.”

“About time, sir,” said the sentry.

“Is there a push coming off?” said Lance-Corporal Allan.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I expect we shall be doing something
soon. It’s quite certain we’re going to get our three weeks’ rest after
this turn in. The Brigade Major told me so.”

Corporal Allan smiled, and as he did so the flashes lit up his face. He
was quite a boy, only eighteen, I believe, but an excellent N.C.O. He
had a very beautiful though sensuous face that used to remind me
sometimes of the “Satyr” of Praxiteles. His only fault was an
inclination to sulkiness at times, which was perhaps due to a little
streak of vanity. It was no wonder the maidens of Morlancourt made
eyes at him, and a little girl who lived next door to the Lewis-
gunner’s billet was said to have lost her heart long ago. To-night I
felt a pang as I saw him smile.

“We’ll see,” I said. “Anyway it’s going to be a good show giving the
Boche these sort of pleasant dreams. Better than those one-minute
stunts.”

I was referring to a one-minute bombardment of Fricourt Wood, that

had taken place last time we were in the line. It was a good
spectacle to see the wood alive with flames, hear our Vickers’ guns
rattling hard behind us from the supports, and see the Germans
firing excited green and red rockets into the air. But the retaliation
had been unpleasant, and the whole business seemed not worth
while. This continuous pounding was quite different.

I went back and visited the other gun position, and spent a few
minutes there also. At last I turned in reluctantly. I went out again at
half-past eleven, and still the shells were screaming over. It seemed
the token of an irresistible power. And there was no reply at all now
from the German lines.

The short summer nights made life easier in some respects. We

“stood to” earlier, and it was quite light by three. As I turned in
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