Project Gutenberg's True Stories of The Great War Volume III, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
Title: True Stories of The Great War Volume III
Tales of Adventure-Heroic Deeds-Exploits told by the
Soldiers, Officers, Nurses, Diplomats, Eye Witnesses
Author: Various
Editor: Francis Trevelyan Miller
Release Date: May 31, 2015 [EBook #49099]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR, VOL 3 ***
Produced by Brian Coe, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR
TRUE STORIES
OF THE
GREAT WAR
TALES OF ADVENTURE--HEROIC DEEDS--EXPLOITS
TOLD BY THE SOLDIERS, OFFICERS, NURSES,
DIPLOMATS, EYE-WITNESSES
_Collected in Six Volumes
From Official and Authoritative Sources_
(_See Introductory to Volume I_)
VOLUME III
Editor-in-Chief
FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER (Litt. D., LL.D.)
Editor of The Search-Light Library
1917
REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1917, by
REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY
CONTENTS
The Board of Editors has selected for VOLUME III this group of
stories told by Soldiers, Naval Officers, Nurses, Nuns, Refugees,
Airmen, Spies, and other participants and eye-witnesses of the Great
War. They have been collected from twenty-three of the most authentic
sources in Europe and America, and include 143 personal adventures
and episodes. The selections have been made according to the plan
outlined in the Introductory to Volume I, for selecting from all
sources the "Best Stories of the War." Full credit is given in every
instance to the original source. All numerals are for the purpose of
identifying the various episodes and do not relate to the chapters in
the original volumes.--EDITORS.
VOLUME III--TWENTY-TWO STORY-TELLERS--143 EPISODES
WHAT I FOUND OUT IN THE HOUSE OF A GERMAN PRINCE 1
STORIES OF INTIMATE TALKS WITH THE HOHENZOLLERNS
Told by an English-American Governess
(Permission of Frederick A. Stokes Company, of New York)
"FROM CONVENT TO CONFLICT"--A VISION OF INFERNO 18
A NUN'S ACCOUNT OF THE INVASION OF BELGIUM
Told by Sister Antonia, Convent des Filles de Marie
(Permission of John Murphy Company, of Baltimore)
"WAR LETTERS OF AN AMERICAN WOMAN"--IN BLEEDING FRANCE 30
EXPERIENCES IN THE SIEGE OF PARIS
Told by Marie Van Vorst, American Novelist
(Permission of John Lane Company, London and New York)
"A GERMAN DESERTER'S WAR EXPERIENCE"--HIS ESCAPE 48
"THE INSIDE STORY OF THE GERMAN ARMY"
Told by--(Name Withheld)
(Permission of B. W. Huebsch, of New York)
"THE SOUL OF THE WAR"--TALES OF THE HEROIC FRENCH 70
REVELATIONS OF A WAR CORRESPONDENT
Told by Philip Gibbs
(Permission of Robert M. McBride and Company, New York)
"TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI"--IN THE LAND OF THE TURKS 91
ADVENTURES OF A NEWFOUNDLANDER
Told by John Gallishaw
(Permission of the Century Company, of New York)
SCENES "IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL" 106
STORIES OF A NURSE
Told by M. Eydoux-Demians
(Permission of Duffield and Company, of New York)
"FLYING FOR FRANCE"--HERO TALES OF BATTLES IN THE AIR 126
WITH THE AMERICAN ESCADRILLE AT VERDUN
Told by James R. McConnell
(Permission of Doubleday, Page and Company, of New York)
THE LOG OF THE "MOEWE"--TALES OF THE HIGH SEAS 166
THE ADVENTURES OF A MODERN PIRATE
Told by Count Dohna-Schlodien, her Commander
(Permission of Wide-World Magazine)
PRISONER'S VOYAGE ON GERMAN U-BOAT UNDER THE SEA 196
Told by--(Name Withheld by Request)
(Permission of New York Times)
THE DARKEST HOUR--FLEEING FROM THE BULGARIANS 208
OUR EXPERIENCES IN THE GREAT SERBIAN RETREAT
Told by Alice and Claude Askew
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
A MAGYAR PALADIN--A RITTMEISTER OF THE HUSSARS 222
ALONG THE ROAD FROM POLAND TO BUDAPEST
Told by Franz Molnar
(Permission of New York Tribune)
OUR ESCAPE FROM GERMAN SOUTH-WEST AFRICA 231
Told by Corporal H. J. McElnea
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
WHAT AN AMERICAN WOMAN SAW ON THE SERBIAN FRONT 261
HOW I VIEWED A BATTLE FROM A PRECIPICE
Told by Mrs. Charles H. Farnum of New York
(Permission of New York Sun)
"KAMERADS!"--CAPTURING HUNS IN THE ALPS WITHOUT
A FIGHT 270
DIARY OF A LIEUTENANT OF ALPINE CHASSEURS
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
LIFE ON A FRENCH CRUISER IN WAR TIME 282
"LES VAGABONDS DE LA GUERRE"
Told by René Milan
(Permission of Current History)
OVER THE TOP WITH THE AMERICANS IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 293
Told by Donald R. Thane
(Permission of New York Herald)
SECRET STORIES OF THE GERMAN SPY IN FRANCE 306
HOW SIXTY THOUSAND SPIES PREPARED FOR THE WAR
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
HOW STRONG MEN DIE--TALES OF THE WOUNDED 329
EXPERIENCES OF A SCOTTISH MINISTER
Told by Rev. Lauchlan Maclean Watt
(Permission of The Scotsman)
THROUGH JAWS OF DEATH IN A SUNKEN SUBMARINE 336
Told by Emile Vedel in L'Illustration, Paris
(Permission of New York World)
ESCAPE OF THE RUSSIAN LEADER OF THE "TERRIBLE
DIVISION" 343
TRUE STORY OF HOW GENERAL KORNILOFF ESCAPED
ACROSS HUNGARY
Told by Ivan Novikoff
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
THE AERIAL ATTACK ON RAVENNA 358
Told by Paoli Polettit in L'Illustrazione Italiana
(Permission of Current History)
[Illustration: Underwood & Underwood.
BRINGING IN A WOUNDED COMRADE
_Some of the Most Heroic Acts of the War Have Been Performed as Part
of the "Day's Work" of the Ambulance Corps. This French Ambulance
Attendant is Risking His Own Life During the French Offensive at Verdun
to Carry a Fellow Poilu Back Through the Woods Razed by German Gun
Fire._]
[Illustration: READING HOME NEWS BEFORE STARTING FOR THE TRENCHES]
[Illustration: HE CHARGED WITH HIS BATTALION A FEW HOURS EARLIER]
[Illustration: A FRIEND'S TURN YESTERDAY--HIS PERHAPS TODAY]
WHAT I FOUND OUT IN THE HOUSE OF A GERMAN PRINCE
_Stories of Intimate Talks with the Hohenzollerns_
_Told by an English-American Governess_
These true stories reveal for the first time the "inside workings"
of the German Court. They are told by a woman who overheard
conversations between the members of the House of Hohenzollern and
the military and diplomatic castes. She was governess in a German
princely house at the outbreak of the war, having secured her
position through Prince Henry of Prussia, whom she met in Washington,
during his visit to the United States. Her grandfather was an admiral
in the United States Navy. She tells frankly of her conversations
with the Kaiser, the Crown Prince, General von Bernhardi, the Krupps,
Count Zeppelin, General von Kluck, Herr Dernburg, and important
secret service people, who took her into their confidences. These
revelations (which have been published by _Frederick A. Stokes Co._,
of New York) are most absorbing reading. Here we are necessarily
limited to a selection of but six anecdotes from the hundreds of
entrancing stories in her book. The book is a valuable record of
her experiences as governess of two young princes at their game,
"destroying London before supper," to her final escape in disguise
after the war began.
By a coincidence, it was five years ago, on the day of my internment in
a German castle last August (1914), that I undertook to teach English
and other things to the children of that castle's owner. During four of
those years I did my duty to my three little charges as well as I knew
how. For the rest of the time, up to two days before the declaration of
war between France and Germany, my conduct may have been questionable:
but that was because I put duty to my country ahead of duty to the
family of a German prince. They were my employers; they trusted me,
and I am not sure whether I decided rightly or wrongly. All I know
is that I would do the same if I had to live through the experience
again....
As for the most important men who visited them, it is different. I
owe those persons nothing, and see no reason for disguising their
names. Most of them have now, of their own accord, thrown off their
peace-masks, and revealed themselves as enemies of England, if not of
humanity, outside German "kultur." What I have to tell will but show
how long they have held their present sentiments....
[1]I--A CONVERSATION WITH THE KAISER
My two Princes and their cousin were having an English lesson with me
in a summer-house close to their earthworks. It had been raining.
I was reading aloud a boys' book by George Henty which I had brought
among others from England for that purpose, and stopping at exciting
parts to get the children to criticize it in English. We were having
an animated discussion, and all three were clamoring for me to "go
on--go on!" when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path which
led to the summer-house. I did not look up, because I thought it might
be Lieutenant von X---- who was coming, and my charges were too much
excited to pay attention. But presently I realized that the crunching
had ceased, close to us. My back was half turned to the doorway, and
before beginning to read again, I looked round rather impatiently.
Two gentlemen in uniform were standing in the path, one a step or
two in advance of the other. Nobody who had seen any of the later
photographs could have failed to recognize the foremost officer as the
Kaiser, though the portraits were idealized. The face of the original
was older, the nose heavier, and the figure shorter, stockier than I
had expected. Nor had I been told about the scar high up on the left
cheek. I was so taken by surprise that I lost my presence of mind.
Jumping up, I dropped my book, and knocked over the light wicker chair
which was supposed to be of British manufacture. I was so ashamed of
my awkwardness--such a bad example to the children!--that I could
have cried. To make matters worse the Emperor burst out laughing, a
good-natured laugh, but embarrassing to me, as I was the object of his
merriment.
"I have upset the United Kingdom and the United States of America!"
his Imperial Majesty haw-hawed in good English, though in rather a
harsh voice, making a gesture of the right hand toward the chair of
alleged British make, and the fallen book with George Henty's name
on its back, at the same time giving me one of the most direct looks
I have ever had, full in the face. It seemed to challenge me, and I
remembered having heard that a short cut to the Kaiser's favor was a
smart repartee. The worst of it was that like a flash I thought of one
which would be pat, if impertinent, but I dared not risk it.
Luckily my two Princes rushed past me to throw themselves upon their
sovereign, and their cousin followed suit, more timidly. Perhaps she
had discovered that his Imperial Majesty does not much care for little
girls unless they are pretty.
The Kaiser was kind but short in his greeting of the children, and
did not seem to notice that they expected to be kissed. Probably he
was not satisfied as to their state of health, as they had been sent
out of an infected town, and he has never conquered his horror of
contagious diseases. With his right hand (he seldom uses the left)
on the dark head of the elder boy, he pivoted him round with rough
playfulness. "Don't you see that Miss ----'s chair and book are on the
floor?" inquired the "All Highest." "What is a gentleman's duty--I mean
pleasure--when a lady drops anything?"
"To pick it up," replied the child, his face red as he hurried back
into the summer-house and suited the action to the word.
"Very good, though late," said the Kaiser. Then, no doubt thinking
that I had had time to recover myself, he turned to me, more
quizzical than ever. "Perhaps according to present ideas in England
I am old-fashioned? But I hope you are not English enough to be a
suffragette, Miss ----?"
I recognized the great compliment of his knowing my name, as I am sure
he expected. I had heard already that suffragettes were to the Emperor
as red rags to a bull, and that he always brought up the subject with
Englishwomen when he met them for the first time. I ventured to remark
that to be English was not necessarily to be a suffragette.
He shook his finger at me like a schoolmaster, though he smiled.
"Ah, but you are not an Englishwoman, or you would not say that! All
these modern Englishwomen are suffragettes. Well, we should show them
what we think of them if they sent a deputation here. But while they
confine themselves to their own soil we can bless them. They are
sowing good seed for us to reap."
I had no idea what his Majesty meant by the last sentences, though
I could see that an innuendo was intended. His certainty that he
was right about all modern Englishwomen was only what I had seen in
visitors to Schloss ----, every one of whom, especially the Prussians,
knew far more about English ideas and customs than the English knew
about themselves. I had sometimes disputed their statements, though
without effect, but I could not contradict the Emperor. All I could do
was to wonder what he had meant by "sowing the good seed," and a glance
he had thrown to his aide-de-camp (or "adjutant," as the officer might
more Germanly be called), but it is only after these five years that I
have perhaps guessed the riddle. The Kaiser must even then have begun
to count on the weakening of England by its threatened "war of the
sexes."
* * * * *
The Emperor proceeded to introduce his officer attendant, who was a
Count von H----. He informed me that he and his suite had travelled all
night in the royal train, to inspect the nearby garrison and breakfast
with the officers. Having a short time to spare, he had arranged to
motor up to Schloss ---- and have a look at the children, in order that
he might report on the Princes' health to their mother and father the
next time they saw each other.
"No sign of the malady coming out in them?" he inquired. "And the
youngest? He, too, is all right?"
On hearing that the baby was not as well as could be wished, he looked
anxious, but cheered up when he heard that the feverishness was caused
by cutting teeth.
"That is not contagious!" said he. "Though some of us might be glad to
'catch' a wisdom tooth."
When he made a "witticism," he laughed out aloud, opening his mouth,
throwing back his head slightly with a little jerk, and looking one
straight in the eyes to see if one had appreciated the fun of the
saying. The more one laughed the better he seemed pleased, and the more
lively he became, almost like a merry child. But when the subject was
dismissed, and he began to think of something else, I noticed--not only
on that day, but on others, later--that occasionally an odd, wandering,
strained expression came into his eyes. For a moment he would appear
older than his age; though when his mind was fixed upon himself, and
he was "braced" by self-consciousness, he looked almost young and very
vital, if fatter than his favorite photographs represented him.
That day at Schloss ---- the Emperor did not stay with us longer than
twenty minutes at most, but he managed to chat about many things
in that time, the latter part of which was spent in talking with
Lieutenant von X----, to find whom he sent the younger of my Princes.
* * * * *
I have heard that the Kaiser is always anxious as to the first
impression he makes, even upon the most insignificant middle-class
person; and having delivered himself of this harangue, he set to
work to smooth me down before departing. He asked questions about
myself, and the family (his friends) with whom I had lived in England.
With his head thrust forward and wagging slightly, he mentioned
several advantages which an English governess had over a German one;
and then he blurted out, sharply and suddenly, that, if my little
Princes' parents had listened to his advice, they would have had an
Englishwoman for their children two years sooner. "But the Princess
---- is the most self-willed woman I know," he said. "You may think I
am indiscreet! I am forever accused by newspapers of being indiscreet,
because I speak what I think. But this is no secret. You will learn
it for yourself if you are as intelligent as I suppose. She never
was intended by nature to be a wife and mother, though she would be
a charming person if she were neither. As it is she will do what
she likes in spite of everything and everyone. There! I have said
enough--or too much. Where is von X----?"
The Lieutenant was hovering in the background, ready for an auspicious
moment: and the Emperor turned his attention to the governor of my
elder Prince. It was not till he was ready to go that he had another
word for me, and then it was only "Auf wiedersehen." He graciously
put out his hand, palm down, for me to shake. I noticed how large
it was in contrast with the left, which he kept out of the way. It
was beautifully cared for, and there were more rings on it than an
Englishman or American would wear, but it was not an attractive shape,
and looked somehow unhealthy. As if in punishment to me for such a
thought, the big hand gave mine a fearful grip. It was like the closing
of a vise, and I could almost hear my bones crack. I wondered if the
Emperor had cultivated this trick to show how strong he was; but I
should have been glad to take his strength on faith.
I could not help wincing, though I tried not to let my face change. If
it did, he appeared to take no notice. He had finished with me, after a
military salute; and letting the children run by his side, he and his
attendant, with Lieutenant von X----, walked down the path....
II--STORY OF BERNHARDI AND THE KRUPPS
One of the most interesting things that happened to me in my first
year was a visit (with the Princess, of course) to Villa Hügel, the
house of Herr and Frau Krupp von Bohlen, in the Ruhr valley near
Essen. Bertha Krupp, the "Cannon Queen" and richest German heiress
in Germany, if not the world, had been married to the South German
diplomat, Gustav von Bohlen und Halbach, less than four years. She was
only about twenty-four, but the coming of children had aged her as it
does all German women apparently, and she had already ceased to look
girlish. Her husband, who is sixteen or seventeen years senior to his
wife, might have been no more than ten years older, to judge by their
appearance when together. He put the name of Krupp in front of his own
immediately after his marriage with the heiress, and few people add the
"und Halbach" now, except officially....
While I was in the "Spatzenhaus" with the boys, Herr Krupp von Bohlen
brought in these four gentlemen and another, to see the celebrated
visitors' book kept there since Bertha and Barbara were children.
General von Bernhardi had arrived the night previous, and this was
my first sight of him, as well, of course, of Herr Eccius and Doctor
Linden.
I was more interested in the last of the three, because I had listened
while Frau Krupp von Bohlen repeated to the children a wonderful story
about the intelligence of some fish in the Naples Aquarium; and all I
knew then of General von Bernhardi was that he was considered a great
soldier, and had been the first officer to ride into Paris in 1871, or
some tale of that sort. However, the minute I saw him I felt that here
was a tremendous personality, and an intensely repellent one, a man to
be reckoned with. I determined to ask a great many questions concerning
him of the Countess, who knew everything about everybody, and did not
object to telling what she knew with embellishments.
My name was politely mentioned by the host, and the visiting gentlemen
all bowed to me. The only one who did so stiffly, as if he grudged
bending his thick, short neck for my benefit, was General von
Bernhardi. He gave me one sharp look from under his rather beetling
eyebrows, and I wondered if he despised all women, or had merely taken
a distaste to me.
"You are English?" he asked shortly, in German, his tone being that of
a man accustomed to throw out commands as you might throw a battle-ax.
"She was born in Washington," said Herr Krupp von Bohlen, in his
pleasant, cultivated voice. "Washington is the most interesting city
of the United States, and holds pleasant memories for me. Miss ----'s
grandfather was a distinguished American naval officer."
As he said this, he gave me a faint, rather humorous smile, which
I interpreted as a warning or request not to try explaining my
antecedents.
"Ach! That is better!" grunted the General. And I knew that, whatever
might be his attitude toward women in general, Englishwomen were anyhow
beyond the pale.
(Later I heard from the Countess that women were not much higher
than the "four-footed animal kingdom" for Bernhardi; that he loudly
contradicted his wife, even at hotel tables, when they traveled
together; that he always walked ahead of her in the street, and pushed
past her or even other ladies, if strangers to him, in order to go
first through a doorway.)
The General condescended to glance at me, and I thought again that he
was the most ruthless, brutal-looking man I had ever met, the very type
of militarism in flesh and blood--especially blood.
"You are a friend of the English?" he inquired.
I dared to stand up for England by answering that I thought her the
greatest country in the world.
"That is nonsense," was his comment. I shall never forget it, or the
cutting way in which it was spoken.
The Prince, though knowing me to be English (which Bernhardi, to do him
justice, did not), backed the General up, explaining for my benefit
as well as the children's that England might once have been nominally
the most powerful nation, owing to her talent for grabbing possessions
all over the world, and the cleverness of her diplomacy. But, he said,
that was different now, under the Liberal Government. England was going
down exactly as Rome had gone down, and the knell of her greatness was
sounding already. Not one of her colonies would stand by her when her
day of trouble should come, and most of them would go against her.
"You have only to read their own newspapers," said General Bernhardi,
"to see that the English know they are degenerating fast. But the hand
of Fate is on them. They are asleep, and they will wake up with a rude
shock only when it is too late."
III--STORY OF THE CROWN PRINCE AND THE CROWN PRINCESS
Some quite innocent tales were told by the tattlers, of the Crown
Princess. One was, that she had determined from the moment of her
engagement to his Imperial Highness, to be the most beautiful and best
dressed royal lady in Europe, as he strongly desired her to be, and
that it almost broke her heart when she began to realize that being
the mother of one baby after another was enlarging her slender waist.
She was supposed to have had a wax model of herself made, soon after
the birth of her first boy: face, hair, and figure all resembling her
own as faithfully as possible. According to the story, she had every
new fashion of hairdressing tried on this model, before deciding to
use it herself, and would have milliners fit it with hats, rather than
choose one to suit her own style merely from seeing it in the mirror.
Gowns were shown to her in the same way when they arrived from Paris
or Vienna, said the gossip who told me the tale, and the first time
the measurements which fitted the figurine proved too small for the
Princess's waist, there were tears.[2]
I did not fall in love with noisy Berlin, though Unter den Linden is
so fine and imposing, with all its beautiful shops and trees. The
city was so neat and square, so stolid and self-respecting that the
capital of Prussia made me think of the Prussian character as I soon
began to judge it. Potsdam I found more interesting because it is old
and historic. We spent a good deal of time in both places, and I used
often to see the Emperor motoring in a yellow car with a very small
Prussian royal standard on it to show who was the owner. The Crown
Prince was always dashing about, too, generally driving himself, very
recklessly, with a cigarette in his mouth, and looking about here and
there, everywhere except where he was going. He had a black imp for a
"mascot" on his automobile, a thing that waved its arms in a way to
frighten horses, though it never seemed to do so. And sometimes the
car would be full of ladies and children and several quite large dogs
that walked over their owners and tried to jump out. The crowds seemed
to like him, and the Crown Princess, whom they called "the sunshine of
Berlin," even more. She was always very gracious, bowing and smiling,
while the Crown Prince looked extremely bored. Still, if he had not
been hailed with enthusiasm, I am sure he would have been vexed.
Sometimes he would appear at a window of the palace, perhaps with one
of the royal children in his arms, pretending not to notice the people
outside gazing at him. But I thought he looked self-conscious, as if he
were doing it all for effect....
What I had heard from the Countess about the Crown Prince going to
India and Egypt in the character of a "glorified spy" (even though
I doubted the assertion) and the intimate talk of our Prince's
"influence" in the Secret Service department, made me think more about
spies and spying in a few months, than I had ever thought in my whole
life. I began to look about for spies, and wonder if any of the much
traveled, cultured people I met were engaged in spying with some of
the highest in the land virtually at their head. The last person I
should have connected with the profession of spying, however, was Herr
Steinhauer. Even now I cannot be sure that he and the famous "master
spy" of whom I have heard so much since I came back to England, are one
and the same; but everything goes to prove that they are....
IV--STORY OF A VISIT FROM COUNT ZEPPELIN
Once in Berlin, Count Zeppelin came, after having taken the Crown
Prince, and my little Princes' father as well as one or two of their
army friends, for a flight in his newest airship. Our Prince came back
very enthusiastic after his trip, and wanted his elder son to go, but
the Princess would not hear of this, and Count Zeppelin backed her up.
He said that he did not know enough about children's nerves to risk an
experiment, though he believed such boys as ours would stand it well.
He told them, when they both begged to go, that they must content
themselves with the "game" for a few years, and asked a good many
questions of Lieutenant von X---- (who was present by request) as to
how the little players got on with it. When he was talking of ordinary
things, his face looked good-natured, even benevolent, with his rather
scanty white hair and comfortable baldness. I thought, with a false
beard, he would have exactly the right figure and face for Santa Claus;
but as he listened to Lieutenant von X----'s account of how he taught
the Princes to "play the game," and examined some of the toy buildings
(so often powdered white with "bombs" that they could no longer be
brushed completely clean), his face hardened, looking very stern and
very old, his bright eyes almost hiding between wrinkled lids.
The Count took the elder boy between his knees, and catechised him as
to some of the rules. The little boy was shy at first, but soon plucked
up courage, and answered in a brisk and warlike way.
"This is a born soldier," said the airship inventor, laying his hand
on the child's hair. "By the time he is ready for sky battles, we
shall have something colossal to give him; but in the meantime, please
Heaven, we shall make very good use of what we have got."...
V--STORY OF GENERAL VON KLUCK--"THE OLD DARE-DEVIL"
Among other distinguished men who came to see my Princes and their
plays, was General von Kluck--another one of those "great dome heads!"
To me, it seemed the best part of his personality, and certainly the
development was far superior to what I had named the "German officer
head," a crude, unfinished type of head, which gives the impression
that the skull has hardened before the brain had time to finish
growing. General von Kluck did not talk at all to me, or appear to
take any interest in the toy soldiers' battle. He had the air of being
absent-minded and thinking deeply of something far away, in space. I
heard him say that "they" wanted him to go to France to look at it. Who
"they" were, I do not know, or what "it" was that they wished General
von Kluck to see. But I knew that nearly a year after that visit the
children had a present of a fancy red velvet box of chocolate. The
Princess herself brought it into the schoolroom (we seldom had a lesson
that was not interrupted in some way or other), and as the covering
had already been removed, I do not know if the box had been sent from
a distance or had come by hand. The Princess showed the boys General
von Kluck's visiting card, and the writing on it, which said, "French
chocolate from France, for two brave young German soldiers."
Later that day the Prince came and asked to see the box "from old von
Kluck," which by that time was half empty. He looked at the card, and
laughed. "The old dare-devil!" he chuckled. Then he said that, as we
had eaten so much in such a short time it showed that French chocolate
was good.
I seldom or never had any real conversation with the Prince, and it was
not my place to ask questions; but I wondered why General von Kluck
was an "old dare-devil" to go to France, and why the Prince seemed so
pleased and amused about it. Also I remembered what I had heard the
General say some months before, about France. I thought that there
must be a mystery about it, either official, or something to do with a
lady, perhaps a Frenchwoman. I know no more now than I knew then; but I
have heard it said since I came back to England, by a Frenchman, that
General von Kluck is supposed to have visited France incognito, to look
at some quarries near Soissons, which Germans bought and secretly made
ready to use as trenches, beginning their work a year before the war
broke out.
VI--STORY OF THE CONFESSION OF LIEUTENANT VON X----
I often asked Lieutenant von X---- what the German army thought about
the future of Germany, and I do not think he suspected in the least
that I had any motive except "intelligent interest." He had come to
look upon me as a family institution, and without telling lies in
so many words, I allowed him to believe that I felt Germany's vast
superiority over the rest of the world. It is a simple thing for any
woman to make any German man believe this. The only difficult thing for
him to understand is that a creature can be benighted enough to have a
contrary opinion.
Lieutenant von X---- admitted that the German army as well as navy
prayed for "The Day." He thought that Germany could "walk through
France," and she, being far superior to Russia in every way, could
not help but win in a war against that power, even without the help
of Austria. He seemed to feel contempt for Austria and everything
Austrian compared with what was German, but he said "she can be useful
to us." As for England, she might be a tougher job, but it would "have
to come," and with the improved Zeppelins (which England had been a
"stupid-head" not to copy as well as she could) and the Krupp secrets,
there was no doubt who would come out on top: Germany, the one power
on earth who deserved by her gloriousness to be over all others.
America, too, eventually must become Germanized, as Lieutenant von
X---- believed she was already well on the way to be, with her growing
German population, immense German financial interests, and influential
newspapers. The plans for American conquest were already mapped out
by the German War Office, who never left anything to chance. He said
that this was no secret, or he would not mention it. There was once
a hope that Germany and England might make a combination against the
United States, but that had been abandoned, he said. Once I should
have taken this for a joke, and also the expectation that when France
was conquered (with Belgium thrown in as a matter of course) Antwerp
and Dunkirk and Calais would all be German, becoming the strongest
military ports in the world; but I had learned better now. I knew that
Lieutenant von X----, who seldom originated any ideas of his own, was
simply repeating to me the sort of talk he heard among his brother
officers....
(The English-American Governess from this point relates a most
remarkable story, every word of which is vouched for as the truth.
She tells how Von Hindenburg, the Crown Prince, and other notables
met in secret sessions at the palace where she was residing; about
their relations with Prince Mohammed Ali and Enver Bey, the Envoy from
Turkey; the intrigues in the days before the outbreak of the war; the
scenes in the royal households when war was declared; and how she
escaped at midnight, September 15, 1914. It is a revelation that gives
one a clearer insight into the causes of the Great War and how the
Hohenzollerns had planned for many years to enter upon a conquest of
Europe and America.--EDITOR.)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] All numerals throughout this volume relate to the stories herein
told--not to the chapters in the original books.
[2] The Governess here tells of an interesting little flirtation
between the Crown Princess and an Englishman because the Crown Prince
"had flirted furiously with several athletic but beautiful ladies at a
Winter Sports place in the Engadine."
"FROM CONVENT TO CONFLICT"--A VISION OF INFERNO
_Or, A Nun's Account of the Invasion of Belgium_
_By Sister Antonia, Convent des Filles de Marie, Willebroeck, Province
of Antwerp, Belgium_
This is the appeal of a nun, who in the fullness of her heart tells
the American people of the noble efforts of her Sisters to bring
solace and comfort to agonized Belgium. Sisters Mary Antonia and Mary
Cecilia were sent to the United States with the approval of Cardinal
Mercier, Archbishop of Malines, with the following credentials:
"The Superior of the Convent of the Daughters of Mary, Willebroeck,
Provence of Antwerp, Belgium, state by this present (letter) that
the Sisters Mary Antonia and Mary Cecilia are sent to the United
States in order to examine if there are means of establishing a
colony (mission) of the Daughters of Mary there; she gives to Sister
M. Antonia the power to act in her name as to taking the measures
necessary to this effect." Sister Antonia tells her noble story in
a little volume (published by _John Murphy Company_, Baltimore.
Copyright, 1916) with this introduction: "The hope is indulged that
the harrowing scenes witnessed by the author in Belgium, after the
German invasion in 1914, may induce her own countrymen and women to
more fully appreciate the blessings of peace. The events narrated
are set forth as actually occurring, and--'with malice to none, with
charity for all.' Any profits derived from its favorable reception
by the reading public or the charitably inclined are to be devoted
to the reconstruction and repair of our school and convent, damaged
during the engagement at the Fortress of Willebroeck, or for the
establishment of a sewing school, with a lace making department, for
young women in America or England, as our Reverend Superiors may
decide." The editors take pleasure in commending this book and in
extending their appreciation to the publishers for their courtesy in
allowing these selections.
I--STORY OF THE FATEFUL DAY IN THE CONVENT
A merry group of Convent girls, in charge of Sister guardian, was
seated in the shade of a huge old pear tree, discussing the joys and
expectations of the approaching summer vacation. High are the walls
enclosing this ancient cloister, and many are the gay young hearts
protected and developed within its shady precincts.
Bright are the faces and happy the hearts of more than one hundred
young girls on this midsummer day in the memorable year 1914....
July's sun sank gently away on the western horizon, and its last rays
lit up the ripening fruit, the plants and flowers in the garden. It
seemed to linger for a last farewell to the groups of merry children
who, unconscious of their fast-approaching woe, were cheerfully singing
Belgium's well-known national song, "The Proud Flemish Lion."
In a few moments the "Golden Gate" closed on a field of purple haze,
shutting out that blessed glimpse of heaven, while the black shroud
of the most dismal night in history darkened the sky of that hapless
nation.
The Sisters were together in the evening recreation of that fateful
day, when word was received that King Albert of Belgium, in order to
fulfill his obligations of neutrality, had refused the Kaiser's army
access to his territory to attack the French. Had a thunderbolt fallen
from a clear sky, or an earthquake shaken the ground under foot, it
would scarcely have surprised or terrorized the people more than did
the Kaiser's declaration of war against this free and happy little
kingdom....
One Sunday morning, about the middle of August, an unusual tumult was
heard on the street. The door bell was loudly rung, and a messenger
admitted with news that the officers of the Belgian War Department had
commanded everything within firing range of the fortress to be cleared
away at once. For some time previous the soldiers had been busy cutting
down the groves and all the trees in the immediate vicinity of the
fortress. The poor people were given just three hours to get away with
bag and baggage.
This was a terrible misfortune for about six hundred families, whose
dwellings, being located within the limits prescribed, had to be
leveled to the ground. Even the tombstones in the cemetery, together
with all the crops, trees, haystacks, barns and everything within range
of the gaping mouths of the cannon, had to be laid flat or taken away.
No wonder that the people raced to and fro that hot Sunday morning,
carrying bundles, dragging wagons with household furniture and
fixtures; wheeling trunks, clothing, stoves, pictures, bedding and
every article that could be taken up and carried away. Tears and
perspiration rolled over the cheeks of men and women, whose faces
glowed from the heat and intense excitement....
II--STORY OF THE SOLDIERS AT LIEGE
In the meantime a most terrible battle was taking place at the
fortification of Liege. Was ever attack so strong or resistance more
determined? Belgian officers said, "The enemy were twenty to one
against us; but, being obliged to face the terrible fires of the
fortress, their ranks were cut down in about the same manner as wheat
is cut off by the reaper." "So great was the number of the Germans
that they seemed to spring up out of the ground." "They crawled ahead
on hands and feet, and at a given signal sprang erect and fired, and
then again prostrated themselves. Thus they advanced, avoiding as much
as possible the heavy fires in front." Another Belgian officer at
the fortress during the battle said: "It resembled a storm of fiery
hailstones from a cloud of smoke, in an atmosphere suffocating with
heat and the smell of powder."
Eye-witnesses relate that heaps of slain, yards high, were found on
the battlefield, while columns of lifeless bodies were observed in a
standing position, there being no place for the dead to fall.
A story was told by one of the Belgian officers of a German soldier
who, when wounded by a Belgian in a hand-to-hand combat, took out a
coin and presented it. The Belgian, surprised, exclaimed "Zijt gij
zot?" (Are you crazy?) "Do you not know that I've broken your arm?"
"Yes," said the German, "This is to show my gratitude for the favor
you've rendered me, since it gives me the opportunity of leaving the
battlefield."
Much was said about the valor of the soldiers on both sides during the
siege of Liege. The Germans were obliged to advance in the face of
destructive fires. If one should retreat, he would be pierced by the
bayonet of the soldier behind him....
While facing death in this first great battle at the fortress of Liege,
one of the soldiers began to sing the well-known national hymn, "The
Proud Flemish Lion." Immediately the strains were taken up by the whole
regiment, and thus singing, they advanced until hundreds of them fell
in that awful conflict.
In the heaviest of the fray we were told that King Albert had placed
himself in the lines with his soldiers. He did not desire to be called
king, but comrade. His military dress was distinguished from the
others by only a small mark on one of the sleeves. He attended to the
correspondence for his soldiers and was regarded by them as a friend
and father, under whose guidance they were ready to fight and die.
When the siege was over he visited the wounded in many of the hospitals
and addressed each soldier in person....
After the fall of Liege and Namur, the destruction of Louvain and a
number of noted cities, towns and villages, our minds were concerned
with that awe-inspiring event--the advance of the enemy to Brussels.
Well do we remember that beautiful summer evening, when our prayers and
evening meditation in the chapel were disturbed for about an hour by
the continuous whirl of automobiles passing the Convent. We were told
that evening that it was the departure of the legislative body from
Brussels to Antwerp, with the archives and treasures of the Government.
Our hearts seemed to grow cold and leaden within us as we sat there
hoping, praying, fearing, yet instinctively feeling the doom so rapidly
approaching.
One gloomy, rainy day, word came that over two thousand soldiers of the
Civil Guard had lowered their weapons at the approach of the enemy and
quietly surrendered the City of Brussels, Belgium's beautiful capital.
To have fought without fortifications against such superior forces as
the Germans possessed would have been a useless sacrifice of life.
III--STORY OF THE PRIESTS, DOCTORS AND RED CROSS NURSES
One afternoon in the middle of August a large, heavy wagon was drawn
into the yard. It bore the flag of the Red Cross on top, and on the
side in great white letters the words "Military Hospital."
In a few minutes a fleshy little gentleman, who at once distinguished
himself as the "Chef" (chief), and a number of other gentlemen, about
thirty-five in all, wearing white bands with red crosses on their
arms, and long white linen coats over their uniforms, such as bakers
sometimes wear, were seen hurrying to and fro, unpacking and carrying
their various instruments and utensils to the operating room.
A military chaplain and four or more doctors accompanied the group. All
except the chaplain were dressed in uniform. Several young ladies of
Willebroeck, former members of our Boarding-school, dressed in white
and wearing the head-dress and arm-band of the Red Cross, came next
day and graciously presented themselves to aid in taking care of the
wounded.
Coffins were provided by our village for the soldiers who died in our
hospital....
The condition of the poor maimed soldiers (as they were brought into
the convent) was sad to behold. One man, we were told by the Red Cross
nurses, had twenty bullets in his body; another was pierced through
the lung by a bayonet; one, aged twenty, lost an arm to the shoulder;
one had only one or two fingers left on the hand; one was crazed by a
bullet which touched the brain; another was shot through the mouth,
the bullet lodging in the back of the throat. His case was especially
distressing, his the most intense suffering of all. He lived for a week
without eating, drinking or speaking.
Three wounded Germans were brought in, being picked up on the
battlefield by members of our division of the Red Cross. They seemed
greatly distressed and afraid, positively refusing to touch food or
drink of which the Sisters or nurses did not first partake.
One day we were called upon to witness a most sorrowful sight. A small
farmer's wagon drove up to the gate, bearing the lifeless bodies of two
children, a girl aged eight and her brother, aged fourteen. The mother
and a smaller child were also in the wagon. The mother related that
they were taking flight as refugees. Seeing the enemy, they hastened to
retreat, and were fired at by the soldiers. The children, who were in
the back part of the wagon, were struck and wounded in a most frightful
manner. The little girl's face was nearly all torn off, and the back of
the boy's head had been shattered.
At the approach of Belgian soldiers, who fired at the enemy, the mother
was enabled to pick up the lifeless bodies of her children, put them
into the wagon and drive with them to our hospital, which was the
nearest post.
A little after four o'clock one afternoon, shortly before the departure
of the first division of the Red Cross, our attention was attracted by
the heavy and continuous tread of cavalry and soldiers passing along
the street. It was the Belgian army returning from a long and tiresome
march.
Here was found a different kind of suffering from that which was
ministered to in the hospital. Hunger and fatigue were stamped upon
the countenance of each of these men, who, about a month before were
industrious citizens at their daily occupations.
There were in the ranks priests, in their long black cassocks, wearing
the arm-band of the Red Cross, who, as volunteer chaplains, had joined
the army and were ever at the service of the soldiers on the march,
and even on the battlefield. We were informed that priests, and those
preparing for the priesthood, were not obliged to serve in the army in
time of peace; but, in case of war, they may be called upon to serve
as military chaplains. When the present war broke out, hundreds of
them joined as volunteers, marching in the ranks with the soldiers and
undergoing their sufferings and hardships.
Many doctors rode along in motor cars. They were distinguished by a
special dark-colored uniform, with a red collar and gilded trimmings.
They also wore the arm-band of the Red Cross. Officers on horseback led
each division of the army. The faces of all were disfigured with sweat
and dust, while dust in abundance covered shoes and clothing. Some were
staggering along, unable to walk straight, owing to the hard shoes and
blistered feet. Hollow-cheeked, and with eyes which seemed to protrude
from their sockets, they passed along, piteously imploring a morsel of
bread.
Fortunately, the abundant supply of bread in the Convent had just been
increased by the addition of forty of those immense loaves found only
in Belgium. All of this was hastily cut, buttered and, with baskets
full of pears, dealt out, piece by piece, to the passing soldiers,
until, finally, only a small portion remained over for the supper of
the wounded remaining in the hospital....
Before the command was given to enter the schools, we saw soldiers,
among whom were also priests, lying on the ground on the opposite side
of the street, even as horses which, having run a great distance, fall
down from sheer exhaustion. Some of these, we learned afterwards,
did not have their shoes off in nearly three weeks. The socks, hard
and worn out, were in some cases stamped into the blistered feet in
such a manner as to cause excruciating pain. In some cases the feet
were so painful and swollen that the patients had to be carried in on
stretchers. In the meantime, several ambulance wagons had stopped at
the school gate, and numerous wounded were carried in.
We retired at a late hour one night amid the incessant booming of
cannon. Scarcely were our eyes closed when some one passed in the
dormitory and knocked at each door. "Ave Maria," was the quiet
greeting. "Deo Gratias," the response. "What is it?" was asked. "The
Germans have entered and are crossing the bridge," was the reply.
With beating heart and trembling limbs, each sprang up and was dressed
in a few minutes. In a state of great excitement, all stood in the hall
ready to receive orders from the Superior, who had gone downstairs to
make inquiries about the situation....
The crackling of shells, the heavy cannonade from the fortress and
field cannon, and the occasional proximity of those hostile aeroplanes,
together with the reports of atrocities and destruction taking place
around us, were fearsome in the extreme.
In striking contrast to the noise and commotion on all sides, was
the calm tranquility which reigned in the chapel. The Sacred Heart
stretched forth that same Fatherly hand which assisted the apostle
sinking on the Sea of Galilee. The altar was still and solitary, but
the little red light flickered in the sanctuary lamp and told of Him
whose word alone stilled the winds and calmed the angry waves....
IV--STORY OF THE HEROIC REFUGEES
Sorrowful scenes were witnessed along the streets. Our attention and
sympathies were particularly attracted to the flight of the refugees.
For hours and days and weeks the doleful procession passed along the
streets; a living stream made up of all ranks and classes of society.
Here were seen the poor old farmer's household, whose sons had gone to
the front; and young married women, with small children in their arms
or by their sides, whose husbands had to don the soldier's uniform
and go to the war. The sick, the old and the feeble were taken from
their beds of suffering and, with shawls or blankets thrown over
their shoulders, placed in carts or wagons and carried away, perhaps,
to perish by the roadside. We have seen cripples and small children
hurriedly driven along the street in wheelbarrows.
Packages carried on their arms, on their backs, or in little carts were
about all that the poor people could take....
It was most pitiful to see these poor people, whose only object was to
get away as far as possible from the scenes of conflict. Some carried
small loaves of bread; others had a little hay or straw in their
wagons; some led a cow or two; others two or three pigs. In some of
the carts we recognized faces of our former pupils, who only one short
month before were longing for the pleasant vacation days. Their fathers
or brothers were in the army, and their homes forsaken. Some children
had lost their parents and were crying piteously.
When the Sisters left the parish church, where they daily took part
in the public devotions for peace, they were besieged by hundreds of
these poor, half-frantic refugees, beseeching shelter over night in the
church or schools, which were already full to overflowing. The days
were warm and pleasant, but the nights were very chilly and sometimes
rainy. Where would those poor people go and what could they do without
food or shelter for all those little children? The friendly stars
looked down from the realms above upon thousands who lay along the
roadside, while others crowded the barns and country schools, or made
rude tent-like shelters in the bed of the new canal.
The Sisters, wholly absorbed in their work for the wounded, and relying
on the word of the Belgian officers, that timely warning would be given
as to the necessity of departure, had as yet no idea of joining the
throngs of refugees who continuously filed through the main streets.
The shocks of the cannonade from the fortress caused the buildings
to tremble on their foundations, while the ground under foot seemed
agitated as by an earthquake. A large number of wounded soldiers had
been brought in the night before, and three or four lay dead in the
mortuary.
Our Sisters and servant maids, as also the generous women refugees of
Willebroeck, continued their sickening task in the laundry. In wooden
shoes they stood at those large cement tubs while suds and blood-dyed
water streamed over the stone floor.
Night closed in again, but brought neither rest nor consolation.
Fearing to retire, some of the Sisters remained in the chapel, while
others spent the tedious hours of that dreary night in the refectory
or adjoining rooms, and kept busy making surgical dressings for the
wounded, of whom a larger number than usual had been brought into the
hospital.
At intervals during the night the cannonade was heard, while the
searchlights of the fortress penetrated the clouds on the lookout for
the murderous Zeppelins. Morning came at last, with an increase of work
and anguish. The enemy, with their usual determination, were trying to
force their way through to Antwerp, while the Belgians were equally
determined to prevent them, or to at least check their progress.
An officer called for the Reverend Superior and said in an excited
manner, "Weg van hier, aanstonds! Geen tijd te verliezen." (Away from
here at once! No time to be lost.) This message flew from one to
another, even to the terror-stricken hearts of the numerous wounded.
Impossible to describe the scenes which followed. In a few minutes
a long line of motor cars came whirling up to the gate to take away
the wounded who, some of them in an almost dying condition, were
being dragged out of their beds, dressed and hurriedly carried away
to Antwerp, or to another place of refuge. One can never forget the
look of anguish on some of their faces, while others seemed totally
indifferent to all that was taking place around them....
(Sister Antonia here tells about the flight of the nuns with the
refugees to Antwerp and the sea; the exodus to England and Holland; and
finally her own voyage to America.--EDITOR.)
"WAR LETTERS OF AN AMERICAN WOMAN"--IN BLEEDING FRANCE
_Experiences in the Siege of Paris_
_By Marie Van Vorst, Distinguished American Novelist Residing in Paris_
These letters present a singularly vivid chronicle of an American
woman's experiences during the Great War. She was living in Paris,
but brought her mother to London for safety. Here she went through
a course of Red Cross lectures and returned to become a nurse at
the American Ambulance in the Pasteur Institute in Neuilly, then
under the control of Mrs. W. K. Vanderbilt. Her brilliant intellect
and sympathizing heart are brought out in her letters to friends
in America. Her whole soul is in the cause of the Allies and in
her letters she tells many beautiful stories of her experiences in
Paris, London, Nice and Rome. To read her impressions as she wrote
them down for her friends is to recapture the thrill and the uplift,
the sorrows and the hopes, the high resolves and unshakable purpose
of those that will live forever in history. Several letters are
reprinted here by permission of her publisher, _John Lane Company_,
London and New York.
I--STORY OF ROBERT LE ROUX
_To Miss Anna Lusk, New York._
Paris, Nov. 7th, 1914.
DEAREST ANNA:
In the contemplation of the great griefs of those who have lost their
own, of those who have given their all; in the contemplation of the
bravest country in the world--Belgium--ravaged from frontier to
frontier, laid barren and waste, smoked, ruined, devastated and scarred
by wholesale massacre of civilian women and children, our hearts have
been crushed. Our souls have been appalled by the burdens of others,
and by the future problems of Belgium, not to speak of one quarter
of France. Much of the north has been wiped out, and the stories of
individual suffering and insults too terrible to dwell upon, you will
say.
One of my old clerks in the Bon Marché has had his little nephew come
back to him from Germany--a peaceful young middle-class man pursuing
his studies in a German town--with both his hands cut off!
The other day in the Gare du Nord, waiting for a train, there was a
stunning Belgian officer--not a private--he was a captain in one of
the crack regiments. His excitement was terrible, he was almost beside
himself with anguish and with anger. In a little village he had seen
one woman violated by seven Germans in the presence of her husband;
then the husband shot, the woman shot and her little baby cut in four
pieces on a butcher's block. You can hardly call this the common
course of war. He was a Belgian gentleman, and I should consider this
a document of truth.
But there are so many that I cannot prolong, and will not--what is the
use? Every now and then a people needs to be wiped off the face of the
earth, or a contingent blotted out that a newer and finer civilization
shall prevail. Certainly this is the case with Germany. They say here
that the Emperor and Crown Prince will be tried by law and sentenced
to death as common criminals, the Emperor as a murderer and the Crown
Prince as a robber, for his goods trains were stacked with booty and
loot. Think of it, a Prince! Everywhere the Germans pass they leave
their filthy insults behind them, in the beautiful châteaux and in the
delicate rooms of the French women--the indications of their passing,
not deeds of noble heroism that can be told of foes as well as of
friends, but filthy souvenirs of the passing of creatures for whom the
word "barbarism" is too mild!
* * * * *
Here is a more spiritual picture.
Robert Le Roux, jun., was buried yesterday. You will have read in the
previous pages here the story of his exploits on the battlefield--the
closing of his young life in bravely leading his troops up the hill to
certain death. And yesterday I went to St. Germain to his funeral.
The last time I had seen young Robert he was a little boy, in short
breeches and socks. His mother brought him to Versailles and he played
with us in the garden there--a strong, splendid-looking young French
boy. Now I was going to his funeral, and he was engaged to be married,
with all his hopes before him, and on this same train was his little
fiancée, in her long crêpe veil, broken-hearted; and his little sister,
and the father, who had followed his son's campaign with such ardor and
such tenderness; and his uncle, Dr. D., of whom I spoke previously--the
splendid sergeant-major whose only son had just been killed by the
enemy. A train of sorrow!--and only one of so many, so many.
The church at St. Germain is simple and very old. The doors were all
hung with heavy snow-white cloth, and before the door stood the funeral
car drawn by white horses, all in white, and instead of melancholy
hearse plumes there were bunches of flags, and over all hung the
November mist enveloping, softening, and there was a big company of
Cuirassiers guarding the road.
We went in, and the church was crowded from the nave to the doors, and
all the nave and the little chapels were blazing with the lily lights
of the candles. It was all so white and so pure, so effulgent, so
starry. There was an uplift about it, an élan; tragic as it all was,
there was ever that feeling of beyond, beyond!
Before the altar lay the young man's coffin--that leaden coffin that
had stood by his father in the fortress of Toul for three weeks,
waiting for the dead. It was completely covered by the French flag, and
the candles burnt around it.
Beside me was a woman with her husband. She wept so bitterly through
the whole service that my heart was just wrung for her, and her
husband's face, as his red-lidded eyes stared out in the misty church,
was one of the most tragic things I ever saw. I wept, of course, and I
have not cried very much since the war broke out, but her grief was too
much for me. Finally she turned to me and said: "Madame, I only had one
son, he was so charming, so good; he has fallen before the enemy, and I
don't know where he is buried!" Just think of it! There she was, at the
funeral of another man's son because he was a soldier! Link upon link
of sorrow and suffering--such broken hearts....
The whole service was musical, nothing else but violins and harps. It
was the most beautiful thing I ever heard, so quiet and so sweet; and
that little group touched me profoundly--Le Roux with his daughter and
the little fiancée--and that was all. In that coffin lying under the
flag Bessie had placed at Toul her little silk pillow for the young
soldier's head, and his love-letters in a little packet lay by his
side. Around his arm he had worn a little ribbon taken from the hair of
his sweetheart, and at the very last when he was dying and the hospital
nurse was about to unknot it--I don't know why--the boy put up his
feeble hand to prevent her; of course they buried it with him, and, as
you think of it, you can hear that unknown voice on the battlefield,
that, as the stretcher-bearers came to look for the wounded, called
out: "Take him, he is engaged to be married; and leave me."
Oh, if out of it all arise a better civilization, purer motives, less
greed for money, more humanitarian and unselfish aims, we can bear it.
I think of America with an ever-increasing love; I am proud to belong
to that young and far-off country, but if our voice is raised now
in encouragement for Belgium, encouragement for the Allies, and in
reprobation of these acts of dishonorable warfare and cruel barbarism,
I shall love my country more.
How superb the figure of the Belgian king is, standing there among the
remnant of his army, and surrounded by his destroyed and ruined empire,
and the cries of the people in his ears--a sublime figure....
II--STORY OF A SCHOOL TEACHER--AND A GARDENER
_To Mr. F. B. Van Vorst, N. Y._
Nov. 20th, 1914.
MY DEAR BROTHER,
I wonder, as I sit here, in one of those rare, quiet moments that
fall in a nurse's day, whilst I am preparing my charts, what they are
thinking of in this silent room.
This group is singularly silent. They do not talk from bed to bed,
as some of the more loquacious do. Directly opposite is one of those
fragile bits of humanity that the violent wind of war has blown, like
an unresisting leaf, into the vortex. Monsieur Gilet is a humble
little school teacher from some humble little village school in a once
peaceful commune, where in another little village school his humble
little wife teaches school as he does. He is so light and so frail that
I can lift him myself with ease. He has a shrapnel wound in his side
and they have not found the ball. His thin cheeks are scarlet. He is
gentleness and sweetness itself. What has he ever done to be crucified
like this? Monsieur Gilet is not thinking of his burning wound. He is
thinking of the little woman in the province of Cher. How can she come
to see him? She has no congé. When will she come to see him? For his
life is all there in that war-shattered country. She has a baby twelve
weeks old, born since he went to battle. That's what he is thinking of.
When will she come?
On his right is a superb Arab, with an arm and hand so broken and
so mutilated that it is hard to hold it without shuddering when the
doctors drain it. On his head I have carefully adjusted a bright yellow
flannel fez. His mild, docile eyes follow the nurse as she does for
him the few little things she can to make him more at ease. For every
service done, he thanks her in a sweet, soft voice. Just now, when
I left him to come over here and sit down before my table, his eyes
filled with tears. He can say a few words of French. He kisses my hand
with Oriental grace. "Merci, ma mère."
On Monsieur Gilet's left lies a man whose language is as hard to
understand, very nearly, as the Arab's--almost unintelligible--a
_patois_ of the Midi. He is a gardener, used only to the care of plants
and flowers. He is a big, rugged giant, and so strong, and so silent
a sufferer that since his entrance to the hospital he has not made
one murmur or one complaint, or asked one service, and excepting when
spoken to, he never says a word. Then he gives you a radiant smile and
some token of gratitude. They operated on him to-day. There is shrapnel
in his eye. He will never fully see his gardens again, and he is so
strong and so patient and so able to bear pain, that they operated
on him without anæsthetics, and he walked to and from the operating
room--a brave, silent, docile giant, singularly appealing.... He is
thinking of his gardens, trodden out of all semblance of beauty, for
he had been working in the north before the heel of the barbarian
crushed out his flowers for ever and blotted out his sight.
III--STORY OF THE BOYS WHO SING "TIPPERARY"
_To Mr. F. B. Van Vorst, Hackensack, N. J._
Paris, Dec. 4th, 1914.
MY DEAR FREDERICK,
To-morrow will be my last day at the hospital, as I start in the
evening for Nice, on my way to Rome. I have lately found myself sole
nurse in a ward with nine men....
It is full of English Tommies, and unless you nurse them and help those
English boys, you don't know what they are. They are too lovely and
too fine for words. One perfectly fine young fellow has had his leg
amputated at the thigh--his life ruined for ever. Another is blind,
staring into the visions of his past--he will never have anything else
to look at again. The chief amusement of these fellows seems to be
watching the funerals, and they call me to run to the window to see
the hearses covered with the Union Jack or the French flag, and they
find nothing mournful in the processions. One Sunday afternoon, as I
sat there, leaning against a table in the middle of the room, a few
country flowers in a vase near by--for Miss Hickman asks for country
flowers for country lads--I asked them if they wouldn't sing me a song
that I had heard a good deal about but had never heard sung. "What's
that, nurse?" asked the boy without a leg. "Tipperary"--for I had never
heard it. "Why, of course we will, won't we, lads?" and he said to his
companion, only nineteen, from some English shire: "You hit the tune."
And the boy "hit it," and they sang me "Tipperary." Before they had
finished I had turned away and walked out into the corridor to hide the
way it made me feel, and I heard it softly through the door as they
finished: "It's a long way to Tipperary." I shall never hear it again
without seeing the picture of that ward, the country flowers and the
country lads, and hearing the measure of that marching tune....
I have seen Mrs. Vanderbilt constantly. She seems to be ubiquitous.
Wherever there's need, she is to be found--whether in the
operating-room, the bandaging-room, or in one of the great wards where
she has charge. I have found her everywhere, just at the right moment:
calm, poised, dignified, capable and sweet. But none of this expresses
the strength that she has been to the American Ambulance since its
foundation--the heart and soul of its organization; and her personal
gifts to it have been generous beyond words. I don't know what we shall
do when she finally returns to America. She animates the whole place
with her spirit and her soul....
IV--STORY OF THE "MIRACLES" OF THE BATTLES
_Madame Le Roux, New York._
Paris, June 15th, 1915.
DEAR BESSIE,
Lady K. told such a beautiful thing, out at Bridget's, that I forgot
to tell you before. She said that it was bruited in England that there
had been a miracle wrought when von Kluck's army so unexpectedly
turned back from Paris, which without doubt they could have taken.
She said that it was rumored--and not only in the ranks, but among
higher men--that there appeared in the sky a singular phenomenon, and
that the German prisoners bore witness that a cavalcade like heavenly
archers suddenly filled the heavens and shot down upon the Germans a
rain of deadly darts. As you know, this was long before the use of any
asphyxiating gas or turpinite; but on the field were found hundreds of
Germans, stone dead, immovable, who had fallen without any apparent
cause. You remember the armies of the old Scriptures that "the breath
of the Lord withered away."
Lady K. said that the rumor that the woods of Compiègne were full of
troops when the Germans made that famous retreat was absolutely untrue.
There were no troops in the forest, and what they saw were, again,
celestial soldiers.
No doubt these tales come always in the history of war. But, my
dear, how beautiful they are--how much more heavenly and inspired
than the beatings on the slavish backs of the German Uhlans, of the
half-drunken, brutish hordes! Everywhere is the same uplifting spirit.
When I speak of Paris being sad, it _is_; but it is not depressing.
There is a difference. If it were not for the absence of those I love,
I would rather be here than anywhere. In church on Sunday, the Bishop
said that at one of the services near the firing line, when he asked
the question: "How many of the men here have felt, since they came out,
a stirring in their hearts, an awakening of the spirit?" as far as he
could see, every hand was raised. And men have gone home to England,
without arms and without legs, maimed for life, and have been heard to
say that in spite of their material anguish they regretted nothing, for
they had found their souls....
I ought to tell you that all credulous and believing France thinks
that the country is being saved by Jeanne d'Arc. You hear them say it
everywhere. Just think of it, in the twentieth century, my dear, when
the war is being fought in the air and under the sea, by machines so
modern that only the latest invention can triumph! Think of it, and
then consider that there remains enough of spiritual faith to believe
that the salvation of a country comes through prayer.
V--STORY OF COMPTE HENRY DADVISARD
_To Mrs. Louis Stoddard, N. Y._
June 25th, 1915.
MY DEAR MOLLY, [3] Mme. de S. told me last night that once during the
last year she had a little spray of blossoms that had been blessed by
the Pope, and in writing to Henry on the field, she sent him a little
bit of green--a tiny leaf pinned on a loving letter. When she looked
through the uniform sent back to her, a few days ago, in his pocket was
this little card, all stained with his blood. This card, with her few
loving words, was all he carried on him into that sacred field. I must
not forget the belt he wore around him, which she had made with her
own hands, and it contained some money and in one of the folds of the
chamois was a prayer that she had written out for him. The paper was so
worn with reading and unfolding and folding that it was like something
used by the years.
All the night before he went to that great battle, he spent in prayer.
His aide told Mme. de S. that he had not closed his eyes. They say that
if he could have been taken immediately from the field, he would have
been saved, for he bled to death.
I only suppose that you will be interested in these details because
they mark the going out of such a brilliant life, and it is the
intimate story of one soldier who has laid down his life, after months
and months of fighting and self-abnegation and loneliness, on that
distant field.
From the time he left her in August until his death, he had never seen
any of his family--not a soul. I want to tell you the way she said
good-bye to him, for I never knew it until last night. She had expected
him to lunch--imagine!--and received the news by telephone that he
was leaving his "quartier" in an hour. She rushed there to see the
Cuirassiers, mounted, in their service uniform, the helmets all covered
with khaki, clattering out of the yard. She sat in the motor and he
came out to her, all ready to go; and they said good-bye, there in the
motor, he sitting by her side, holding her hands. She said he looked
then like the dead--so grave. You know he was a soldier, passionately
devoted to his career. He had made all the African campaign and had
an illustrious record. She says he asked her for her blessing and she
lightly touched the helmet covered with khaki and gave it him. And
neither shed a tear. And he kissed her good-bye. She never saw him
again....
She said that his General told her as follows: "The night before the
engagement, Henry Dadvisard came into my miserable little shack on
the field. He said to me: 'Mon général, just show me on the map where
the Germans are.' A map was hanging on the wall and I indicated with
my finger: '_Les Allemands sont là, mon enfant_.' And Dadvisard said:
'Why, is that all there is to do--just to go out and attack them there?
Why, we'll be coming back as gaily as if it were from the races!' He
turned to go, saying: '_Au revoir_, mon général.' But at the door
he paused, and I looked up and saw him and he said: '_Adieu_, mon
général.' And then I saw in his eyes a singular look, something like
an appeal from one human soul to another, for a word, a touch, before
going out to that sacrifice. I did not dare to say anything but what I
did say: '_Bon courage, mon enfant; bonne chance!_' And he went...."
After telling me this, Mme. de S. took out his watch, which she carries
with her now--a gold watch, with his crest upon it--the one he had
carried through all his campaigns, with the soldier's rough chain
hanging from it. It had stopped at half-past ten; as he had wound it
the night before, the watch had gone on after his heart had ceased to
beat....
The day before Henry left his own company of Cuirassiers to go into
the dangerous and terrible experiences of the trenches, to take up
that duty which ended in his laying down his life, he gathered his men
together and bade them good-bye. Last night dear Mme. de S. showed me
his soldier's notebook, in which he had written the few words that he
meant to say to his men. I begged her to let me have them: I give them
to you. This address stands to me as one of the most beautiful things
I have ever read.
General Foch paid him a fine tribute when he mentioned him in
despatches, and this mention of him was accompanied by the bestowal of
the Croix de Guerre.
"Henry Dadvisard, warm-hearted and vibrant; a remarkable leader of men.
He asked to be transferred to the infantry, in order to offer more
fully to his country his admirable military talents. He fell gloriously
on the 27th of April, leading an attack at the head of his company."
VI--STORY OF THE MORGAN-MARBURY HOSPITAL
_To Mrs. Morawetz, New York._
Paris, June 22nd, 1915.
DEAREST VIOLET,
I went out the other day with Madame Marie to Versailles, _en auto_. I
wanted to see the little hospital that Anne Morgan and Bessie Marbury
have given out there. One of their pretty little houses is in the
charge of some gentle-faced sisters of charity, and out in the garden,
with the roses blooming and the sweet-scented hay being raked in great
piles, were sitting a lieutenant, convalescing, and his _commandant_,
who had come to see him, also wounded. Both men wore the Legion of
Honor on their breasts. They were talking about the campaign. The
lieutenant wore his _képi_ well down over his face; he was totally
blind for ever, at thirty! His interest in talking to his superior
officer was so great that you can fancy I only stopped a second to
speak to him. There were great scars on his hands and his face and neck
were scarred too. I heard him say, as I turned to walk away: "_J'aime
aussi causer des jours quand nous étions collégiens à Saint-Cyr. Ces
souvenirs sont plus doux._" It was terribly touching.
VII--STORY OF THE GAY FRENCH OFFICER
_To Miss B. S. Andrews, New York._
Paris, July 12th, 1915.
DEAREST BELLE,
Mme. de S. is going next week on the cruel and dreadful mission of
disinterring her belovèd dead. She is going down into the tomb in
Belgium--if she can get through--to take her boy out of the charnel
house, where he is buried under six other coffins. "God has his soul,"
she says; "I only ask his body" ... if she can find it. She has told
no one of her griefs, but to me; and she bears herself like a woman of
twenty-five, gallantly....
There is one gay officer of twenty-nine, and six feet two. I don't
think you'd speak of "little insignificant Frenchmen" if you could see
him! He's superb. One finger off on the left hand, and the right hand
utterly useless. So we work at that for fifteen minutes, and all the
little group of soldiers linger, because they love him so--he's so
killing, so witty, so gay. He screams in mock agony, and laughs and
makes the most outrageous jokes; and when he has gone, one of them says
to me: "_Il est adoré par ses hommes, madame; il est si courageux._"
The spirit between men and officers is so beautiful in the French army.
They are all brothers. None of that lordly, arrogant oppression of
the Germans. One of the soldiers said to me: "_Il n'y a pas de grade,
maintenant, madame. Nous sommes tous des hommes qui aiment le pays._"
And Lieutenant ----, of whom I have just been speaking. I said to him:
"Tell me something about the campaign, monsieur." And he answered:
"Oh, madame, I would like to tell you about the _men_. They're superb.
I have never seen anything like it. I had to lead a charge with 156
men into what we all believed was certain death. Why," he said, "they
went like schoolboys--shouting, laughing, pushing each other up the
parapet.... We came back nine strong," he said.
Dr. Blake has been magnificent. His operations are something beyond
words. Men came in to me for treatment and told me that he worked
actual miracles with faces that were blown off, building new jaws, and
oh, Heavens! I don't know what not.
VIII--STORY OF A FRENCH MOTHER AT MASS
Paris, July 20th, 1915.
DEAREST VIOLET,
I saw a very touching thing the other day in the Madeleine, where
I went to Mass. A woman no longer young, in the heaviest of crape,
came in and sat down and buried her face in her hands. She shook with
suppressed sobs and terrible weeping. Presently there came in another
worshipper, a stranger to her, and sat down by her side. He was a
splendid-looking officer in full-dress uniform--a young man, with
a wedding-ring upon his hand--one of those permissionnaires home,
evidently, for the short eight days that all the officers are given
now--a hiatus between the old war and the new. He bent too, praying;
but the weeping of the woman at his side evidently tore his heart.
Presently she lifted her face and wiped her eyes, and the officer put
his hand on hers. And as I was sitting near, I heard what he said:
"_Pauvre madame, pauvre madame!... Ma mère pleure comme vous._"
She glanced at him, then bent again in prayer. But when she had
finished, before she left her seat, I heard her say to him:
"_Monsieur, j'ai beaucoup prié pour vous. Sachez que vous aves les
prières d'une vieille mère a laquelle ne reste rien au monde._"
He touched her hand again and said:
"Merci, madame. Adieu!"
* * * * *
It was just one of those intensely touching pictures in that dimly
lighted church, full of worshippers, that one can never forget....
IX--STORY OF A LITTLE SOLDIER FROM AFRICA
_To Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt, Newport._
4, Place du Palais Bourbon,
Paris, Aug., 1915.
DEAREST ANNE,
Wandering about alone, as I have been doing a great deal lately, I have
gone into many of the churches and prayed at the different shrines, and
it is impressive to see the character of those who come in to pray. Men
who can never kneel again; men who sit with bandaged eyes before the
lighted altars, for whom all the visions of the world have been blotted
out for ever; the poor women in their little shawls; women in their
crape veils; the man going to the Front; the man who has come back from
it, never to take an active part in life again; and the women who ask
the Mother of Sorrows to remember theirs....
A very agreeable Abbé dined with me last night. He told me that he was
giving absolution to one dying German boy--only sixteen--on the field,
and he put his hand under the boy's head and lifted it, and the boy,
who was delirious, simply said: "Mama, mama, mama!" And the Abbé said
to me: "It is a very curious thing, but in all the dying appeals I have
ever heard, it is always for the _mother_." That return, perhaps, to
the lost childhood--the call just before going to sleep....
One day when I was giving electricity lately at the Ambulance, a poor
little Zouave hobbled in--he had only one leg left--and held up a
maimed hand for me to treat. He was not a very interesting-looking
specimen--rather sullen and discouraged, I thought--but as I looked at
his frail little body and his disfigured hand, I looked at his breast
too. Three medals were on it--the Legion of Honor, the Croix de Guerre,
and the Médaille Militaire--all a man can get! And he was just a little
soldier of Africa--a nondescript man whose name would only be heard at
other times to be forgotten.
Jacquemin.
"_Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait pour mériter tout cela, mon ami?_"
_Pour mériter tout cela, parbleu!_ He has one leg only, one hand only,
and he has back of him eight months of hospital and eight months of
horror, for his sufferings have been beyond words.
Jacquemin!
Oh, his name is pretty well known now in a certain Sector!
"_Qu'est-ce que vous aves fait pour mériter tout cela?_"
Three medals across that narrow chest!
Well, alone, on a bad night, in storm and rain, he was a volunteer
patrol. Alone, he brought in four German prisoners. He was a volunteer
for six _patrouilles_ of the gravest danger--not always alone, but
always fetching in prisoners and more prisoners. Bad for the Germans.
He carried his superior officer, wounded, out under fire and saved his
life. Then there was a line of trenches where a hundred and fifty-six
men--they know his name: Jacquemin! Jacquemin with the little mongrel
dog always at his heels--a hundred and fifty-six men had eaten nothing
for four days but the sodden bread left in their haversacks. Jacquemin
filled several wagons full of bread and seating himself on the driver's
seat of the first, he drove in that life-giving line under the fire
of shot and shell, right into the very jaws of death. He brought
sufficient supplies to save the line of trenches, for otherwise they
would have had to evacuate them through starvation, as indeed was the
case with others where this gay little Zouave could not reach. Just
the giving of food to the faint and hungry men whose stern faces were
set against death. That act brought him one of those medals across his
breast--I forget which. Finally, the shot and shell which he had braved
so many times was bound to get him, and with his leg and arm almost
shot away he lay for dead amongst the other slain, and they buried him.
They buried Jacquemin. Fortunately or unfortunately--it depends upon
how he regards a life which he will live through henceforth with only
one leg and only one arm--a little bit of his soldier's coat sprouted
out of the ground. (They don't always bury deep on those fields.) And
his dog saw it and smelled and dug and dug, and whined and cried, until
they came and unburied Jacquemin and brought him back.
He is sitting up there at the Ambulance now, and his little dog is
sometimes in the kitchen and sometimes comes up to the wards.
Jacquemin!
"_Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait pour mériter tout cela, mon ami?_"
What countless thousands of them have done, all along those
lines--Englishmen and Frenchmen, Scotchmen and Irishmen, Indians,
Australians, Canadians--hearts and souls and bodies offered up
magnificently and valiantly sacrificed for the greatest Cause for which
humanity has ever fought! Jacquemin brought them bread to the fighting
line; and that great fighting line, by its efforts, is giving bread for
ever to the world....
(Hundreds of these wonderful letters, revealing the great soul of this
American woman, have been gathered into her book which forms one of the
most beautiful insights into the "soul of the war."--EDITOR.)
FOOTNOTE:
[3] In speaking of the death of Comte Henry Dadvisard.
"A GERMAN DESERTER'S WAR EXPERIENCE"--HIS ESCAPE
"_The Inside Story of the German Army_"
_Told by--(His Name Must Be Witheld To Save the Lives of His Relatives
and Himself)_
This narrative is without doubt the greatest story yet told by a
German soldier. It is a startling confession of the inward feelings
of a young German miner in the Kaiser's ranks. Escaping to America
after serving fourteen months, he first told his story to the _New
Yorker Volkszeitung_, the principal organ of the German socialists in
the United States. Believing that all the American people should know
the truth, his experiences have been translated by J. Koettgen and
published in book form by _B. W. Huebsch_, of New York. His stories
are of historical value because he tells how he marched into Belgium
with the first German army of invasion; the crossing of the Meuse;
the Battle of the Marne. He also tells the first German story of
the rout and flight of the Teutonic forces from the Marne--and his
desertion from the "hell" within the German army. In these pages we
can give but ten selected glimpses of the several hundred stories and
scenes which he so graphically describes.
[4] I--STORY OF THE MARCH INTO BELGIUM
At the end of July, 1914, our garrison at Koblenz was feverishly
agitated. Part of our men were seized by an indescribable enthusiasm,
others became subject to a feeling of great depression. The declaration
of war was in the air. I belonged to those who were depressed. For
I was doing my second year of military service and was to leave the
barracks in six weeks' time. Instead of the long wished-for return home
war was facing me....
Our sapper battalion, No. 30, had been in feverish activity five
days before the mobilization; work was being pushed on day and
night.... Moreover, there was the suspicious amiability of the
officers and sergeants, which excluded any doubt that any one might
still have had. Officers who had never before replied to the salute
of a private soldier now did so with the utmost attention. Cigars
and beer were distributed in those days by the officers with great,
uncommon liberality, so that it was not surprising that many soldiers
were scarcely ever sober and did not realize the seriousness of the
situation. But there were also others. There were soldiers who also
in those times of good-humour and the grinning comradeship of officer
and soldier could not forget that in military service they had often
been degraded to the level of brutes, and who now thought with bitter
feelings that an opportunity might perhaps be offered in order to
settle accounts.
The order of mobilization became known on the 1st of August, and the
following day was decided upon as the real day of mobilization. But
without awaiting the arrival of the reserves we left our garrison town
on August 1st. Who was to be our "enemy" we did not know; Russia was
for the present the only country against which war had been declared.
We marched through the streets of the town to the station between
crowds of people numbering many thousands. Flowers were thrown at us
from every window; everybody wanted to shake hands with the departing
soldiers. All the people, even soldiers, were weeping. Many marched
arm in arm with their wife or sweetheart. The music played songs of
leave-taking. People cried and sang at the same time. Entire strangers,
men and women, embraced and kissed each other; men embraced men and
kissed each other. It was a real witches' sabbath of emotion; like a
wild torrent, that emotion carried away the whole assembled humanity.
Nobody, not even the strongest and most determined spirit, could resist
that ebullition of feeling.
But all that was surpassed by the taking leave at the station, which we
reached after a short march. Here final adieus had to be said, here the
separation had to take place. I shall never forget that leave-taking,
however old I may grow to be. Desperately many women clung to their
men; some had to be removed by force. Just as if they had suddenly had
a vision of the fate of their beloved ones, as if they were beholding
the silent graves in foreign lands in which those poor nameless ones
were to be buried, they sought to cling fast to their possession, to
retain what already no longer belonged to them.
Finally that, too, was over. We had entered a train that had been
kept ready, and had made ourselves comfortable in our cattle-trucks.
Darkness had come, and we had no light in our comfortable sixth-class
carriages.
The train moved slowly down the Rhine, it went along without any great
shaking, and some of us were seized by a worn-out feeling after those
days of great excitement. Most of the soldiers lay with their heads on
their knapsacks and slept. Others again tried to pierce the darkness
as if attempting to look into the future; still others drew stealthily
a photo out of their breast-pocket, and only a very small number of us
spent the time by debating our point of destination. Where are we going
to? Well, where? Nobody knew it. At last, after long, infinitely long
hours the train came to a stop. After a night of quiet, slow riding we
were at--Aix-la-Chapelle! At Aix-la-Chapelle! What were we doing at
Aix-la-Chapelle? We did not know, and the officers only shrugged their
shoulders when we asked them.
After a short interval the journey proceeded, and on the evening of the
2nd of August we reached a farm in the neighbourhood of the German and
Belgian frontier, near Herbesthal. Here our company was quartered in
a barn. Nobody knew what our business was at the Belgian frontier. In
the afternoon of the 3rd of August reservists arrived, and our company
was brought to its war strength. We had still no idea concerning the
purpose of our being sent to the Belgian frontier, and that evening
we lay down on our bed of straw with a forced tranquillity of mind.
Something was sure to happen soon, to deliver us from that oppressive
uncertainty. How few of us thought that for many it would be the last
night to spend on German soil!...
II--STORY OF THE FIRST ALARM TO BATTLE
At 1 o'clock in the morning an alarm aroused us again, and the captain
honoured us with an address. He told us we were at war with Belgium,
that we should acquit ourselves as brave soldiers, earn iron crosses,
and do honour to our German name....
The soldier is told, "The Belgian is your enemy," and he has to believe
it. The soldier, the workman in uniform, had not known till then who
was his enemy. If they had told us, "The Hollander is your enemy," we
would have believed that, too; we would have been compelled to believe
it, and would have shot him by order. We, the "German citizens in
uniform," must not have an opinion of our own, must have no thoughts
of our own, for they give us our enemy and our friend according to
requirements, according to the requirements of their own interests. The
Frenchman, the Belgian, the Italian, is your enemy. Never mind, shoot
as we order, and do not bother your head about it....
About ten minutes we might have lain in the grass when we suddenly
heard rifle shots in front of us. Electrified, all of us jumped up and
hastened to our rifles. Then the firing of rifles that was going on
at a distance of about a mile or a mile and a half began steadily to
increase in volume. We set in motion immediately....
Though I was aware that we should be in the firing line within half an
hour, I endeavoured to convince myself that our participation in the
fight would no longer be necessary. I clung obstinately, nay, almost
convulsively to every idea that could strengthen that hope or give me
consolation. That not every bullet finds its billet; that, as we had
been told, most wounds in modern wars were afflicted by grazing shots
which caused slight flesh-wounds; those were some of the reiterated
self-deceptions indulged in against my better knowledge. And they
proved effective. It was not only that they made me in fact feel more
easy; deeply engaged in those thoughts I had scarcely observed that we
were already quite near the firing line....
We were lying flat on the ground, and fired in the direction indicated
to us as fast as our rifles would allow. So far we had not seen our
opponents. That, it seemed, was too little interesting to some of our
soldiers; so they rose partly, and fired in a kneeling position. Two
men of my company had to pay for their curiosity with their lives.
Almost at one and the same time they were shot through the head. The
first victim of our group fell down forward without uttering a sound;
the second threw up his arms and fell on his back. Both of them were
dead instantly.
Who could describe the feelings that overcome a man in the first hail
of bullets he is in? When we were leaping forward to reach the firing
line I felt no longer any fear and seemed only to try to reach the line
as quickly as possible. But when looking at the first dead man I was
seized by a terrible horror. For minutes I was perfectly stupefied, had
completely lost command over myself and was absolutely incapable to
think or act. I pressed my face and hands firmly against the ground,
and then suddenly I was seized by an irrepressible excitement, took
hold of my gun, and began to fire away blindly. Little after little I
quieted down again somewhat, nay, I became almost quite confident as if
everything was normal. Suddenly I found myself content with myself and
my surroundings, and when a little later the whole line was commanded,
"Leap forward! March, march!" I ran forward demented like the others,
as if things could not be other than what they were....
It was a hand to hand fight; every kind of weapon had to be employed;
the opponent was attacked with the butt-end of the rifle, the knife,
the fist, and the teeth. One of my best friends fought with a gigantic
Belgian; both had lost their rifles. They were pummeling each other
with their fists. I had just finished with a Belgian who was about
twenty-two years of age, and was going to assist my friend, as the
Herculean Belgian was so much stronger than he. Suddenly my friend
succeeded with a lightning motion in biting the Belgian in the chin. He
bit so deeply that he tore away a piece of flesh with his teeth. The
pain the Belgian felt must have been immense, for he let go his hold
and ran off screaming with terrible pain.
All that happened in seconds. The blood of the Belgian ran out of my
friend's mouth; he was seized by a horrible nausea, an indescribable
terror, the taste of the warm blood nearly drove him insane. That
young, gay, lively fellow of twenty-four had been cheated out of his
youth in that night. He used to be the jolliest among us; after that we
could never induce him even to smile.
Whilst fighting during the night I came for the first time in touch
with the butt-end of a Belgian rifle. I had a hand to hand fight with a
Belgian when another one from behind hit me with his rifle on the head
with such force that it drove my head into the helmet up to my ears.
I experienced a terrific pain all over my head, doubled up, and lost
consciousness. When I revived I found myself with a bandaged head in a
barn among other wounded.
I had not been severely wounded, but I felt as if my head was double
its normal size, and there was a noise in my ears as of the wheels of
an express engine....
We were quite hungry and ate the tinned soup with the heartiest of
appetites. Many of our soldiers were sitting with their dinner-pails
on the dead horses that were lying about, and were eating with such
pleasure and heartiness as if they were home at mother's. Nor did some
corpses in the neighbourhood of our improvised camp disturb us. There
was only a lack of water and after having eaten thirst began to torment
us.
We continued our march in the scorching midday sun; dust was covering
our uniforms and skin to the depth of almost an inch. We tried in vain
to be jolly, but thirst tormented us more and more, and we became
weaker and weaker from one quarter of an hour to another. Many in our
ranks fell down exhausted....
III--STORY OF THE POISONED WELLS
Finally, towards four o'clock, we saw a village in front of us; we
began at once to march at a much brisker pace. Among other things we
saw a farm-cart on which were several civilian prisoners, apparently
snipers. There was also a Catholic priest among them who had, like the
others, his hands tied behind his back with a rope. Curiosity prompted
us to enquire what he had been up to, and we heard that he had incited
the farmers of the village to poison the water.
We soon reached the village and the first well at which we hoped
to quench our thirst thoroughly. But that was no easy matter, for
a military guard had been placed before it who scared us off with
the warning, "Poisoned"! Disappointed and terribly embittered the
soldiers, half dead with thirst, gnashed their teeth; they hurried to
the next well, but everywhere the same devilish thing occurred--the
guard preventing them from drinking. In a square, in the middle of the
village, there was a large village well which sent, through two tubes,
water as clear as crystal into a large trough. Five soldiers were
guarding it and had to watch that nobody drank of the poisoned water. I
was just going to march past it with my pal when suddenly the second,
larger portion of our company rushed like madmen to the well. The
guards were carried away by the rush, and every one now began to drink
the water with the avidity of an animal. All quenched their thirst, and
not one of us became ill or died. We heard later on that the priest had
to pay for it with his death....
In every army one finds men with the disposition of barbarians.
The many millions of inhabitants in Germany or France are not all
civilized people, much as we like to convince ourselves of the
contrary. Compulsory military service in those countries forces all
without distinction into the army, men and monsters. I have often
bitterly resented the wrong one did to our army in calling us all
barbarians only because among us--as, naturally also among the French
and English--there were to be found elements that really ought to be
in the penitentiary. I will only cite one example of how we soldiers
ourselves punished a wretch whom we caught committing a crime.
One evening--it was dark already--we reached a small village to the
east of the town of Bertrix, and there, too, found "poisoned" water.
We halted in the middle of the village. I was standing before a house
with a low window, through which one could see the interior. In the
miserable poverty-stricken working man's dwelling we observed a woman
who clung to her children as if afraid they would be torn from her.
Though we felt very bitter on account of the want of water, every
one of us would have liked to help the poor woman. Some of us were
just going to sacrifice our little store of victuals and to say a few
comforting words to the woman, when all at once a stone as big as a
fist was thrown through the window-pane into the room and hurt a little
girl in the right hand. There were sincere cries of indignation, but
at the same moment twenty hands at least laid hold of the wretch, a
reservist of our company, and gave him such a hiding as to make him
almost unconscious. If officers and other men had not interfered the
fellow would have been lynched there and then. He was to be placed
before a court-martial later on, but it never came to that. He was
drowned in the river at the battle of the Meuse. Many soldiers believed
he drowned himself, because he was not only shunned by his fellow
soldiers, but was also openly despised by them....
IV--STORY OF THE BELGIAN SNIPERS
We had to proceed, and soon reached the town of Bertrix. Some few
houses to the left and right of the road were burning fiercely; we soon
got to know that they had been set alight because soldiers marching
past were said to have been shot at from those houses. Before one of
these houses a man and his wife and their son, a boy of 15 or 16, lay
half burnt to cinders; all had been covered with straw. Three more
civilians lay dead in the same street.
We had marched past some more houses when all at once shots rang out;
they had been shooting from some house, and four of our soldiers had
been wounded. For a short while there was confusion. The house from
which the shots must have come was soon surrounded, and hand grenades
were thrown through all the windows into the interior. In an instant
all the rooms were in flames. The exploding hand grenades caused such
an enormous air pressure that all the doors were blown from their
hinges and the inner walls torn to shreds. Almost at the same time,
five men in civilian clothes rushed into the street and asked for
quarter with uplifted hands. They were seized immediately and taken
to the officers, who formed themselves into a tribunal within a few
minutes. Ten minutes later sentence had already been executed; five
strong men lay on the ground, blindfolded and their bodies riddled by
bullets.
Six of us had in each of the five cases to execute the sentence, and
unfortunately I, too, belonged to those thirty men. The condemned man
whom my party of six had to shoot was a tall, lean man, about forty
years of age. He did not wince for a moment when they blindfolded him.
In a garden of a house nearby he was placed with his back against the
house, and after our captain had told us that it was our duty to aim
well so as to end the tragedy quickly, we took up our position six
paces from the condemned one. The sergeant commanding us had told us
before to shoot the condemned man through the chest. We then formed
two lines, one behind the other. The command was given to load and
secure, and we pushed five cartridges into the rifle. Then the command
rang out, "Get ready!" The first line knelt, the second stood up. We
held our rifles in such a position that the barrel pointed in front of
us whilst the butt-end rested somewhere near the hip. At the command,
"Aim!" we slowly brought our rifles into shooting position, grasped
them firmly, pressed the plate of the butt-end against the shoulder
and, with our cheek on the butt-end, we clung convulsively to the neck
of the rifle. Our right forefinger was on the trigger, the sergeant
gave us about half a minute for aiming before commanding, "Fire!"
Even to-day I cannot say whether our victim fell dead on the spot or
how many of the six bullets hit him....
V--STORY OF MURDEROUS FIGHTS IN THE NIGHT
After a short march we engaged the French to the northeast of Donchéry.
On this side of the Meuse the enemy had only his rear-guard, whose
task was to cover the crossing of the main French armies, a movement
which was almost exclusively effected at Sedan and Donchéry. We stuck
close to the heels of our opponents, who did not retreat completely
till darkness began to fall. The few bridges left did not allow him to
withdraw his forces altogether as quickly as his interest demanded.
Thus it came about that an uncommonly murderous nocturnal street
fight took place in Donchéry which was burning at every corner. The
French fought with immense energy; an awful slaughter was the result.
Man against man! That "man against man!" is the most terrible thing
I have experienced in war. Nobody can tell afterwards how many he
has killed. You have gripped your opponent, who is sometimes weaker,
sometimes stronger than yourself. In the light of the burning houses
you observe that the white of his eyes has turned red; his mouth is
covered with a thick froth. With head uncovered, with disheveled hair,
the uniform unbuttoned and mostly ragged, you stab, hew, scratch, bite
and strike about you like a wild animal. It means life or death. You
fight for your life. No quarter is given. You only hear the gasping,
groaning, jerky breathing. You only think of your own life, of death,
of home. In feverish haste, as in a whirlwind, old memories are rushing
through your mind. Yet you get more excited from minute to minute, for
exhaustion tries to master you; but that must not be--not now! And
again the fight is renewed; again there is hewing, stabbing, biting.
Without rifle, without any weapon in a life and death struggle. You or
I. I? I?--Never! you! The exertion becomes superhuman. Now a thrust,
a vicious bite, and you are the victor. Victor for the moment, for
already the next man, who has just finished off one of your mates, is
upon you--. You suddenly remember that you have a dagger about you.
After a hasty fumbling you find it in the prescribed place. A swift
movement and the dagger buries itself deeply in the body of the other
man.
Onward! onward! new enemies are coming up, real enemies. How clearly
the thought suddenly flashes on you that that man is your enemy, that
he is seeking to take your life, that he bites, strikes, and scratches,
tries to force you down and plant his dagger in your heart. Again you
use your dagger. Thank heavens! He is down. Saved!-- Still, you must
have that dagger back! You pull it out of his chest. A jet of warm
blood rushes out of the gaping wound and strikes your face. Human
blood, warm human blood! You shake yourself, horror strikes you for
only a few seconds. The next one approaches; again you have to defend
your skin. Again and again the mad murdering is repeated, all night
long--....
VI--STORY OF THE MEN WHO DIE
Many of my mates envied the dead soldiers and wished to be in their
place in order to be at least through with all their misery. Yet all of
us were afraid of dying--afraid of dying, be it noted, not of death.
All of us often longed for death, but we were horrified at the slow
dying lasting hours which is the rule on the battlefield, that process
which makes the wounded, abandoned soldier die piecemeal. I have
witnessed the death of hundreds of young men in their prime, but I know
of none among them who died willingly. A young sapper of the name of
Kellner, whose home was at Cologne, had his whole abdomen ripped open
by a shell splinter. Maddened by pain he begged me to assure him that
he would not have to die. Of course, I assured him that his wounds were
by no means severe and that the doctor would be there immediately to
help him. My words comforted him. He died ten minutes later....
We common soldiers were here handling the dead and wounded as if we had
never done anything else, and yet in our civilian lives most of us had
an abhorrence and fear of the dead and the horribly mangled. War is a
hard schoolmaster who bends and reshapes his pupils.
One section was busy with digging a common grave for the dead. We took
away the papers and valuables of the dead, took possession of the
eatable and drinkable stores to be found in the saddle bags attached
to the horses and, when the grave was ready, we began to place the
dead bodies in it. They were laid close together in order to utilize
fully the available space. I, too, had been ordered to "bring in"
the dead. The bottom of the grave was large enough for twenty-three
bodies if the space was well utilized. When two layers of twenty-three
had already been buried a sergeant of the artillery, who was standing
near, observed that one of the "dead" was still alive. He had seen the
"corpse" move the fingers of his right hand. On closer examination it
turned out that we came near burying a living man, for after an attempt
lasting two hours we succeeded in restoring him to consciousness. The
officer of the infantry who supervised the work now turned to the two
soldiers charged with getting the corpses ready and asked them whether
they were sure that all the men buried were really dead.
"Yes," the two replied, "we suppose they are all dead." That seemed
to be quite sufficient for that humane officer, for he ordered the
interments to proceed. Nobody doubted that there were several more
among the 138 men whom we alone buried in one grave (two other, still
bigger, graves had been dug by different burial parties) from whose
bodies life had not entirely flown....
We were as merry as boys and as noisy as street urchins. "Oh, what a
joy to be a soldier lad!"--that song rang out, subdued at first, then
louder and louder. It died away quickly enough as one after the other
laid down his tired head. We slept like the dead.
A soldier in war never knows the date or day of the week. One day is
like another. Whether it is Saturday, Thursday or Sunday, it means
always the same routine of murdering. "Remember the Sabbath day to
keep it holy!" "Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work. But
the seventh day--thou shalt not do any work." These, to our Christian
rulers, are empty phrases. "Six days shalt thou murder and on the
seventh day, too."
VII--STORY OF THE "MISSING" OFFICERS
However, not all the soldiers approved of that senseless, that criminal
murdering. Some of the "gentlemen" who had ordered us to massacre our
French comrades were killed "by mistake" in the darkness of the night,
by their own people, of course. Such "mistakes" repeat themselves
almost daily, and if I keep silence with regard to many such mistakes
which I could relate, giving the exact name and place, the reader will
know why.
During that night it was a captain and first lieutenant who met this
fate. An infantryman who was serving his second year stabbed the
captain through the stomach with his bayonet, and almost at the same
time the first lieutenant got a stab in the back. Both men were dead in
a few minutes. Those that did the deeds showed not the slightest signs
of repentance, and not one of us felt inclined to reproach them; on
the contrary, every one knew that despicable, brutal murderers had met
their doom.
In this connection I must mention a certain incident which necessitates
my jumping a little ahead of events. When on the following day I
conversed with a mate from my company and asked him for the loan of
his pocket knife he drew from his pocket three cartridges besides his
knife. I was surprised to find him carrying cartridges in his trousers'
pockets and asked him whether he had no room for them in his cartridge
case. "There's room enough," he replied, "but those three are meant
for a particular purpose; there's a name inscribed on each of them."
Some time after--we had meanwhile become fast friends--I inquired again
after the three bullets. He had one of them left. I reflected and
remembered two sergeants who had treated us like brutes in times of
peace, whom we had hated as one could only hate slave-drivers. They had
found their grave in French soil....
A company of the Hessian landwehr, all of them old soldiers, were
marching past with sore feet and drooping heads. They had probably
marched for a long while. Officers were attempting to liven them
up. They were to sing a song, but the Hessians, fond of singing and
good-natured as they certainly are known to be, were by no means in
a mood to sing. "I tell you to sing, you swine!" the officer cried,
and the pitifully helpless-looking "swine" endeavored to obey the
command. Here and there a thin voice from the ranks of the overtired
men could be heard to sing, "_Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,
über alles in der Welt_." With sore feet and broken energy, full
of disgust with their "glorious" trade of warriors, they sang that
symphony of supergermanism that sounded then like blasphemy, nay, like
a travesty--"_Deutschland, Deutschland über alles, über alles in der
Welt_." ...
VIII--STORY OF THE SACKING OF SUIPPES
I have never in war witnessed a greater general pillaging than here in
Suippes. It was plain that we had to live and had to have food. The
inhabitants and storekeepers having fled, it was often impossible to
pay for the things one needed. Men simply went into some store, put
on socks and underwear, and left their old things; they then went to
some other store, took the food they fancied, and hied themselves to a
wine-cellar to provide themselves to their hearts' content.
The finest and largest stores--Suippes supplied a large tract
of country and had comparatively extensive stores of all
descriptions--were empty shells in a few hours.
One of our sappers had for weeks carried about with him a pair of
handsome boots for his fiancée and then had them sent to her in two
parcels. However, the field post did not guarantee delivery; and thus
the war bride got the left boot, and not the right one....
The occupant of one house was evidently a young bride, for the various
pieces of the trousseau, trimmed with dainty blue ribbons, could be
seen in the wardrobes in a painfully spick and span condition. All
the wardrobes were unlocked. We did not touch a thing. We were again
reminded of the cruelty of war. Millions it turned into beggars in
one night; the fondest hopes and desires were destroyed. When, the
next morning, we entered the house again, driven by a presentiment of
misfortune, we found everything completely destroyed. Real barbarians
had been raging here, who had lost that thin varnish with which
civilization covers the brute in man. The whole trousseau of the young
bride had been dragged from the shelves and was still partly covering
the floor. Portraits, photographs, looking-glasses, all lay broken
on the floor. Three of us had entered the room, and all three of us
clenched our fists in helpless rage....
When a man is accustomed to step over corpses with a cold smile on
his lips, when he has to face death every minute day and night, he
gradually loses that finer feeling for human things and humanity. Thus
it must not surprise one that soldiers could laugh and joke in the
midst of awful devastation, that they brought wine to a concert room in
which there was a piano and an electric organ, and had a joyful time
with music and wine. They drank till they were unconscious; they drank
with sergeants and corporals, pledging "brotherhood"; and they rolled
arm in arm through the streets with their new "comrades."...
IX--STORY OF THE TRAGEDY OF THE MARNE
_At the Marne--in the maw of death._ It was dark, and rained. From all
directions one heard in the darkness the wounded calling, crying, and
moaning. The wounded we had with us were likewise moaning and crying.
All wanted to have their wounds dressed, but we had no more bandages.
We tore off pieces of our dirty shirts and placed the rags on those
sickening wounds. Men were dying one after the other. There were no
doctors, no bandages; we had nothing whatever. You had to help the
wounded and keep the French off at the same time. It was an unbearable,
impossible state of things. It rained harder and harder. We were wet
to our skins. We fired blindly into the darkness. The rolling fire of
rifles increased, then died away, then increased again. We sappers were
placed among the infantry. My neighbor gave me a dig in the ribs. "I
say," he called out.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Who are you?"
"A sapper."
"Come here," he hissed. "It gives you an uncanny feeling to be alone in
this hell of a night. Why are you here too?--They'll soon come again,
those over there; then there'll be fine fun again. Do you hear the
others cry?"
He laughed. Suddenly he began again: "I always shoot at those until
they leave off crying--that's great fun."
Again he laughed, that time more shrilly than before.
I knew what was the matter. He had become insane. A man passed with
ammunition. I begged him to go at once and fetch the section leader.
The leader, a lieutenant of the infantry, came up. I went to meet him
and told him that my neighbor was continually firing at the wounded,
was talking nonsense, and was probably insane. The lieutenant placed
himself between us. "Can you see anything?" he asked the other man.
"What? See? No; but I hear them moaning and crying, and as soon as I
hit one--well, he is quiet, he goes to sleep--" The lieutenant nodded
at me. He took the gun away from the man. But the latter snatched it
quickly away again and jumped out of the trench. From there he fired
into the crowd of wounded men until, a few seconds after, he dropped
down riddled by several bullets.
(Here the soldier gives a wonderful description of the rout and flight
from the Battle of the Marne which is too long to be included in this
collection, but which the reader will find complete, in his book: "A
Deserter's War Experiences."--EDITOR.)
X--STORY OF A FURLOUGH--AND ESCAPE
It was not until September that I managed to obtain furlough at the
request of my relations, and I left for home with a resolve that at
times seemed to me impossible to execute. All went well until I got to
Diedenhofen.
As far as that station the railroads are operated by the army
authorities. At Diedenhofen they are taken over by the Imperial
Railroads of Alsace-Lorraine and the Prusso-Hessian State Railroads. So
I had to change, and got on a train that went to Saarbruecken. I had
scarcely taken a seat in a compartment in my dirty and ragged uniform
when a conductor came along to inspect the tickets. Of course, I had
no ticket; I had only a furlough certificate and a pass which had been
handed to me at the field railroad depot of Chatel. The conductor
looked at the papers and asked me again for my ticket. I drew his
attention to my pass. "That is only good for the territory of the war
operations," he said; "you are now traveling on a state railroad and
have to buy a ticket."
I told him that I should not buy a ticket, and asked him to inform
the station manager. "You," I told him, "only act according to
instructions. I am not angry with you for asking of me what I shall do
under no circumstances." He went off and came back with the manager.
The latter also inspected my papers and told me I had to pay for the
journey.
"I have no means for that purpose," I told him. "For these last three
years I have been in these clothes" (I pointed to my uniform), "and for
three years I have therefore been without any income. Whence am I to
get the money to pay for this journey?"
"If you have no money for traveling you can't take furlough." I
thought to myself that if they took me deep into France they were in
conscience bound to take me back to where they had fetched me. Was
I to be a soldier for three years and fight for the Fatherland for
more than a year only to find that now they refused the free use of
their railroads to a ragged soldier? I explained that I was not going
to pay, that I could not save the fare from the few pfennigs' pay. I
refused explicitly to pay a soldier's journey with my private money,
even if--as was the case here--that soldier was myself. Finally I told
him, "I must request you to inform the military railroad commander; the
depot command attends to soldiers, not you." He sent me a furious look
through his horn spectacles and disappeared. Two civilians were sitting
in the same compartment with me; they thought it an unheard-of thing
that a soldier coming from the front should be asked for his fare.
Presently the depot commander came up with a sergeant. He demanded to
see my furlough certificate, pay books, and all my other papers.
"Have you any money?"
"No."
"Where do you come from?"
"From Chatel in the Argonnes."
"How long were you at the front?"
"In the fourteenth month."
"Been wounded?"
"No."
"Have you no money at all?"
"No; you don't want money at the front."
"The fare must be paid. If you can't, the company must pay. Please sign
this paper."
I signed it without looking at it. It was all one to me what I signed,
as long as they left me alone. Then the sergeant came back.
"You can not travel in that compartment; you must also not converse
with travelers. You have to take the first carriage marked 'Only for
the military.' Get into that."
"I see," I observed; "in the dogs' compartment."
He turned round again and said, "Cut out those remarks."
The train started, and I arrived safely home. After the first hours
of meeting all at home again had passed I found myself provided with
faultless underwear and had taken the urgently needed bath. Once more I
could put on the civilian dress I had missed for so long a time. All of
it appeared strange to me. I began to think. Under no conditions was I
going to return to the front. But I did not know how I should succeed
in getting across the frontier. I could choose between two countries
only--Switzerland and Holland. It was no use going to Switzerland, for
that country was surrounded by belligerent states, and it needed only
a little spark to bring Switzerland into the war, and then there would
be no loophole for me. There was only the nearest country left for me
to choose--Holland. But how was I to get there? There was the rub. I
concocted a thousand plans and discarded them again. Nobody, not even
my relatives, must know about it.
(How this German soldier fled from the war and escaped to America is
told in his book: "A German Deserter's War Experiences;"--Copyright,
1917, B. W. Huebsch.)
FOOTNOTE:
[4] All numbers relate to the stories herein told--not to the chapters
in the book.
"THE SOUL OF THE WAR"--TALES OF THE HEROIC FRENCH
_Revelations of a War Correspondent_
_Told by Philip Gibbs, Special Correspondent for the "London Daily
Chronicle"_
The eye-witness stories of this gifted English author lay bare the
soul of the Great War. He tells of the human and psychological side
of warfare as he has seen it on the battle field under heavy shell
fire, in bombarded towns, in field hospitals and amid great movements
of troops. He reveals the throbbing heart of the ghastly brute force
that mangles the body and tortures the mind of heroic men. The author
says in his conclusion: "More passionate than any other emotion that
has stirred man through life is my conviction that any man that has
seen these things, if he has ... any human pity, should dedicate his
head and heart to the sacred duty of preventing another war like
this." The stories herein given are by permission of his publishers,
_Robert M. McBride and Company_ (Copyright 1915), and are taken from
but one chapter of this notable book, in which he relates nearly a
thousand anecdotes.
[5] I--STORY OF THE SOLDIERS OF FRANCE
The Germans, however great their army, could never have captured the
soul of Paris....
When in the first days of the war I saw the soldiers of France on
their way to the front, I had even then a conviction that the fighting
qualities of the nation had not degenerated in forty-four years of
peace.... Afterwards, during many months as a wanderer in this war, I
came to know the French soldier with the intimacy of long conversations
to the sound of guns, in the first line of trenches facing the enemy,
in hospitals, where he spoke quietly while comrades snored themselves
to death, in villages smashed to pieces by shell-fire, in troop trains
overcrowded with wounded, in woods and fields pockmarked by the holes
of "marmites," and in the restaurants of Paris and provincial towns
where, with an empty sleeve or one trouser-leg dangling beneath the
tablecloth, he told me his experiences of war with a candor in which
there was no concealment of truth; and out of all these friendships
and revelations of soul the character of the soldiers of France stands
before my mind in heroic colors....
He does not like death--he dreads the thought of it--but without
questioning his soul he springs forward to save this mother-country of
his and dies upon her bosom with a cry of "Vive la France!"
The French soldier ... needs feminine consolation, and all his ideals
and his yearnings and his self-pity are intimately associated with the
love of women, and especially of one woman--his mother. When Napoleon,
in the island of St. Helena, used to talk about the glories of his
victorious years, and then brooded over the tragedy of his overthrow so
that all his soul was clouded with despair, he used to rouse himself
after the silence which followed those hours of self-analysis and say,
"Let us talk about women--and love." Always it is the feminine spirit
in which a Frenchman bathes his wounds. One small incident I saw a year
or two ago gave me the clue to this quality in the French character.
It was when Védrines, the famous airman, was beaten by only a few
minutes in the flight round England. Capitaine Conneau--"Beaumont,"
as he called himself--had outraced his rival and waited, with French
gallantry, to shake the hand of the adversary he had defeated on
untiring wings. A great crowd of smart men and women waited also at
Brooklands to cheer the second in the race, who in England is always
more popular than the prize-winner. But when Védrines came to earth out
of a blue sky he was savage and bitter. The loss of the prize-money was
a great tragedy to this mechanic who had staked all his ambition on
the flight. He shouted out harsh words to those who came to cheer him,
and shook them off violently when they tried to clap him on the back.
He was savagely angry. Then suddenly something seemed to break in his
spirit, and his face quivered.
"Is there any woman to embrace me?" he asked. Out of the crowd came a
pretty Frenchwoman and, understanding the man, though she had not met
him before, she held out her arms to him and raised her face.
"Allons-donc, mon vieux!" she said.
The man put his arms about her and kissed her, while tears streamed
down his face, covered in sweat and dust. He was comforted, like a
boy who had hurt himself, in his mother's arms. It was a queer little
episode--utterly impossible in the imagination of an Englishman--but a
natural thing in France.
So when a Frenchman lies dying, almost unconscious before the last
breath, it is always a woman's name that he cries out, or whispers,
though not always the name of his wife or mistress. One word is heard
again and again in the hospital wards, where the _poilus_ lie, those
bearded fellows, so strong when they went out to the war, but now so
weak and helpless before death.
"Maman! Maman!"
It is to the bosom of motherhood that the spirit of the Frenchman goes
in that last hour.
"Oh, my dear little mamma," writes a young lieutenant of artillery, "it
would be nice to be in my own room again, where your picture hangs
over my bed looking down on the white pillows upon which you used to
make the sign of the Cross before I went to sleep. I often try to dream
myself into that bedroom again, but the cold is too intense for dreams,
and another shell comes shrieking overhead. War is nothing but misery,
after all."
Yet if the English reader imagines that because this thread of
sentiment runs through the character of France there is a softness in
the qualities of French soldiers, he does not know the truth. Those men
whom I saw at the front and behind the fighting lines were as hard in
moral and spiritual strength as in physical endurance....
II--STORY OF THE FIGHTERS FROM ARGONNE AND LORRAINE
The slopes of Hartmansweilerkopf were already washed by waves of blood
which surged round it for nine months and more, until its final capture
by the French. St. Mihiel and Les Eparges and the triangle which the
Germans had wedged between the French lines were a shambles before the
leaves had fallen from the autumn trees in the first year of war. In
the country of the Argonne men fought like wolves and began a guerrilla
warfare with smaller bodies of men, fighting from wood to wood, from
village to village, the forces on each side being scattered over a wide
area in advance of their main lines. Then they dug themselves into
trenches from which they came out at night, creeping up to each other's
lines, flinging themselves upon each other with bayonets and butt-ends,
killing each other as beasts kill, without pity and in the mad rage of
terror which is the fiercest kind of courage.
In Lorraine the tide of war ebbed and flowed over the same tracts of
ground, and neither side picked up its dead or its wounded. Men lay
there alive for days and nights, bleeding slowly to death. The hot sun
glared down upon them and made them mad with thirst. Some of them lay
there for as long as three weeks, still alive, with gangrened limbs in
which lice crawled, so that they stank abominably.
"I cannot tell you all the things I saw," said one of the young
soldiers who talked to me on his way back from Lorraine. He had a queer
look in his eyes when he spoke those words which he tried to hide
from me by turning his head away. But he told me how the fields were
littered with dead, decomposing and swarmed with flies, lying there
in huddled postures, yet some of them so placed that their fixed eyes
seemed to be staring at the corpses near them. And he told me how on
the night he had his own wound French and German soldiers not yet dead
talked together by the light of the moon, which shed its pale light
upon all those prostrate men, making their faces look very white. He
heard the murmurs of voices about him, and the groans of the dying,
rising to hideous anguish as men were tortured by ghastly wounds and
broken limbs. In that night enmity was forgotten by those who had
fought like beasts and now lay together. A French soldier gave his
water-bottle to a German officer who was crying out with thirst. The
German sipped a little and then kissed the hand of the man who had been
his enemy. "There will be no war on the other side," he said.
Another Frenchman--who came from Montmartre--found lying within a yard
of him a Luxembourgeois whom he had known as his _chasseur_ in a big
hotel in Paris. The young German wept to see his old acquaintance. "It
is stupid," he said, "this war. You and I were happy when we were good
friends in Paris. Why should we have been made to fight each other?"
He died with his arms round the neck of the soldier who told me the
story, unashamed of his own tears.
Round this man's neck also were clasped the arms of a German officer
when a week previously the French _piou-piou_ went across the field of
a battle--one of the innumerable skirmishes--which had been fought and
won four days before another French retirement. The young German had
had both legs broken by a shell, and was wounded in other places. He
had strength enough to groan piteously, but when my friend lifted him
up death was near to him.
"He was all rotten," said the soldier, "and there came such a terrible
stench from him that I nearly dropped him, and vomited as I carried him
along."
I learned something of the psychology of the French soldier from this
young infantryman with whom I traveled in a train full of wounded soon
after that night in Lorraine, when the moon had looked down on the
field of the dead and dying in which he lay with a broken leg. He had
passed through a great ordeal, so that his nerves were still torn and
quivering, and I think he was afraid of going mad at the memory of the
things he had seen and suffered, because he tried to compel himself to
talk of trivial things, such as the beauty of the flowers growing on
the railway banks and the different badges on English uniforms. But
suddenly he would go back to the tale of his fighting in Lorraine and
resume a long and rapid monologue in which little pictures of horror
flashed after each other as though his brain were a cinematograph
recording some melodrama. Queer bits of philosophy jerked out between
this narrative. "This war is only endurable because it is for a final
peace in Europe." "Men will refuse to suffer these things again. It is
the end of militarism." "If I thought that a child of mine would have
to go through all that I have suffered during these last weeks, I would
strangle him in his cradle to save him from it."
Sometimes he spoke of France with a kind of religion in his eyes.
"Of course, I am ready to die for France. She can demand my life as a
right. I belong to her and she can do with me what she likes. It's my
duty to fight in her defense, and although I tell you all the worst of
war, Monsieur, I do not mean that I am not glad to have done my part.
In a few weeks this wound of mine will be healed and I shall go back,
for the sake of France, to that Hell again. It is Hell, _quand même_!"
III--STORIES OF THE FRENCH ZOUAVES
Some of the letters from French soldiers, scrawled in the squalor
of the trenches by men caked in filth and mud, are human documents
in which they reveal themselves with extraordinary intimacy, and in
which they put the whole truth, not disguising their terror or their
blood-lust in the savage madness of a bayonet charge, or the heartache
which comes to them when they think of the woman they love, or the
queer little emotions and sentiments which come to them in the grim
business of war....
"I send this letter," writes a young Zouave, "as I sit huddled under
an earth-heap at twenty yards from a German trench, less to be envied
than a rabbit in its burrow, because when the hunter is far away it
can come out and feed at pleasure. You who live through the same
agonies, old friend, must learn and rejoice that I have been promoted
adjutant on the night of November 13 on the banks of the Yser. There
were seventy men out of 250--the rest of the company sleep forever
round that ferryman's house which the papers have made famous.... What
moral sufferings I have endured! We have now been brought to the south
of Ypres and continue this depressing life in advanced trenches. Not
a quarter of an hour's respite; shells, shrapnels, bombs and bullets
fall around us continuously. How courage has changed with this modern
war! The hero of olden times was of a special type, who put on a fine
poise and played up to the gallery because he fought before admiring
spectators. Now, apart from our night attacks, always murderous, in
which courage is not to be seen, because one can hardly discern one's
neighbour in the darkness, our valour consists in a perfect stoicism.
Just now I had a fellow killed before a loophole. His comrades dragged
him away, and with perfect quietude replaced the man who is eternally
out of action. Isn't that strange? Isn't it courage to get the brains
of one's comrade full in the face, and then to stand on guard in the
same place while suffering the extremes of cold and dampness?... On the
night of the 13th I commanded a section of corps which a mitrailleuse
had raked. I had the luck to escape, and I shouted to these poor devils
to make a last assault. Then I saw what had happened and found myself
with a broken rifle and a uniform in rags and tatters. My commandant
spoke to me that night, and said: 'You had better change those clothes.
You can put on an adjutant's stripes.'"...
"The greater number of the bodies," writes a soldier, "still lie
between the trenches, and we have been unable to withdraw them. We can
see them always, in frightful quantity, some of them intact, others
torn to bits by the shells which continue to fall upon them. The stench
of this corruption floats down upon us with foul odours. Bits of their
rotting carcasses are flung into our faces and over our heads as new
shells burst and scatter them. It is like living in a charnel house
where devils are at play flinging dead men's flesh at living men, with
fiendish mockery. The smell of this corruption taints our food, and
taints our very souls, so that we are spiritually and physically sick.
That is war!"
"This horrible game of war," writes another man, "goes on passionately
in our corner. In seventy-four days we have 'progressed' about 1200
yards. That tells you everything. Ground is gained, so to speak, by the
inch, and we all know now how much it costs to get back a bit of free
France."
Along the French lines Death did not rest from his harvesting whatever
the weather, and although for months there was no general advance on
either side, not a day passed without new work for the surgeons, the
stretcher-bearers, and the grave-diggers. One incident is typical of a
hospital scene near the front. It was told in a letter from a hospital
nurse to a friend in Paris.
"About midday we received a wounded general, whom we made as
comfortable as possible in a little room. Although he suffered
terribly, he would submit to no special care, and only thought of the
comfort of two of his officers. By an extraordinary chance a soldier
of his own regiment was brought in a few moments later. Joy of the
general, who wanted to learn at once what had happened to his children.
He asked to see the soldier immediately:
"'Tell me--the commandant?'
"'Dead, mon général.'
"'And the captain?'
"'Dead, mon général.'
"Four times questions were asked, and four times the soldier, whose
voice became lower, made his answer of death. Then the general lowered
his head and asked no more. We saw the tears running down his scarred
old face, and we crept out of the room on tiptoe."
IV--STORY OF THE GHASTLY SCENES IN FRANCE
In spite of all this tragedy, the French soldier into whose soul
it sank, and who will never forget, wrote home with a gaiety which
gleamed through the sadness of his memories. There was a new series
of "Lettres de mon moulin" from a young officer of artillery keeping
guard in an old mill-house in an important position at the front. They
were addressed to his "dearest mamma," and, thoughtful of all the
pretty hands which had been knitting garments for him, he described his
endeavours to keep warm in them:
"To-night I have piled on to my respectable body a flannel waistcoat,
a flannel shirt, and a flannel belt going round three times, a jacket
with sleeves sent by mamma herself, a leather waistcoat from Aunt
Charlotte, a woolen vest which came to me from the unknown mother of a
young dragoon, a warm undercoat recently received from my tailor, and
a woolen jacket and wrap knitted by Madame P. J. So I prepare to sleep
in peace, if the 'Boches' will kindly allow me."
The enemy did not often allow the young gentleman to sleep and about
the windmill the shells were bursting.
They reached one Sunday morning almost as far as the little
twelfth-century church to which the young officer had stepped down from
his windmill to hear Mass in the middle of a crowd of soldiers chanting
the office, recited by a soldier, accompanied by a harmonium played by
another soldier. The windows were shattered, and a beautiful old house
next to the church lay in ruins.
The officer spent lonely hours in the windmill in charge of the
telephone exchange, from which the batteries were worked. The men in
the trenches and the gun-pits pitied his loneliness, and invented a
scheme to cheer him up. So after dark, when the cannonade slackened, he
put the receiver to his ears and listened to a Tyrolese ballad sung by
an orderly, and to the admirable imitation of a barking dog performed
by a sapper, and to a Parisian _chanson_ delightfully rendered by the
aviator.
"Bonne nuit, maman," wrote the officer of artillery at the end of each
letter from his windmill....
There was a little farm near Steinbach round which a battle raged for
many days. Leading to it was a sunken road, defended by the enemy,
until one day they put up a number of non-combatants from captured
villages to prevent a French attack.
"Among them we could distinguish a woman, with her hair falling to
her shoulders and her hands tied behind her back. This new infamy
inflamed the courage of our soldiers. A company rushed forward with
fixed bayonets. The road to the farm was swept by the enemy's fire, but
nothing stopped our men. In spite of our losses we carried the position
and are masters of the farm. There was no mercy in those moments of
triumph. The ghastly business of war was done to the uttermost."
There were ghastly things in some of the enemy's trenches. One of the
worst of them was seen in the forest of Apremont, in the district of
Woevre, where the enemy was strongly intrenched in some quarries quite
close to the French trenches, which sapped their way forward to those
pits. When the guns ceased firing the French soldiers often heard
the sound of singing. But above the voices of the Germans there came
sometimes a series of piercing cries like the screeching of an owl in
a terrible plaint, followed by strange and blood-curdling laughter.
It was the voice of a mad woman who was one of those captured from
neighbouring villages and brought into the trenches by the Germans. One
day the German soldiers carried her the length of their own trenches.
Only her head was visible above the ground. She wore a German helmet
above the wild hair which blew in wisps about her death-white face,
and it seemed like a vision of hell as she passed shrieking with the
laughter of insanity.
V--STORY OF THE PRIEST-SOLDIERS
One turns from such horrors to the heroism of the French soldier, his
devotion to his officers, his letters to that _chère maman_ before whom
his heart is always that of a little child, to the faith which saves
men from at least the grosser brutalities of war....
The priest-soldier in France has been a spiritual influence among his
comrades, so that some of them fought with nobler motives than that of
blood-lust, and went to death or victory, influenced not by hatred of
fellow men, but by a conviction that out of all that death there would
come a new life to nations, and that in killing their enemy they were
killing a brutal tyranny with its grip upon the world, and a barbarism
which would make human life a slavery....
Not a week passed without some priest being cited in the Order of the
Day....
The Abbé Bertrand, vicar of St. Germain de Coulamer, was mobilized
on the outbreak of war, and for his gallantry in the field promoted
successively to the ranks of sergeant, sergeant-major, sub-lieutenant,
and lieutenant. He fell on November 4 at the battle of Audrechy,
leading his men to the assault. A few days before his death he wrote:
"I always look upon this war as an expiation, and I am proud to be a
victim." And again: "Oh, how cold the rain is, and how severe the
weather! For our faith in France I have offered God to let me be wet
and soaked to the very bones."
The story of the Abbé Armand, in the 14th battalion of the Chasseurs
Alpins, is that of a hero. A simple man, he used to open his heart to
his rough comrades, and often in the trenches, under shell-fire, he
would recite the Psalms in a clear voice so that they could hear him.
On November 17, to the south of Ypres, his company was selected to hold
a dangerous position, swept by the heavy guns of the Germans and near
the enemy's trenches. All day until the evening the priest and his
comrades stayed there, raked by a hideous shell-fire. At last nearly
all the men were killed, and on his side of the emplacement the Abbé
Armand was left with two men alive. He signaled the fact to those below
by raising three fingers, but shortly afterwards a bullet struck him
so that he fell and another hit him in the stomach. It was impossible
to send help to him at the time, and he died half an hour later on the
tumulus surrounded by the dead bodies of his comrades. They buried
him up there, and that night his loss was mourned, not without tears,
by many rough soldiers who had loved the man for his cheeriness, and
honoured him for the simple faith, which seemed to put a glamour about
the mudstained uniform of a soldier of France.
There were scores of stories like that, and the army lists contained
the names of hundreds of these priest-soldiers decorated with the
Legion of Honour or mentioned in despatches for gallant acts.
Not all French soldiers are like these priests who were valiant with
the spirit of Christian faith. Side by side with the priest was the
apache, or the slum-dweller, or the peasant from the fields, who in
conversation was habitually and unconsciously foul. Not even the mild
protest of one of these priests could check the flow of richly imagined
blasphemies which are learned in the barracks during the three years'
service, and in the _bistros_ of the back streets of France from
Cherbourg to Marseilles. But, as a rule, the priest did not protest,
except by the example of keeping his own tongue clean. "What is the
use?" said one of them. "That kind of thing is second nature to the men
and, after all, it is part of my sacrifice."
VI--STORY OF GAIETY ON THE ROADS OF FRANCE
Along the roads of France, swinging along to dig a new line of
trenches, or on a march from a divisional headquarters to the front,
the soldiers would begin one of their Rabelaisian songs which have no
ending, but in verse after verse roam further into the purlieus of
indecent mirth, so that, as one French officer told me, "these ballads
used to make the heather blush." After the song would come the great
game of French soldiers on the march. The humourist of the company
would remark upon the fatigued appearance of a _sous-officier_ near
enough to hear.
"He is not in good form to-day, our little corporal. Perhaps it has
something to do with his week-end in Paris!"
Another humourist would take up the cue.
"He has a great thirst, our corporal. His first bottle of wine just
whets his whistle. At the sixth bottle he begins to think of drinking
seriously!"
"He is a great amorist, too, they tell me, and very passionate in his
love-making!"
So the ball is started and goes rolling from one man to another in the
ranks, growing in audacity and wallowing along filthy ways of thought,
until the _sous-officier_, who had been grinning under his _képi_,
suddenly turns red with anger and growls out a protest....
VII--STORY OF THE EVENING OF LIQUID FLAMES
The soldiers of France have learned the full range of human suffering,
so that one cannot grudge them their hours of laughter, however coarse
their mirth. There were many armies of men from Ypres to St. Mihiel who
were put to greater tasks of courage than were demanded of the human
soul in medieval torture chambers, and they passed through the ordeal
with a heroism which belongs to the splendid things of history. As yet
the history has been written only in brief bulletins stating facts
baldly, as when on a Saturday in March of 1915 it was stated that "In
Malancourt Wood, between the Argonne and the Meuse, the enemy sprayed
one of our trenches with burning liquid so that it had to be abandoned.
The occupants were badly burned." That official account does not convey
in any way the horror which overwhelmed the witnesses of the new German
method of attacking trenches by drenching them with inflammatory
liquid. A more detailed narrative of this first attack by liquid fire
was given by one of the soldiers:
"It was yesterday evening, just as night fell, that it happened. The
day had been fairly calm, with the usual quantity of bursting shells
overhead, and nothing forewarned us of a German attack. Suddenly one
of my comrades shouted, 'Hallo! what is this coming down on us? Any
one would think it was petroleum.' At that time we could not believe
the truth, but the liquid which began to spray on us was certainly
some kind of petroleum. The Germans were pumping it from hoses.
Our sub-lieutenant made us put out our pipes. But it was a useless
precaution. A few seconds later incendiary bombs began to rain down on
us and the whole trench burst into flame. It was like being in hell.
Some of the men began to scream terribly, tearing off their clothes,
trying to beat out the flames. Others were cursing and choking in the
hot vapour which stifled us. 'Oh, my Christ!' cried a comrade of mine.
'They've blinded me!' In order to complete their work those German
bandits took advantage of our disturbance by advancing on the trench
and throwing burning torches into it. None of us escaped that torrent
of fire. We had our eyebrows and eyelashes burned off, and clothes were
burned in great patches and our flesh was sizzling like roasting meat.
But some of us shot through the greasy vapour which made a cloud about
us and some of those devils had to pay for their game."
Although some of them had become harmless torches and others lay
charred to death, the trench was not abandoned until the second line
was ready to make a counter attack, which they did with fixed bayonets,
frenzied by the shrieks which still came from the burning pit where
those comrades lay, and flinging themselves with the ferocity of wild
beasts upon the enemy, who fled after leaving three hundred dead and
wounded on the ground.
Along five hundred miles of front such scenes took place week after
week, month after month, from Artois to the Argonne, not always with
inflammatory liquid, but with hand grenades, bombs, stink-shells, fire
balls, smoke balls, and a storm of shrapnel.
VIII--STORY OF THE HAND GRENADIERS
Out of the monotonous narratives of trench-warfare, stories more
horrible than the nightmare phantasies of Edgar Allan Poe, stories
of men buried alive by sapping and mining, and of men torn to bits by
a subterranean explosion which leaves one man alive amidst the litter
of his comrades' limbs so that he goes mad and laughs at the frightful
humour of death, come now and then to reveal the meaning of this modern
warfare which is hidden by censors behind decent veils. It is a French
lieutenant who tells this story, which is heroic as well as horrid:
"We were about to tidy up a captured trench. At the barrier of sand
bags which closed up one end of it, two sentinels kept a sharp lookout
so that we could work in peace of mind. Suddenly from a tunnel, hidden
by a fold in the ground, an avalanche of bombs was hurled over our
heads, and before we could collect our wits ten of our men had fallen
dead and wounded, all hugger-mugger. I opened my mouth to shout a
word of command when a pebble, knocked by a piece of shell, struck
me on the head, and I fell, quite dazed. But my unconsciousness only
lasted a second or two. A bursting shell tore off my left hand and I
was awakened by the pain of it. When I opened my eyes and groaned, I
saw the Germans jump across the sand-bags and invade the trench. There
were twenty of them. They had no rifles, but each man carried a sort
of wicker basket filled with bombs. I looked round to the left. All
our men had fled except those who were lying in their blood. And the
Germans were coming on. Another slip or two and they would have been on
the top of me. At that moment one of my men, wounded in the forehead,
wounded in the chin, and with his face all in a pulp of blood, sat up,
snatched at a bag of hand grenades, and shouted out:
"'Arise, ye dead!'
"He got on his knees, and began to fling his bombs into the crowd of
Germans. At his call, the other wounded men struggled up. Two with
broken legs grasped their rifles and opened fire. The hero with his
left arm hanging limp, grabbed a bayonet. When I stood up, with all
my senses about me now, some of the Germans were wounded and others
were scrambling out of the trench in a panic. But with his back to
the sand-bags stayed a German _Unteroffizier_, enormous, sweating,
apoplectic with rage, who fired two revolver shots in our direction.
The man who had first organized the defense of the trench--the hero of
that 'Arise, ye dead!'--received a shot full in the throat and fell.
But the man who held the bayonet and who had dragged himself from
corpse to corpse, staggered up at four feet from the sand-bags, missed
death from two shots, and plunged his weapon into the German's throat.
The position was saved, and it was as though the dead had really risen."
IX--STORY OF THE FRENCH DRAGOONS
A young Russian officer in the French dragoons told me that he had
been fighting since the beginning of the war with never more than
three hours' sleep a night and often no sleep at all. On many nights
those brief hours of rest were in beetroot fields in which the German
shrapnel had been searching for victims, and he awakened now and then
to listen to the well-known sound of that singing death before dozing
off again.
It was "Boot and saddle" at four o'clock in the morning, before the
dawn. It was cold then--a cold which made men tremble as with an ague.
A cup of black coffee was served, and a piece of bread.
The Russian officer of French dragoons, who has lived in British
colonies, saw a vision then--a false mirage--of a British breakfast. It
was the thought of grilled bloaters, followed by ham and eggs, which
unmanned him for a moment. Ten minutes later the cavalry was moving
away. A detachment was sent forward on a mission of peril, to guard a
bridge. There was a bridge near Béthune one night guarded by a little
patrol. It was only when the last man had been killed that the Germans
made their way across.
Through the darkness these mounted men leaned forward over their
saddles, peering for the enemy, listening for any jangle of stirrup
or clink of bit. On that night there came a whisper from the cavalry
leader.
"They are coming!... Quiet there!"
A file of dark shadows moved forward. The dragoons swung their carbines
forward. There was a volley of shots before the cry rang out.
"Cessez feu! Cessez feu!"
The cry had been heard before from German officers speaking excellent
French, but this time there was no treachery in it. The shadows who
moved forward through the night were Frenchmen changing from one trench
to another.
The risk of death is taken lightly by all these men. It is curious,
indeed, that almost every French soldier has a conviction that he will
die in battle sooner or later. In moments of imagination he sees his
own corpse lying out in the field, and is full of pity for his wife and
children. But it does not destroy his courage or his gift of gaiety or
his desire to fight for France or his sublime endurance of pain.
X--STORY OF THE SINGING ARMY AT AMIENS
It is curious how long the song of La Marseillaise has held its power.
It has been like a leit-motif through all the drama of this war in
France, through the spirit of the French people waiting patiently for
victory, hiding their tears for the dead, consoling their wounded and
their cripples, and giving their youngest and their manhood to the
God of War. What is the magic in this tune so that if one hear it even
on a cheap piano in an auxiliary hospital, or scraped thinly on a
violin in a courtyard of Paris, it thrills one horribly? On the night
of August 2, when I traveled from Paris to Nancy, it seemed to me that
France sang La Marseillaise--the strains of it rose from every wayside
station--and that out of its graveyards across those dark hills and
fields, with a thin luminous line on the far horizon the ghosts of
slain soldiers rose to sing it to those men who were going to fight
again for liberty.
Since then it has always been in my ears. I heard it that night in
Amiens when the French army was in retreat, and when all the young men
of the city, not yet called to the colours because of their youth,
escaped hurriedly on truck trains before a bridge was blown up, so that
if they stayed they would be prisoners in German hands. It was these
boys who sang it, with fresh, clear voices, joining in a fine chorus,
though not far away the soldiers of France were limping through the
night from abandoned positions:
_Entendez-vous, dans les campagnes,
Mugir ces féroces soldats?
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras
Egorger nos fils, nos compagnes!
Aux armes, citoyens!
Aux armes, citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Marchons!..._
I listened to those boys' voices, and something of the history of the
song put its spell upon me then. There was the passion of old heroism
in it, of old and bloody deeds....
Poor devils! Hundreds of them have told me their stories and at the end
of a tale of misery have said: "I do not complain, you know. It's war,
and I am glad to do my duty for the sake of France." And yet sometimes,
when they thought back, to the homes they had left, and their old ways
of civil life, they had moments of weakness in which all the strength
of their souls seemed to ebb away.
"It's fatal to think of one's life before the war," said a young
Frenchman who sat with me at the table of a little café not far from
the front. He was a rich young man, with a great business in Paris
which had been suspended on the first day of mobilization, and with a
pretty young wife who had just had her first baby. Now he was a simple
soldier, and for nine months he had not seen Paris or his home or his
pretty wife. The baby's eyes were gray-blue, it seemed, but he had not
been able to test the truth of that description.
"As a rule," he said, "one doesn't think back to one's old life. A
great gulf lies between us and the past and it is as though one had
been born again just to be a soldier in this war. The roots of our
former existence have been torn up. All one's old interests have been
buried. My wife? I hardly ever think of her. My home? Is there such
a place?... It is only at night, or suddenly, sometimes, as one goes
marching with one's company that one's thoughts begin to roam back
over old grounds for a moment or two. The other fellows know what
one's silence means, and one's deafness, so that one doesn't hear
a neighbour's joke or answer his question. It gives one a horrible
heartache and one is overwhelmed with depression.... Great God, how
long is this war going to last?"
(This brilliant young English author continues to relate the scenes his
eyes have witnessed with the skill of the master. His description of
Paris during the siege is a literary masterpiece.--EDITOR.)
FOOTNOTE:
[5] All numerals relate to stories told herein, not to chapters in the
book.
"TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI"--IN THE LAND OF THE TURKS
_Adventures of a Newfoundlander_
_Told by John Gallishaw, Member of the First Newfoundland Regiment_
This is the personal narrative of a loyal Newfoundlander soldiering
in the disastrous Dardanelles campaign. This is an adventurous
story stranger than fiction; as well as a reliable account by an
unusually keen participant of the gigantic failure at Gallipoli. Mr.
Gallishaw was a student at Harvard when the War began and he gives
an extraordinarily vivid impression of trench fighting and trench
living. He tells how seven weeks after the outbreak of the War, the
Newfoundlanders joined the flotilla containing the first contingent
of Canadians. He was on garrison duty for a time at Edinburgh
Castle in Scotland and then sent to Egypt. His book: "Trenching in
Gallipoli" is published by the _Century Company_, Copyright 1916,
with whose permission the following stories are taken.
[6] I--STORY OF A HARVARD STUDENT IN TURKEY
The afternoon sun poured down steadily on little groups of men
preparing dugouts for habitation (at Gallipoli). I had a good many
details to attend to before I could look about for a suitable place for
a dugout. Men had to be told off for different fatigues. Men for pick
and shovel work that night were placed in sections so that each group
would get as much sleep as possible. All the available dugouts had been
taken up by the first comers....
After much hunting, I found a likely looking place. It was about seven
feet square, and where I planned to put the head of my dugout a large
boulder squatted. It was so eminently suitable that I wondered that no
one else had preëmpted it. I took off my equipment, threw my coat on
the ground, and began digging. It was soft ground and gave easily.
A short distance away, I could see Art Pratt, digging. He was finding
it hard work to make any impression. He saw me, stopped to mop his
brow, and grinned cheerfully.
"You should take soft ground like this, Art," I yelled.
"I've gone so far now," said Art, "that it's too late to change," and
we resumed our work.
After a few more minutes' digging, my pick struck something that
felt like the root of a tree, but I knew there was no tree on that
God-forsaken spot large enough to send out big roots. I disentangled
the pick and dug a little more, only to find the same obstruction. I
took my small intrenching tool, scraped away the dirt I had dug, and
began cleaning away near the base of a big boulder. There were no roots
there, and gradually I worked away from it. I took my pick again, and
at the first blow it stuck. Without trying to disengage it I began
straining at it. In a few seconds it began to give, and I withdrew it.
Clinging to it was a part of a Turkish uniform, from which dangled and
rattled the dried-up bones of a skeleton. Nauseated, I hurriedly filled
in the place, and threw myself on the ground, physically sick. While
I was lying there one of our men came along, searching for a place to
bestow himself. He gazed inquiringly at the ground I had just filled in.
"Is there anybody here?" he asked me, indicating the place with a
pick-ax.
"Yes," I said, with feeling, "there is."
"It looks to me," he said, "as if some one began digging and then found
a better place. If he don't come back soon I'll take it."
For about fifteen minutes he stood there, and I lay regarding him
silently. At last he spoke again.
"I think I'll go ahead," he said. "Possession is nine points of the
law, and the fellow hasn't been here to claim it."
"I wouldn't if I were you," I said. "That fellow's been there a hell of
a long while."
I left him there digging, and crawled away to a safe distance. In a few
minutes he passed me.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, reproachfully.
"Because half of the company saw me digging there and didn't tell me,"
I said.
I was prospecting around for another place when Art Pratt hailed me.
"Why don't you come with me," he said, "instead of digging another
place?"
I went to where he was and looked at the dugout. It wasn't very wide,
and I said so. Together we began widening and deepening the dugout,
until it was big enough for the two of us. It was grueling work, but
by supper time it was done. The night before, a fatigue party had gone
down to the beach and hauled up a big field kitchen. Our cooks had made
some tea, and we had been issued some loaves of bread. Art unrolled a
large piece of cloth with all the pomp and ceremony of a man unveiling
a monument. He did it slowly and carefully. There was a glitter in his
eyes that one associates with an artist exhibiting his masterpiece. He
gave a triumphant switch to the last fold and held toward me a large
piece of fresh juicy steak.
"Beefsteak!" I gasped. "Sacred beefsteak! Where did you get it?"
Art leaned toward me mysteriously. "Officers' mess," he whispered.
"I've got salt and pepper," I said, "but how are you going to cook it?"
"I don't know," said Art, "but I'm going up to the field kitchen;
there's some condensed milk that I may be able to get hold of to spread
on our bread."
II--STORY OF THE ROYAL ENGINEERS
While Art was gone, I strolled down the ravine a little way to where
some of the Royal Engineers were quartered. The Royal Engineers are the
men who are looked on in training as a non-combatant force, with safe
jobs. In war-time they do no fighting, but their safe jobs consist of
such harmless work as fixing up barbed wire in front of the parapet and
setting mines under the enemy's trenches. For a rest they are allowed
to conduct parties to listening posts and to give the lines for advance
saps. Sometimes they make loopholes in the parapet, or bolster up some
redoubt that is being shelled to pieces.
The Turks were sending over their compliments just as I came abreast
of the Engineers' lines. One of the engineers was sifting some gravel
when the first shell landed. He dropped the sieve, and turned a back
somersault into some gorse-bushes just behind him. The sieve rolled
down, swayed from side to side, and settled close to my head, in the
depression where I was conscientiously emulating an ostrich. I gathered
it to my bosom tenderly and began crawling away. From behind a boulder
I heard the engineer bemoaning to an officer the loss of his sieve, and
he described in detail how a huge shell had blown it out of his hands.
Joyfully I returned to Art with my prize.
"What's that for?" said Art.
"Turn it upside down," I said, "and it's a steak broiler."
"Where did you get it?" said Art.
I told him, and related how the engineer had explained it to his
officer.
Up at the field kitchen a group was standing around.
"What's the excitement?" I asked Art.
"Those fellows are a crowd of thieves," answered Art, virtuously.
"They're looking about to see what they can steal. I was up there a few
minutes ago and saw a can of condensed milk lying on the shaft of the
field kitchen. They were watching me too closely to give me a chance,
but you might be able to get away with it."
The two of us strolled up slowly to where Hebe Wheeler, the creative
artist who did our cooking, was holding forth to a critical audience.
"It's all very well to talk about giving you things to eat, but I
can't cook pancakes without baking powder. You can't get blood out of
a turnip. I'd give you the stuff if I got it to cook, but I don't get
it, do I, Corporal?" said Hebe, appealing to me.
I moved over and stood with my back to the shaft on which rested the
tin of condensed milk.
"No, Hebe," I said, "you don't get the things; and when you do get
them, this crowd steals them on you."
"By God," said Hebe, "that's got to be put a stop to. I'll report the
next man I find stealing anything from the cookhouse."
I put my hand cautiously behind my back, until I felt my fingers close
on the tin of milk. "You let me know, Hebe," I said, as I slipped the
tin into the roomy pocket of my riding breeches, "and I'll make out
a crime sheet against the first man whose name you give." I stayed
about ten minutes longer talking to Hebe, and then returned to my
dugout. Art had finished broiling the piece of steak, and we began our
supper. I put my hand in my breeches' pocket to get the milk. Instead
of grasping the tin, my fingers closed on a sticky, gluey mass. The tin
had been opened when I took it and I had it in my pocket upside down.
About half of it had oozed over my pocket. Art was just pouring the
remainder on some bread when some one lifted the rubber sheet and stuck
his head into our dugout. It was the enraged Hebe Wheeler. As soon as
he had missed his precious milk he had made a thorough investigation of
all the dugouts. He looked at Art accusingly.
"Come in, Hebe," I said pleasantly. "We don't see you very often."
Hebe paid no attention to my invitation, but glared at Art.
"I've caught you with the goods on," he said. "Give me back that milk,
or I'll report you to the platoon officer."
"You can report me to Lord Kitchener if you like," said Art, calmly, as
he drained the can; "but this milk stays right here."
Hebe disappeared, breathing vengeance.
III--STORY OF A NIGHT IN THE DUG-OUTS
After supper that night a crowd sat around the dying embers of the
fires. This was one of the first positions we had been in where there
was cover sufficient to warrant fires being lighted. A mail had been
distributed that day, and the men exchanged items of news and swapped
gossip. There were men there from all parts of Newfoundland. They spoke
in at least thirty different accents....
Sometimes a friend of the absent "Half" would tell of Half's exploit
of stealing a trolley from the Reid Newfoundland Company and going
twenty miles to see a girl. Sometimes the hero was a married man. Then
it was opined that his conjugal relations were not happy, and the
reason he enlisted was that "he had heard something."... The lumbermen
of Notre Dame Bay and Green Bay told fearsome and wondrous tales of
driving and swamping, of teaming and landing, until one almost heard
the blows of ax, the "gee" and "haw" of the teamsters, and smelt the
pungent odor of new-cut pine. The Reid Newfoundland Railway, the single
narrow gauge road that twists a picturesque trail across the Island,
had given largely of its personnel toward the making of the regiment.
Firemen and engineers, brakemen and conductors, talked reminiscently of
forced runs to catch expresses with freight and accommodation trains.
There is an interesting tale of two drivers who blew their whistles
in the Morse code, and kept up communication with each other, until a
girl learned the code and broke up the friendship. A steamship fireman
contributed his quota with a story of laboring through mountainous seas
against furious tides when the stokers' utmost efforts served only
to keep steamers from losing way. By comparison with the homeland,
Turkey suffered much; and the things they said about Gallipoli were
lamentable. From the gloom on the other side of the fire a voice
chanted softly, "It's a long, long way to Tipperary, It's a long way
to go." Gradually all joined in. After Tipperary, came many marching
songs. "Are we downhearted? NO," with every one booming out the "No."
"Boys in Khaki, Boys in Blue," and at last their own song; to the tune
of "There is a tavern in the town."
And when those Newfoundlanders start to yell, start to yell.
Oh, Kaiser Bill, you'll wish you were in hell, were in hell;
For they'll hang you high to your Potsdam palace wall,
You're a damn poor Kaiser, after all.
The singing died down slowly. The talk turned to the trenches and the
chances of victory, and by degrees to personal impressions.
"I'd like to know," said one chap, "why we all enlisted."
"When I enlisted," said a man with an accent reminiscent of the
Placentia Bay, "I thought there'd be lots of fun, but with weather like
this, and nothing fit to eat, there's not much poetry or romance in war
any more."
"Right for you, my son," said another; "your King and Country need you,
but the trouble is to make your King and Country feed you."
"Don't you wish you were in London now, Gal?" said one chap, turning
to me. "You'd have a nice bed to sleep in, and could eat anywhere you
liked."
"Well," I said, "enough people tried to persuade me to stop. One fellow
told me that the more brains a man had, the farther away he was from
the firing-line. He'd been to the front too. I think," I added, "that
General Sherman had the right idea."
"I wish you fellows would shut up and go to sleep," said a querulous
voice from a nearby dugout.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Gal; General Sherman was an
optimist."
"It doesn't do any good to talk about it now," said Art Pratt, in a
matter of fact voice. "Some of you enlisted so full of love of country
that there was patriotism running down your chin, and some of you
enlisted because you were disappointed in love, but the most of you
enlisted for love of adventure, and you're getting it."
Again the querulous subterranean voice interrupted: "Go to sleep,
you fellows--there's none of you knows what you're talking about.
There's only one reason any of us enlisted, and that's pure, low down,
unmitigated ignorance." Amid general laughter the class in applied
psychology broke up, and distributed themselves in their various
dugouts.
Halfway down to my dugout, I was arrested by the sound of scuffling,
much blowing and puffing, and finally the satisfied grunt that I knew
proceeded from Hebe Wheeler.
"I've got a spy," he yelled. "Here's a bloody Turk."
"Turk nothing," said a disgusted voice. "Don't you know a man from your
own company?"
Hebe relinquished his hold on his captive and subsided, grumbling. The
other arose, shook himself, and went his way, voicing his opinion of
people who built their dugouts flush with the ground.
"What do you think of the news from the Western front?" said Art, when
I located him.
"What is it?" I asked.
"The enemy are on the run at the Western front. The British have taken
four lines of German trenches for a distance of over five miles in the
vicinity of Loos. The bulletin board at Brigade headquarters says that
they have captured several large guns, a number of machine guns, and
seventeen thousand unwounded prisoners. If they can keep this up long
enough for the Turks to realize that it is hopeless to expect any help
from that quarter, Abdul Pasha will soon give in."
IV--STORY OF THE BOMB-THROWING AUSTRALIANS
We were talking about Abdul Pasha's surrendering when we dropped off
to sleep. We must have been asleep about two hours when the insistent,
crackling sound of rapid fire, momentarily increasing in volume,
brought us to our feet. Away up on the right, where the Australians
were, the sky was a red glare from the flashing of many rifles.
Against this, we could see the occasional flare of different coloured
rockets that gave the warships their signals for shelling. Very soon
one of our officers appeared.
"Stand to arms for the Newfoundlanders," he said.
"What is it?" I asked.
"The Australians are advancing," he answered. "We'll go up as
reinforcements if we're needed. Tell your men to put on their
ammunition belts, and have their rifles ready. They needn't put on
their packs; but keep them near them so that they can slip them on if
we get the order to move away."
I went about among the men of my section, passing along the word.
Everybody was tingling with excitement. Nobody knew just what was about
to happen; but every one thought that whatever it was it would prove
interesting. For about half an hour the rapid fire kept up, then by
degrees died down.
"Did you see that last rocket?" said a man near me; "that means they've
done it. A red rocket means that the navy is to fire, a green to
continue firing, and a white one means that we've won."
In a few minutes Mr. Nunns walked toward us. "You can put your
equipments off, and turn in again," he said, "nothing doing to-night."
"What is all the excitement?" I asked.
"Oh, it's the Anzacs again," he said; "when they heard of the advance
at Loos, they went over across, and surprised the Turks. They've taken
two lines of trenches. They did it without any orders--just wanted to
celebrate the good news."
I was awakened the next morning by the sound of a whizz-bang flying
over our dugout. Johnny Turk was sending us his best respects. I shook
Art, who was sleeping heavily.
"Get up, Art," I said. I might as well have spoken to a stone wall. I
tried again. Putting my mouth to his ear, I shouted, "Stand to, Art.
Stand to."
Art turned over, sleeping. "I'll stand three if you like, but don't
disturb me," he muttered, and relapsed into coma.
In a few minutes, two or three more shells came along. They were well
over the ridge behind us, but were landing almost in the midst of
another line of dugouts. I stood gazing at them for a little while., A
man passed me running badly. "Come on," he gasped, "and yell for the
stretcher." I followed him without further question. "It's all right,"
he said, slowing up just before we came to the line of dugouts that had
just been shelled. "They've got him all right." We continued toward a
group that was crowded about a stretcher. A man was lying on it, with
his head raised on a haversack. He rolled his eyes slowly and surveyed
the group. "What the hell is the matter?" he said dazedly; then felt
himself over gingerly for wounds. Apparently he could find none. "What
hit me?" he asked, appealing to a grinning Red Cross man.
"Nothing," said the other, "except about a ton of earth. It's a lucky
thing some one saw you. That last shell buried you alive."
The whistle of a coming shell dispersed the grinning spectators. I went
back to my dugout, and found Art busily toasting some bread over the
sieve that I had commandeered the day before.
"What was the excitement?" he asked.
"Charlie Renouf," I said, "was buried alive."
"Heavens," said Art, "he's the postman; we can't afford to lose him.
That reminds me that I've got to write some letters."
While we were writing, the orderly sergeant, that dread of loafers,
who appoints all details for fatigue work, bore down upon our dugout.
"Two men from you, Corporal Gallishaw," he said, "for bomb throwers.
Give me their names as soon as you can. They're for practice this
afternoon."
"One here, right away," said Art, "and put Lew O'Dea down for the
other."
Lew O'Dea was a character. He was in the next dugout to me. The first
day on the Peninsula, his rifle had stuck full of sand, and some one
had stolen his tin canteen for cooking food. He immediately formed
himself into an anti-poverty society of one thereafter, and went around
like a walking arsenal. I never saw him with fewer than three rifles,
usually he carried half a dozen. He always kept two or three of them
spotlessly clean; so that no matter when rifle inspection came, he
always had at least one to show. He had been a little late in getting
his rifle clean once and was determined not to be caught any more. His
equipment always contained a varied assortment of canteens, seven or
eight gas masks, and his dugout was luxurious with rubber sheets and
blankets. "I inherited them," he always answered, whenever anybody
questioned him about them. With ammunition for his several rifles, when
he started for the trenches in full marching order, he carried a load
that a mule need by no means have been ashamed of.
"Do you want to go on bomb throwing detail this afternoon?" I called to
O'Dea across the top of the dugout.
"Sure," he answered; "does a duck want to swim?"
"Fine," I said; "report here at two o'clock."
At two o'clock, accompanied by an officer and a sergeant, we went
down the road a little way to where some Australians were conducting
a class in bomb throwing. A brown-faced chap from Sydney showed me
the difference between bombs that you explode by lighting a match,
and bombs that are started by pulling out a plug, and the dinky little
three-second "cricket balls" that explode by pressing a spring. I asked
him about the attack the night before. He told me that they had been
for some time waiting for a chance to make a local advance and that
would capture an important redoubt in the Turkish line. Every night at
exactly nine o'clock, the Navy had thrown a searchlight on the part
of the line the Anzacs wanted to capture. For ten minutes they kept
up heavy firing. Then, after a ten minutes' interval of darkness and
suspended firing, they began a second illumination and bombardment,
commencing always at twenty minutes past nine, and ending precisely
at half past. After a little while, the enemy, knowing just the exact
minute the bombardment was to begin, took the first beam of the
searchlight as a hint to clear out. But the night before, a crowd of
eager Australians had crept softly along in the shadow made doubly dark
by the glare of the searchlight, the noise of their advance covered by
the sound of the bombardment. As soon as the bombardment ceased and
the searchlight's beam was succeeded by darkness, they poured into the
Turkish position. They had taken the astonished Turks completely by
surprise.
"We didn't expect to make the attack for another week," said the
Australian; "but as soon as our boys heard that we were winning in
France, they thought they'd better start something. There hasn't been
any excitement over our way now for a long time," he said. "I'm about
fed up on this waiting around the trenches." He fingered one of the
little cricket-ball bombs caressingly. "Think of it," he said; "all
you do is press that little spring, and three seconds after you're a
casualty."
"Pressing the little spring," said I, "is my idea of nothing to do,
unless you're a particularly fast sprinter."
"By the Lord Harry, Newfoundland," said the Australian, with a
peculiar, excited glint in his eye, "that's an inspiration."
"What's an inspiration?" I asked, in bewilderment.
The Australian stretched himself on the ground beside me, resting his
chin in his cupped hands. "When I was in Sydney," he said slowly and
thoughtfully, "I did a hundred yards in ten seconds easily. Now if I
can get in a traverse that's only eight or nine yards long, and press
the spring of one of those little cricket balls, I ought to be able to
get out on the other side of the traverse before it explodes."
Art and Lew O'Dea passed along just then and I jumped up to go with
them. "Don't forget to look for me if you're over around the Fifteenth
Australians," said the Australian. "Ask for White George."
"I won't forget," I said, as I hurried away to join the others.
We were about half way to our dugouts when we passed a string of our
men carrying about twenty mail bags. It was the second instalment of
a lot of mail that had been landed the day before. We followed the
sweating carriers up the road to the quarter-master sergeant's dugout,
and waited around humbly while that autocrat leisurely sorted out the
mail, making remarks about each letter and waiting after each remark
for the applause he felt it deserved. With maddening deliberation he
scanned each address. "Corporal W. P. Costello." "He's at the base,"
some one answered. Corporal Costello's letter was put aside. "Private
George Butler." Private Butler, on the edge of the crowd, pushed and
elbowed his way toward the quarter-master sergeant. "Here you are;
letter for Butler."
I received one letter, and was sitting on the edge of my dugout
reading it when one of our men passing along, yelled to me. "Hey," he
said, "you come from the United States, don't you?"
"Yes," I said; "what do you want to know that for?"
"I've got something here," he said, stopping, "that comes from there
too." He dived into his pocket, and produced a medley of articles. From
these he selected a small paper-wrapped parcel.
"What's that?" I said.
"It's chewing gum," he answered; "real American chewing gum like the
girls chew in the subway in New York." He unwrapped it, selected a
piece, placed it in his mouth, and began chewing it with elaborated
enjoyment. After a few minutes, he came nearer. "By golly," he said,
with an exaggerated nasal drawl, "it's good gum, I'll soon begin to
feel like a blooming Yank. I'm talking like a Yank already. Don't you
wish you had some of this?"
"I'll make you a sporting offer," I answered. "I'll fight you for the
rest of what you've got."
"No, you won't," he answered nasally; "it's made me feel exactly like
a Yank; I'm too proud to fight."
(This Newfoundland soldier-boy here tells about his experiences in
"No Man's Land"; his fights with the Turks; how he was wounded and
sent his last message "home"; how he finally recovered and returned to
America.--EDITOR.)
FOOTNOTE:
[6] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
book.
SCENES "IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL"
_Stories of a Nurse_
_By M. Eydoux-Demians--Translated by Betty Yeomans_
This is a wonderful revelation of the soul of France. It gives
"impressions of things actually seen and heard, revealing the
wonderful courage and emotion that exists to-day in a French
provincial hospital." These notes have been collected in a volume
dedicated: "To My Five Brothers Wounded in the Service of France."
These touching and inspiring stories of the wounded and nurses in a
French hospital and told with a dramatic and literary power which
make them little masterpieces. They form a most realistic picture of
the human side of the Great War. The selections herein given are from
the hundreds of thrilling anecdotes in the book, by courtesy of the
publishers, _Duffield and Company_: Copyrighted 1915.
[7] I--STORIES OF THE WOUNDED ON THEIR BEDS
On October sixth, (1914) last, I received a message from the directress
of the Hospital of Saint Dominic, reading as follows:
"A large number of wounded have just arrived. We can't take care of any
more ourselves, and the moment has come to call for volunteers. I shall
expect your help."
One hour later, as you can easily imagine, I was at Saint Dominic.
This specially privileged hospital is under the gentle management of
the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul. Several years ago some of its
devoted trustees made one effort after another on its behalf in Paris,
and, after overcoming many difficulties, reëstablished the Sisters of
Charity amongst us once again. They had not a doubt even then that they
were working in the interests of France's soldiers, those same soldiers
whose faces light up now with such a special joy when they lie on their
painful stretchers, and catch sight, near the large entrance porch, of
the good white cornettes of the Sisters waiting for them.
With my heart beating fast I entered the room to which I had been
assigned. There they all were before me, these lads that had undergone
that terrible and fierce adventuring into war. I remember how they
went away in our wonderful mobilisation trains, those makeshift,
flower-bedecked trains that sped all of them to the same destination,
the same region of glory and bloodshed. One long war cry seemed to rise
up from them over all our land. Our young soldiers who went away in
them had acquired an entirely new way of shouting "_Vive la France_."
It was no longer as if they were on parade, notwithstanding all the
flowers that people tossed to them: it was already the cry of men who
were to lead in war's assaults, and make the supreme sacrifice of their
lives. I remember one little infantryman of twenty years, standing
erect with folded arms in the back of his compartment, his eyes
flashing, and all the muscles of his pale face taut. He kept repeating
threateningly, "_Vive la France--vive la France_," without a look
toward any one; saying it just to himself and for his country. And I
felt that it was as if he said: "We shall get them: we must get them,
no matter what it costs. As for me, well, you see, to begin with, my
life doesn't count any more." This very fellow is the one, perhaps, who
has come back now and sleeps here in this first cot, where a face both
energetic and infantile shows in the midst of the blood-stained linen.
Sister Gabrielle made a tour with me of all the patients. The memory of
certain of them particularly is fixed in my mind. There is number 3,
here, who got a bullet wound in the region of the liver, and has to lie
absolutely still, lest an internal hemorrhage may occur at any moment.
A warrior of twenty-three he is, with cheeks as rosy as a girl's, and
clear blue eyes. He fought like a lion, they say, but here nothing
could be gentler. His appreciation for the least thing that is done for
him is touching. Number 8, little eight, as they call him, a volunteer,
who seems about fifteen, and who has to live week after week propped
on his right side, on a hard hospital bed, on account of an abscess
following his wound. Number 12, an infantryman, who got a bullet in the
left temple; it was extracted from his right maxillary, and in passing
cut his tongue in two. "Everything has been put back," said the Sister,
"but he can't talk yet, and he'll have to learn to talk all over again,
like a little child. In taking care of him you must come every once in
a while and see if you can guess what he wants." Number 17, a brave
among the braves, who, under the enemy's fire, crawled ten kilometres
on his hands and knees, dragging his twice-wounded foot behind him,
to deliver an order that he had been charged with. His wounds cause
him cruel suffering, and yet he seems illuminated as with some strange
inward joy. Number 24, nicknamed the little sieve, because of his
fifteen wounds. Number 32, who suffers like a real martyr. His leg was
literally shattered by the fragments of a shell. It was a question
whether it could be saved at all, but following the directions of the
war surgeon, we are keeping up the attempt. Antiseptic injections are
made twice a day as deep as the bone. Number 30, who has lost an eye
and has two open fractures in his right arm. When I said to him: "You
have given a good deal for France," he answered, "It's the least I
could do." And he added, laughing, "I was so clumsy with my hands. This
will teach me to be clever even with my left one."...
One cannot repeat too often or too admiringly, "Our wounded." Our
wounded, that is to say, those men who have come back from that hell,
"whose horrors," they say themselves, "are indescribable;" those who
have marched beneath "that terrible, moving curtain of iron," to which
an officer compared the mass of balls and shells in battle, a mass so
compact that it obscured the very daylight on the firing line. Our
wounded! Those, in a word, who have brought back in their very flesh
the frightful scars of the enemy's iron, those who have cemented with
their own blood the human wall that is now our frontier. They have come
back, not with their courage drained, broken down, horror-stricken,
stunned--not at all. They forget themselves to talk smilingly of the
great hope in which we all share. They are touched, deeply touched, by
the few hours of fatigue we undergo for them each day--for them who
have given almost their lives.
My tasks were laid out for me, and I began work at once, thanked by the
soldiers almost in advance for my trouble.
"It's a bit too much to see you work like this for us."
"All the same, no one has ever been served like this."
They are not a bit difficult, but pleased with everything, these men
who suffer so much, who have such a right to every care. Alas, there
are too many of them (this hospital alone has as many as a thousand) to
permit of all the little comforting things that we should like to do
for them without stint. The Sister who cooks is sorely driven, and even
the prescribed dishes that she sends up for the sickest ones are often
far from appetizing. For instance, I have just taken Number 13, who is
consumed by a lingering fever (a bullet passed through his lung), a
milk soup that smelt badly burned, and in which pieces of half-cooked
rice floated round. I sighed a little about it as I put the napkin
on the bed. Did he understand what worried me? In any case, he shows
no distaste, and a quarter of an hour later, when I pass by him, he
motions to me, and says gently, "It was delicious, madame."
That's the way they all are--all of them.
II--STORY OF SISTER GABRIELLE--"ARCHANGEL"
I study with emotion the admirable vision of the human soul which the
Sister of Charity and the wounded soldier set before me. It is a vision
which has intervened always, as with an element of the supernatural,
in our war-time pictures, and, behold, now we find it again, almost
miraculously, in the supreme struggle of 1914.
Sister Gabrielle, who has charge of my room, her identity quite hidden
as it is by her archangel's name, is the daughter of a general, as I
know. She has three brothers that have served beneath the colours. The
oldest, a quite young captain, has just met his death on the field
of honour. I happen to have learned the circumstances: how, covered
with blood already flowing from three different wounds, Captain X
nevertheless struggled on bravely at the head of his men, and after
several hours of conflict was struck by a bullet full in the breast.
He fell, crying: "Don't fall back! That's my last order!"
Sister Gabrielle was told only last week of the glorious grief that
had been thrust upon her, but no one around her would have guessed her
sorrow. Possibly her smile for the patients that day was a little more
compassionate and tender than usual, when she thought of her brother
enduring his moment of supreme agony alone down there in the forests of
the Vosges....
She is thin and frail--mortally ill herself, they say; she was quite
ill one month ago. But if you speak to her of her health she interrupts
you a little impatiently:
"We have given ourselves, body and soul, according to our vows. To last
a little longer or a little less doesn't matter. The main thing is to
fulfill our tasks. Besides," she adds, indicating her patients, "they
have given their lives for France. It is quite right, if it must be so,
that our lives be sacrificed to save them."...
In the lot of wounded that were sent in yesterday, forty came to Sister
Gabrielle directly from the Aisne. They arrived toward the close of the
day, and I shall never forget the spectacle of that room. One stretcher
succeeded another, all borne slowly by the litter-men and set down near
the hastily prepared beds. Here and there you caught a cry of pain that
could not be kept in, though there were no complaints, no continued
groanings. Yet now, when you lean over those glorious and lamentable
blue bonnets, cut as they are by bullets and stained with the mud of
the trenches, when you take off the caps that have grown stiff with
the dampness of the long rains, you perceive their suffering by the
glittering look in their fevered eyes, their poor, worn faces and
ravaged features, sunken and hollow with suffering. Then, all at once,
at the least word, the old gallantry that we know so well reasserts
itself. For example, they ask the most touching and childish favours of
us. Thus if a limb that hurts too much must be lifted, or a piece of
clothing that binds a wound eased up, they all ask:
"Not the orderly, not the orderly, please! the Sister or the lady."
The first words that the newcomers exchange with their cot neighbours
are not about their own hardships; they speak first, and before
anything else, of France.
"How are things going down there?"
"All right. We'll get them."
Then the newcomers, worn out as they are, sink into feverish sleep,
struggling sometimes for days between realities and the persistent
nightmare of the visions that pursue them. That night in the room that
was always so still, but that now seemed more feverish than usual, I
heard a sound of smothered sobs. It was Number 25, a big, good-looking
soldier, whom each day I had seen having his wound dressed, a real
torture, without a word, and who was sobbing now with his head in his
pillow, ashamed of his tears, but powerless to keep them back. I went
to him and tried to question him, but the soldiers don't readily speak
to you of the sorrows that touch their hearts the deepest and most
nearly.
"Thank you, lady; don't bother yourself about me. I don't need
anything."
"Is your pain worse, maybe?"
"I'm in pain, yes, terribly, but it isn't that."
"What is it, then? Won't you tell me?"
He denied me still, then, all at once, under the pressure of his grief,
he said:
"Oh, yes, I do feel like confiding in you. I'll tell you what it is.
The comrade who was waiting next to me till his bed was ready brought
me news of the death of my best friend. He was in his regiment and was
killed by his side. Oh, madame, he was such a fine fellow, so devoted
and full of courage. We were brought up together. He was more than my
chum; he was my friend."
He cried and cried. He had borne everything without giving way--the
continual nearness of death, the so hard life in the trenches, the
incessant physical suffering; but the death of his friend crushed him
and brought him down to earth. And while I murmured words that, alas,
were futile for any change they made in his sorrow, but which did some
good, just the same, I heard him sobbing in his pillow:
"My friend was killed. My friend was killed."
His friend--when one knows what the word _comrade_ means to them, one
divines all that word friend may mean, too.
Sister Gabrielle, whose infallible instinct brings her always to the
cots where the sickest of her children are, passed near Number 25 and
stopped a moment. She did not ask him anything. She just put her hand
caressingly on his brown head, so young and virile, and said in her
firm, sweet voice:
"All right, my boy, all right. Courage. Remember all this is for
France."
Then turning to me, she said:
"Before night-time wouldn't you like to play a game of dominoes with
this good boy? He'll represent the French forces, and in the morning he
must be able to tell me that he has won."
In the midst of his tears the young soldier, his heart swelling in his
distress, smiled at finding himself thus treated like a child. They
have such need of it, the soldiers, after having done so valiantly the
work of men!
III--STORIES OF THE SOLDIERS FROM THE AISNE
It is comforting to hear them talk about their superior officers, as a
soldier of the 149th Infantry has just talked to me about his captain.
"Oh, I can tell you, my captain had plenty of good blood in his veins.
There was nothing suspicious about him. I saw him standing straight
up among the whistling bullets, giving his orders without flinching,
without recoiling one inch, as if he were sitting at his desk and only
flies were buzzing round his head. And so gentle, too. Good to the men
and always jolly. We were in luck to have him over us."
I asked him questions about his campaign, and he talked freely, having
only good things to tell. The taciturn ones are those who have sad
memories to conceal.
"We were the ones told off to take the village of S----," he said,
"where the enemy was. My captain, who acted as chief of battalion, got
us all together, and said to us:
"'There seem to be two or three Boches down there. We must get them
out, eh?'
"Everybody knew very well what that meant, but we laughed and went to
it in good part. What fights those were! Two days of bloody battles in
the streets. Finally the village was ours. We had one night's rest in
a farmhouse, three-quarters of which had been destroyed. When we got
there we spied an unfortunate porker in a corner. He had taken refuge
there, frightened by the firing. He came in very handy, I can tell you,
for our stomachs were hollow.
"'Charge again on that Boche, there,' said the Captain. When he had
eaten and slept and assembled again next day, he said:
"Well, well, my lads, we're in danger of getting too soft here. Suppose
we go on a little further and see what's happening.'
"We marched on further, but the enemy, who were in force, began to
shoot at us all at once from below. My Captain didn't expose us
needlessly. He made us lie down in the deserted trenches. There were
corpses there and dead horses, and water, water everywhere. It rained
without stopping. We spent the night up to our waists in water. It was
enough to make one laugh."
To laugh--this word turns up all the time in their recitals, and in the
most unexpected manner. Oh, this French courage, which faces not only
the bitter struggle with danger, but disdains and mocks it, too; that
elegant courage of our fathers that has been born again amongst us.
My foot-soldier, Number 149, was seized with quite a touching emotion
when I told him that I knew his Captain's lady.
"Tell her she may be proud," he said, "and that I'd willingly go back
down there; for my country's sake, of course, but also and a good deal,
on my Captain's account."
Then I let him know something that I'd kept till the end of our
interview, that his Captain, young as he was, had just been promoted to
the rank of battalion chief; that the Cross of the Legion of Honour had
been given him, and that, thanks to him, no doubt, the entire regiment
had been mentioned in the order of the day. I won't attempt to picture
the little soldier's moving and disinterested joy.
Near Number 3's bed I caught sight of a peasant woman from the Cher, in
a white head-dress, and an old man, who wore a medallion of 1870 on his
breast.
"They are his parents," Sister Gabrielle explained to me. "I had word
sent to them. The poor lad is in grave danger. Luckily I've got the
management's permission to let the mother pass the nights here."
In this way I became acquainted with the Mèchins, French peasants
of the old order, unalterably attached to the soil. They hope, nay,
they are sure, that their son is going to get well. The sick man says
nothing. They're all like that, our soldiers--no foolish tenderness,
no pain given to their parents. Who knows, besides, how much their
desire to live may have dwindled down after their tragic voyages to the
frontier? The soul must possess new powers of detachment when it has
risen to the heights of absolute self-sacrifice. The little soldier
does not deceive himself, Sister Gabrielle has told me, and when I
expressed my admiration for the strange moral force that he gave proof
of, she answered me proudly:
"But they are all like that."
Just as I was going to leave the room the sick man summoned me with his
eyes. I went up to him and bent over him.
"Do you want anything?" I asked.
He made a sign of No, and with a great effort raised his hand outside
the bed and reached it toward me, murmuring: "Thanks."
I understood. It was his good-bye. He thought that he should perhaps
not be there in the morning when I came back.
IV--STORIES OF THE HOSPITAL ORDERLIES
The corps of orderlies is not always sympathetic. I must say, however,
that in the room where I am employed, each one does his duty, thanks,
no doubt, to the active supervision of the Sister, thanks also
perhaps to three singularly moving personalities among the orderlies
themselves.
To begin with, there is Nicolas Indjematoured, twenty-two, a Greek, and
a subject of the Ottoman empire. He held a highly lucrative position,
of which he was very proud, in a bank at Constantinople, but when
the war broke out, he could not bear the thought of being drawn into
service with the Germans against France, and did not hesitate to give
up his job. He would not even see his old mother again, but made a will
providing for her with all his small store of property, and sailed away
as a stowaway on a steamer which landed him at Marseilles. He enlisted
as a volunteer in the Legion and was ordered here, where, however, soon
after his arrival, he received a serious finger wound, and was sent
to St. Dominic to be cured. He explained his state of mind to me with
simplicity and emotion:
"You can understand, madame, how ashamed I am, among all these brave
men, not to have done anything yet for France. Luckily I can help
Sister in serving them. It's a great honour for me."
In the hospital room they all call him "the little Greek." Night and
day he holds himself in readiness to do things for the invalids, whom
he treats with touching consideration, refusing doggedly to accept the
least remuneration from the management.
Boisset, a stubbly little orderly of some sixty years, is an old
employee of the hospital. An ex-pastry cook with no family, he was
operated on and cared for at the hospital ten years ago. His case is
one of those mysterious stories of conversion that work themselves out
in secret near this cross-shaped chapel, with its four great doors wide
open on the wards of suffering.
Boisset, once cured, begged permission not to leave the hospital,
"hoping," as he said, "to consecrate my life to God in the service of
the poor wounded."
Do not his words recall those of the brothers of St. Francis? Like
them, Boisset has summed up his whole life in these two words:
simplicity and heroism. He is at others' service night and day, just
as he desired to be. The Sister calls him "her right arm," something
at which he only half shows his pride. He is the one that's called
upon, with never any fear of putting him out, if there's anything to
be done in the way of lifting some fellow on whom a specially delicate
operation has been performed, or doing some other difficult bit of
duty. "Boisset, Boisset!" You get accustomed to hearing his name called
out each moment. And Boisset, untiring, runs from one bed to the other,
with his mincing, weary step, incessantly. In his moments of leisure he
harks back to his old trade, begging from the kitchen some left-over
bits of milk and whites of eggs, with which he cooks up some sweet
dishes for his beloved patients, by whom they are much appreciated.
What strikes me especially in Boisset is his _joyful spirit_. This
man, who deliberately leads the hardest kind of life, has a smile
always on his lips, and cheerfulness always in his heart. In the little
recess where he does the patients' dishes you can hear him humming the
canticles, especially the magnificat, of which he is very fond, as he
confided to me, because it's the song of joy. When I find myself with
Boisset I always want to talk to him about "Dame Poverty" and "Charity,
her hand-maiden."
Our third orderly, the Marquess of X, belongs to one of the greatest
Italian families. His mother was a French woman, and from the very
beginning of hostilities, "he felt," as he put it, "the French blood
boiling in his veins."
He found a simple and admirable way of doing something for his
mother's country accordingly, by coming and putting himself at the
service of the wounded. He wanted "to perform the humblest duties," he
particularly specified. He did each day, from morning till night, very
humble and sometimes repulsive duties, without apparently recoiling
from them. He is but one in the nameless crowd of orderlies, yet
the patients very easily distinguish him from the others, and the
consolation and care that he gives them are specially sweet to them,
because it includes the admiration of a noble soul and of a whole race
for the French soldier.
The day he arrived, the Marquess of X, after making a tour of the
wounded, came up to me with tears in his eyes.
"What extraordinary reserves of energy and heroism the French still
have," he remarked to me, much moved. "To hear these young fellows tell
of the dangers they've gone through, talking about sufferings, not only
without complaining of them, but laughing about them, is '_the finest
part of it all_.'"
V--STORIES FROM THE COTS OF THE DYING
Sister Gabrielle accosted me this morning with a luminous smile:
"We shall certainly save Number 32's leg. The work of disinfection is
finished. The flesh begins to form again over the wound."
She is radiant. Such are her joys, the only ones she asks of life.
Nothing else exists, or ever will exist for her, and yet her face is
still young. Let us incline our heads before such lives as hers! In a
flash I understand whence comes the deep-seated affinity of soul that
rules between Sister Gabrielle and our soldiers; she has given as they
have given, everything, even themselves. Only in her case, it is for
always and under all circumstances. I ask her what she thinks of Number
3, who seems to me to be picking up a bit. She shakes her head sadly.
"His parents are full of illusions about him, but we can only prolong
things for him, with all our care."
Sad, oh, how sad! A little later Mother Mèchin comes and talks to me in
a low voice about her son.
"Such a good boy, madame! He never gave us one hour of trouble. He
fought so well, they say, and at home he was as gentle as a girl. And
he didn't drink or waste his money. Just imagine, he has saved up a
thousand francs, in little pieces, since he was a child. We didn't
want him to cut into this money to go to the wars. We preferred to go
without things ourselves to fit him out, and let him keep his little
savings. He will be very glad of it when he gets married." Married!
Alas, poor boy! A terrible spouse is waiting for him, one who will not
give him up. But already he has marched before her with as much courage
as now perhaps he guesses at her coming near. He is very feeble, but he
makes a sign that he would like to speak to me. I bend over his bed,
and he whispers in my ear:
"I took communion this morning: I am very glad."
I had just brought him a medal of the Holy Virgin. He smiled with
pleasure, and I am moved to the bottom of my soul, seeing him kiss the
medal and then place it on his heart.
All this time we are making the acquaintance of newer patients, as
they are always coming into this ward, which is reserved for those
that have undergone the most serious operations. "One never has the
consolation of seeing them completely cured," Sister Gabrielle warned
me with a sigh. I stop a moment before a little Turco, who took part in
the battle of the Aisne. Both his legs are broken. His face stiffens
with pain, and now and then a groan escapes him, though it is at once
suppressed. He scolds himself about it, and warns himself, or calls me
to witness, I am not sure which, when I hear him murmuring:
"Just look! When you think of the ones who stayed down there, ought you
ever to groan? We are happier here. It isn't right."
Those who stayed down there! The imagination recoils before the picture
evoked by those simple words; those who stay behind down there in the
cold and the night, under constant menace by the barbarian enemy, who
stay to suffer agonies alone, to die; to see their blood, without the
help even of a single bandage, flow from their broken flesh and fall to
the last drop upon the soil of France. I remember the words of another
wounded soldier:
"After the battle, that day, you couldn't hear yourselves talk any more
in the trenches for the cries of the wounded. It was like one great
uninterrupted wail. You could make out appeals, prayers, calls for
help, women's names. Then, little by little, silence came again, as a
good many of them died. What we heard sound longest on the battlefield,
from one end to the other, was the word 'Mother!' It is always those
who are dying who call like that; we know that well now."
Alas! What do we not know now of the many-sided anguish and horror of
death! We must certainly begin, like the little Turco, to qualify as
lucky the fellows whom destiny delivers up to the hospital. And yet how
they suffer, even these. To physical torture is added too often the
worst tortures of the spirit.
"In the two months I've been away, not one bit of news of my family
has reached me," a soldier told me, "except a despatch announcing my
father's death."
Another had lost a fifteen-year-old son, whom he adored, two hours
before his departure.
"His body was still warm: my wife was as if mad with sorrow."
They tell you these things without complaint. France called them: it
was quite natural to answer her, to go to her out of the midst of
the greatest sorrows, the deepest affections, the keenest happiness;
sometimes, like that young engineer there of twenty, married eleven
months ago to a girl of eighteen, to tear yourself away from a whole
romance! He had been rejected for defective vision, but, and his wife
agreed, he decided this did not matter any more, now that mobilization
was under way, and that he must go. Two days after the birth of a fine
boy--a future soldier, the mother said--he left his life of ease and
tenderness and reported at the barracks as a simple soldier; and he had
been encouraged to do so by that little Parisienne whom we should have
thought absorbed in nothing but society and dress.
VI--STORY OF THE DEATH OF A MARTYR
The little soldier Mèchin had a serious hemorrhage in the night; he was
in the operating room when I arrived at the hospital this morning. The
Sister had sent his parents to pray in the chapel, they explained to
me. The work of attending to the sick went on as usual; nothing must be
allowed to stop the movement of the wheels. Toward ten o'clock I saw
the litter coming back, borne slowly and with infinite precautions.
Sister Gabrielle walked quite near it, and never stopped repeating:
"Gently, more gently still."
The little soldier's face was as pale as a corpse; his eyes, which
seemed to have sunk back in their orbits, were closed. When he was
lifted up to put him on the bed, the shock, light as it was, brought
on the supreme crisis. His breath, slow and scarcely perceptible,
quickened strangely. His candid blue eyes opened, dilated, immense, as
if looking for some one.
"He wants his parents," the Sister said to me in a low voice. "Go and
find them quickly. It's the end."
In the quiet chapel that opened from the big wards, the poor Mèchins
wept and prayed. I called them. The mother clasped her hands together,
turning to me:
"The operation was successful, wasn't it, madame?"
Alas! I don't know, I fear not; but they must come quickly. Their tears
blind them, she can't see her steps; she stumbles, and I have to give
her my arm for support.
The moment she approaches her son she recognizes the shadow of death on
his dear face, and would have given a cry of sorrow, but that Sister
Gabrielle stops her, putting a finger on her lips. Soldiers who die
must be surrounded by so great a peace.
"Here is your mother, here quite near to you," says the calm voice of
the Sister in the ear of the dying man. "She embraces you. Your father
is here, too. And here is the crucified One, Our Lord, here on your
lips."
The little soldier kisses the cross and smiles at his mother; then his
eyes, wide open, and as if drawn by some invincible attraction, turn
and fix themselves on the open window opposite the bed, through which
can be seen the infinite depths of the sky. Nothing again, till his
last breath was drawn, could make his gaze turn elsewhere. Where have
I already beheld a scene like this? I remember--it was in Greece, at
Athens, last year. In the room of the tombs, a simple and admirable
funeral monument represents death. A fine young man of twenty is
standing ready to depart. His parents, their faces torn with sorrow,
stretch out their arms to him, calling him, but he, so calm in the
purity of the white marble, his eyes as if fascinated, looks fixedly,
with all his thought, into the distance, one knows not where. As we
passed this masterpiece, the young Greek who was with me whispered to
me:
"Look at that boy there. He sees _something else_."
Our little soldier, too, seemed to see something else. The chaplain
gave him the last blessings. The mysterious shore drew nearer moment by
moment. A deep silence, solemnly calm and very moving, fell suddenly
on the great room into which the terrible visitor was so soon to
penetrate; truly he must die well, surrounded thus by his comrades,
upheld until the end by a Sister of Charity. The wings of her white
cornette tremble above the young face in its last agony. The Sister's
voice, already a supernatural one, is the last of this world's voices
that Private Mèchin is to hear. She says, and he repeats slowly, the
supreme invocation: "O God, receive me into Thy Paradise. Jesus, have
mercy on me. Holy Mother of God, pray for us in the hour of our death."
It is over ... the last breath exhales gently. The young soldier's gaze
is fixed forever on the great light of God. Sister Gabrielle gently
closes his eyelids and places the crucifix on the boy's heart. All is
so calm, so evangelical, that the parents themselves dare not weep.
Ah, how truly he spoke, the chaplain who wrote from the front: "The
soldiers of France die without pain, like angels."
When the parents were led away for a while Sister Gabrielle piously
replaced the sheet on the dead face, and said to me:
"This is the time for the patients' dinners. If you will, we'll go and
serve them, and then we'll come back and lay out the body of this poor
lad here."
I look at her wonderingly; she is very pale, and her eyes are full of
unshed tears. She busies herself with the necessities of them all, with
her usual clear-headedness. Have they already broken with everything
of earth, these Sisters, lifted themselves for good above the most
pardonable frailty?
(Thus the author, M. Eydoux-Demians, continues to relate her
experiences in the hospitals, telling of "The Funeral," "The
First Communion," "Our Priests," "The Little Refugee," and a half
hundred other little tragedies that bring tears to the eyes, a pain
to the heart, and a sense of overwhelming joy that manhood and
womanhood can rise to such noble heights in these days of terrible
suffering.--EDITOR.)
FOOTNOTE:
[7] All numerals relate to stories herein told, not to chapters in the
original books.
"FLYING FOR FRANCE"--HERO TALES OF BATTLES IN THE AIR
_With the American Escadrille at Verdun_
_Told by James R. McConnell, Sergeant-Pilot in the French Flying Corps_
The story of how Jim McConnell, the young North Carolinian, went to
France and gave his life to the cause of human liberty, is a noble
tribute to young Americanism. His heroic deeds at the battle of
Verdun when he fought with the American aviators in a sea of clouds
is a classic that would do credit to the ancient Greeks. A comrade
tells this story: "One day in January, 1915, I saw Jim McConnell in
front of the Court House at Carthage, North Carolina. 'Well,' he
said, 'I am all fixed up and I am leaving on Wednesday.' 'Where for?'
I asked. 'I have got a job to drive an ambulance in France,' was his
answer. And then he went on to tell me, first, that as he saw it the
greatest event of history was going on right at hand. 'These sand
hills,' he said, 'will be here forever but the war won't--and so I
am going.' So he went. He joined the American Ambulance Service in
the Vosges, was mentioned many times in the Orders of the Day for
conspicuous bravery in saving wounded under fire, and received the
much-coveted Croix de Guerre." As a Sergeant-Pilot in the Lafayette
Escadrille of American Aviators, McConnell was killed in March, 1917,
in an encounter with two Boche-driven aeroplanes. It was his hope
that he might lead a United States Army Aero Corps on the French
front. He, indeed, had a part in great deeds and left the best
description yet published of the most terrific battle in the war
up to the time of his death. His book, titled "Flying for France,"
is published by _Doubleday, Page and Company_, Copyright 1916-17.
Some of his experiences herein related are presented with their full
authority in this collection of stories.
[8] I--STORY OF THE AMERICAN AIRMEN
Beneath the canvas of a huge hangar mechanicians are at work on the
motor of an airplane. Outside, on the borders of an aviation field,
others loiter awaiting their aërial charge's return from the sky.
Near the hangar stands a hut-shaped tent. In front of it several
short-winged biplanes are lined up; inside it three or four young men
are lolling in wicker chairs.
They wear the uniform of French army aviators. These uniforms, and the
grim-looking machine guns mounted on the upper planes of the little
aircraft, are the only warlike note in a pleasantly peaceful scene. The
war seems very remote. It is hard to believe that the greatest of all
battles--Verdun--rages only twenty-five miles to the north, and that
the field and hangars and mechanicians and aviators and airplanes are
all playing a part therein.
Suddenly there is the distant hum of a motor. One of the pilots emerges
from the tent and gazes fixedly up into the blue sky. He points, and
one glimpses a black speck against the blue, high overhead. The sound
of the motor ceases, and the speck grows larger. It moves earthward in
steep dives and circles, and as it swoops closer, takes on the shape
of an airplane. Now one can make out the red, white, and blue circles
under the wings which mark a French war-plane, and the distinctive
insignia of the pilot on its sides.
"_Ton patron arrive!_" one mechanician cries to another. "Your boss is
coming!"
The machine dips sharply over the top of a hangar, straightens out
again near the earth at a dizzy speed a few feet above it and, losing
momentum in a surprisingly short time, hits the ground with tail and
wheels. It bumps along a score of yards and then, its motor whirring
again, turns, rolls toward the hangar, and stops. A human form,
enveloped in a species of garment for all the world like a diver's
suit, and further adorned with goggles and a leather hood, rises
unsteadily in the cockpit, clambers awkwardly overboard and slides down
to terra firma.
A group of soldiers, enjoying a brief holiday from the trenches in a
cantonment near the field, straggle forward and gather timidly about
the airplane, listening open-mouthed for what its rider is about to say.
"Hell!" mumbles that gentleman, as he starts divesting himself of his
flying garb.
"What's wrong now?" inquires one of the tenants of the tent.
"Everything, or else I've gone nutty," is the indignant reply,
delivered while disengaging a leg from its Teddy Bear trousering. "Why,
I emptied my whole roller on a Boche this morning, point blank at not
fifteen metres off. His machine gun quit firing and his propeller
wasn't turning and yet the darn fool just hung up there as if he were
tied to a cloud. Say, I was so sure I had him it made me sore--felt
like running into him and yelling, 'Now, you fall, you bum!'"
The eyes of the _poilus_ register surprise. Not a word of this
dialogue, delivered in purest American, is intelligible to them. Why is
an aviator in a French uniform speaking a foreign tongue, they mutually
ask themselves. Finally one of them, a little chap in a uniform long
since bleached of its horizon-blue color by the mud of the firing line,
whisperingly interrogates a mechanician as to the identity of these
strange air folk.
"But they are the Americans, my old one," the latter explains with
noticeable condescension.
Marvelling afresh, the infantrymen demand further details.
They learn that they are witnessing the return of the American
Escadrille--composed of Americans who have volunteered to fly for
France for the duration of the war--to their station near Bar-le-Duc,
twenty-five miles south of Verdun, from a flight over the battle front
of the Meuse. They have barely had time to digest this knowledge when
other dots appear in the sky, and one by one turn into airplanes as
they wheel downward. Finally all six of the machines that have been
aloft are back on the ground and the American Escadrille has one more
sortie over the German lines to its credit.
II--STORY OF THE PERSONNEL OF THE ESCADRILLE
Like all worth-while institutions, the American Escadrille, of which
I have the honour of being a member, was of gradual growth. When the
war began, it is doubtful whether anybody anywhere envisaged the
possibility of an American entering the French aviation service. Yet,
by the fall of 1915, scarcely more than a year later, there were six
Americans serving as full-fledged pilots, and now, in the summer of
1916, the list numbers fifteen or more, with twice that number training
for their pilot's license in the military aviation schools.
The pioneer of them all was William Thaw, of Pittsburg, who is to-day
the only American holding a commission in the French flying corps.
Lieutenant Thaw, a flyer of considerable reputation in America before
the war, had enlisted in the Foreign Legion in August, 1914. With
considerable difficulty he had himself transferred, in the early part
of 1915, into aviation, and the autumn of that year found him piloting
a Caudron biplane, and doing excellent observation work. At the same
time, Sergeants Norman Prince, of Boston, and Elliot Cowdin, of New
York--who were the first to enter the aviation service coming directly
from the United States--were at the front on Voisin planes with a
cannon mounted in the bow.
Sergeant Bert Hall, who signs from the Lone Star State and had got
himself shifted from the Foreign Legion to aviation soon after
Thaw, was flying a Nieuport fighting machine, and, a little later,
instructing less-advanced students of the air in the Avord Training
School. His particular chum in the Foreign Legion, James Bach, who
also had become an aviator, had the distressing distinction soon after
he reached the front of becoming the first American to fall into the
hands of the enemy. Going to the assistance of a companion who had
broken down in landing a spy in the German lines, Bach smashed his
machine against a tree. Both he and his French comrade were captured,
and Bach was twice court-martialed by the Germans on suspicion of being
an American _franc-tireur_--the penalty for which is death! He was
acquitted but of course still languishes in a prison camp "somewhere in
Germany." The sixth of the original sextet was Adjutant Didier Masson,
who did exhibition flying in the States until--Carranza having grown
ambitious in Mexico--he turned his talents to spotting _los Federales_
for General Obregon. When the real war broke out, Masson answered the
call of his French blood and was soon flying and fighting for the land
of his ancestors.
Of the other members of the escadrille Sergeant Givas Lufbery, American
citizen and soldier, but dweller in the world at large, was among the
earliest to wear the French airman's wings. Exhibition work with a
French pilot in the Far East prepared him efficiently for the task
of patiently unloading explosives on to German military centres from
a slow-moving Voisin which was his first mount. Upon the heels of
Lufbery came two more graduates of the Foreign Legion--Kiffin Rockwell,
of Asheville, N. C., who had been wounded at Carency; Victor Chapman,
of New York, who after recovering from his wounds became an airplane
bomb-dropper and so caught the craving to become a pilot. At about this
time one Paul Pavelka, whose birthplace was Madison, Conn., and who
from the age of fifteen had sailed the seven seas, managed to slip out
of the Foreign Legion into aviation and joined the other Americans at
Pau.
There seems to be a fascination to aviation, particularly when it is
coupled with fighting. Perhaps it's because the game is new, but more
probably because as a rule nobody knows anything about it. Whatever be
the reason, adventurous young Americans were attracted by it in rapidly
increasing numbers. Many of them, of course, never got fascinated
beyond the stage of talking about joining. Among the chaps serving with
the American ambulance field sections a good many imaginations were
stirred, and a few actually did enlist, when, toward the end of the
summer of 1915, the Ministry of War, finding that the original American
pilots had made good, grew more liberal in considering applications.
Chouteau Johnson, of New York; Lawrence Rumsey, of Buffalo; Dudley
Hill, of Peekskill, N. Y.; and Clyde Balsley, of El Paso; one after
another doffed the ambulance driver's khaki for the horizon-blue of the
French flying corps. All of them had seen plenty of action, collecting
the wounded under fire, but they were all tired of being non-combatant
spectators. More or less the same feeling actuated me, I suppose. I
had come over from Carthage, N. C., in January, 1915, and worked with
an American ambulance section in the Bois-le-Prêtre. All along I had
been convinced that the United States ought to aid in the struggle
against Germany. With that conviction, it was plainly up to me to do
more than drive an ambulance. The more I saw the splendour of the fight
the French were fighting, the more I felt like an _embusqué_--what the
British call a "shirker." So I made up my mind to go into aviation.
A special channel had been created for the reception of applications
from Americans, and my own was favourably replied to within a few days.
It took four days more to pass through all the various departments,
sign one's name to a few hundred papers, and undergo the physical
examinations. Then I was sent to the aviation depot at Dijon and fitted
out with a uniform and personal equipment. The next stop was the school
at Pau, where I was to be taught to fly. My elation at arriving there
was second only to my satisfaction at being a French soldier. It was a
vast improvement, I thought, to the American Ambulance.
Talk about forming an all-American flying unit, or escadrille, was rife
while I was at Pau. What with the pilots already breveted, and the
élèves, or pupils in the training-schools, there were quite enough of
our compatriots to man the dozen airplanes in one escadrille. Every day
somebody "had it absolutely straight" that we were to become a unit at
the front, and every other day the report turned out to be untrue. But
at last, in the month of February, our dream came true. We learned that
a captain had actually been assigned to command an American escadrille
and that the Americans at the front had been recalled and placed under
his orders. Soon afterward we élèves got another delightful thrill.
III--STORY OF THE FLIERS IN TRAINING
Thaw, Prince, Cowdin, and the other veterans were training on
the Nieuport! That meant the American Escadrille was to fly the
Nieuport--the best type of _avion de chasse_--and hence would be a
fighting unit. It is necessary to explain parenthetically here that
French military aviation, generally speaking, is divided into three
groups--the _avions de chasse_ or airplanes of pursuit, which are
used to hunt down enemy aircraft or to fight them off; _avions de
bombardement_, big, unwieldy monsters for use in bombarding raids;
and _avions de rélage_, cumbersome creatures designed to regulate
artillery fire, take photographs, and do scout duty. The Nieuport is
the smallest, fastest-rising, fastest-moving biplane in the French
service. It can travel 110 miles an hour, and is a one-man apparatus
with a machine gun mounted on its roof and fired by the pilot with one
hand while with the other and his feet he operates his controls. The
French call their Nieuport pilots the "aces" of the air. No wonder we
were tickled to be included in that august brotherhood!
Before the American Escadrille became an established fact, Thaw and
Cowdin, who had mastered the Nieuport, managed to be sent to the
Verdun front. While there Cowdin was credited with having brought down
a German machine and was proposed for the _Médaille Militaire_, the
highest decoration that can be awarded a non-commissioned officer or
private.
After completing his training, receiving his military pilot's brevet,
and being perfected on the type of plane he is to use at the front, an
aviator is ordered to the reserve headquarters near Paris to await his
call. Kiffin Rockwell and Victor Chapman had been there for months,
and I had just arrived, when on the 16th of April orders came for the
Americans to join their escadrille at Luxeuil, in the Vosges.
The rush was breathless! Never were flying clothes and fur coats drawn
from the quarter-master, belongings packed, and red tape in the various
administrative bureaux unfurled, with such headlong haste. In a few
hours we were aboard the train, panting, but happy. Our party consisted
of Sergeant Prince, and Rockwell, Chapman, and myself, who were only
corporals at that time. We were joined at Luxeuil by Lieutenant Thaw
and Sergeants Hall and Cowdin.
For the veterans our arrival at the front was devoid of excitement;
for the three neophytes--Rockwell, Chapman, and myself--it was the
beginning of a new existence, the entry into an unknown world. Of
course Rockwell and Chapman had seen plenty of warfare on the ground,
but warfare in the air was as novel to them as to me. For us all it
contained unlimited possibilities for initiative and service to France,
and for them it must have meant, too, the restoration of personality
lost during those months in the trenches with the Foreign Legion.
Rockwell summed it up characteristically.
"Well, we're off for the races," he remarked....
On our arrival at Luxeuil we were met by Captain Thénault, the French
commander of the American Escadrille--officially known as No. 124, by
the way--and motored to the aviation field in one of the staff cars
assigned to us. I enjoyed that ride. Lolling back against the soft
leather cushions, I recalled how in my apprenticeship days at Pau I had
had to walk six miles for my laundry....
Rooms were assigned to us in a villa adjoining the famous hot baths
of Luxeuil, where Cæsar's cohorts were wont to besport themselves. We
messed with our officers, Captain Thénault and Lieutenant de Laage
de Mux, at the best hotel in town. An automobile was always on hand
to carry us to the field. I began to wonder whether I was a summer
resorter instead of a soldier.
Among the pilots who had welcomed us with open arms, we discovered the
famous Captain Happe, commander of the Luxeuil bombardment group. The
doughty bomb-dispenser, upon whose head the Germans have set a price,
was in his quarters. After we had been introduced, he pointed to eight
little boxes arranged on a table.
"They contain _Croix de Guerre_ for the families of the men I lost on
my last trip," he explained, and he added: "It's a good thing you're
here to go along with us for protection. There are lots of Boches in
this sector."
I thought of the luxury we were enjoying: our comfortable beds, baths,
and motor cars, and then I recalled the ancient custom of giving a man
selected for the sacrifice a royal time of it before the appointed
day....
IV--STORY OF THE FIRST SORTIE IN THE CLOUDS
The memory of the first sortie we made as an escadrille will always
remain fresh in my mind because it was also my first trip over the
lines. We were to leave at six in the morning. Captain Thénault pointed
out on his aërial map the route we were to follow. Never having flown
over this region before, I was afraid of losing myself. Therefore,
as it is easier to keep other airplanes in sight when one is above
them, I began climbing as rapidly as possible, meaning to trail along
in the wake of my companions. Unless one has had practice in flying
in formation, however, it is hard to keep in contact. The diminutive
_avions de chasse_ are the merest pinpoints against the great sweep of
landscape below and the limitless heavens above. The air was misty and
clouds were gathering. Ahead there seemed a barrier of them. Although
as I looked down the ground showed plainly, in the distance everything
was hazy. Forging up above the mist, at 7,000 feet, I lost the others
altogether. Even when they are not closely joined, the clouds, seen
from immediately above, appear as a solid bank of white. The spaces
between are indistinguishable. It is like being in an Arctic ice field.
To the south I made out the Alps. Their glittering peaks projected up
through the white sea about me like majestic icebergs. Not a single
plane was visible anywhere, and I was growing very uncertain about
my position. My splendid isolation had become oppressive, when, one
by one, the others began bobbing up above the cloud level, and I had
company again.
We were over Belfort and headed for the trench lines. The cloud banks
dropped behind, and below us we saw the smiling plain of Alsace
stretching eastward to the Rhine. It was distinctly pleasurable, flying
over this conquered land. Following the course of the canal that runs
to the Rhine, I sighted, from a height of 13,000 feet over Dannemarie,
a series of brown, woodworm-like tracings on the ground--the trenches!
My attention was drawn elsewhere almost immediately, however. Two balls
of black smoke had suddenly appeared close to one of the machines ahead
of me, and with the same disconcerting abruptness similar balls began
to dot the sky above, below, and on all sides of us. We were being shot
at with shrapnel. It was interesting to watch the flash of the bursting
shells, and the attendant smoke puffs--black, white, or yellow,
depending on the kind of shrapnel used. The roar of the motor drowned
the noise of the explosions. Strangely enough, my feelings about it
were wholly impersonal.
We turned north after crossing the lines. Mulhouse seemed just below
us, and I noted with a keen sense of satisfaction our invasion of real
German territory. The Rhine, too, looked delightfully accessible. As
we continued northward I distinguished the twin lakes of Gérardmer
sparkling in their emerald setting. Where the lines crossed the
Hartmannsweilerkopf there were little spurts of brown smoke as shells
burst in the trenches. One could scarcely pick out the old city of
Thann from among the numerous neighbouring villages, so tiny it seemed
in the valley's mouth. I had never been higher than 7,000 feet and was
unaccustomed to reading country from a great altitude. It was also
bitterly cold, and even in my fur-lined combination I was shivering.
I noticed, too, that I had to take long, deep breaths in the rarefied
atmosphere. Looking downward at a certain angle, I saw what at first I
took to be a round, shimmering pool of water. It was simply the effect
of the sunlight on the congealing mist. We had been keeping an eye out
for German machines since leaving our lines, but none had shown up. It
wasn't surprising, for we were too many.
Only four days later, however, Rockwell brought down the escadrille's
first plane in his initial aërial combat. He was flying alone when,
over Thann, he came upon a German on reconnaissance. He dived and the
German turned toward his own lines, opening fire from a long distance.
Rockwell kept straight after him. Then, closing to within thirty yards,
he pressed on the release of his machine gun, and saw the enemy gunner
fall backward and the pilot crumple up sideways in his seat. The plane
flopped downward and crashed to earth just behind the German trenches.
Swooping close to the ground Rockwell saw its débris burning away
brightly. He had turned the trick with but four shots and only one
German bullet had struck his Nieuport. An observation post telephoned
the news before Rockwell's return, and he got a great welcome. All
Luxeuil smiled upon him--particularly the girls. But he couldn't stay
to enjoy his popularity. The escadrille was ordered to the sector of
Verdun.
While in a way we were sorry to leave Luxeuil, we naturally didn't
regret the chance to take part in the aërial activity of the world's
greatest battle. The night before our departure some German aircraft
destroyed four of our tractors and killed six men with bombs, but even
that caused little excitement compared with going to Verdun. We would
get square with the Boches over Verdun, we thought--it is impossible to
chase airplanes at night, so the raiders made a safe getaway....
The fast-flowing stream of troops, and the distressing number of
ambulances brought realization of the near presence of a gigantic
battle.
Within a twenty-mile radius of the Verdun front aviation camps abound.
Our escadrille was listed on the schedule with the other fighting
units, each of which has its specified flying hours, rotating so there
is always an _escadrille de chasse_ over the lines. A field wireless to
enable us to keep track of the movements of enemy planes became part of
our equipment.
Lufbery joined us a few days after our arrival. He was followed by
Johnson and Balsley, who had been on the air guard over Paris. Hill and
Rumsey came next, and after them Masson and Pavelka. Nieuports were
supplied them from the nearest depot, and as soon as they had mounted
their instruments and machine guns, they were on the job with the rest
of us. Fifteen Americans are or have been members of the American
Escadrille, but there have never been so many as that on duty at any
one time.
V--STORY OF THE BATTLES IN THE SKIES
Before we were fairly settled at Bar-le-Duc, Hall brought down a
German observation craft and Thaw a Fokker. Fights occurred on almost
every sortie. The Germans seldom cross into our territory, unless on
a bombarding jaunt, and thus practically all the fighting takes place
on their side of the line. Thaw dropped his Fokker in the morning, and
on the afternoon of the same day there was a big combat far behind the
German trenches. Thaw was wounded in the arm, and an explosive bullet
detonating on Rockwell's wind-shield tore several gashes in his face.
Despite the blood which was blinding him Rockwell managed to reach an
aviation field and land. Thaw, whose wound bled profusely, landed in
a dazed condition just within our lines. He was too weak to walk, and
French soldiers carried him to a field dressing-station, whence he
was sent to Paris for further treatment. Rockwell's wounds were less
serious and he insisted on flying again almost immediately.
A week or so later Chapman was wounded. Considering the number of
fights he had been in and the courage with which he attacked it was a
miracle he had not been hit before. He always fought against odds and
far within the enemy's country. He flew more than any of us, never
missing an opportunity to go up, and never coming down until his
gasolene was giving out. His machine was a sieve of patched-up bullet
holes. His nerve was almost superhuman and his devotion to the cause
for which he fought sublime. The day he was wounded he attacked four
machines. Swooping down from behind, one of them, a Fokker, riddled
Chapman's plane. One bullet cut deep into his scalp, but Chapman, a
master pilot, escaped from the trap, and fired several shots to show
he was still safe. A stability control had been severed by a bullet.
Chapman held the broken rod in one hand, managed his machine with the
other, and succeeded in landing on a nearby aviation field. His wound
was dressed, his machine repaired, and he immediately took the air in
pursuit of some more enemies. He would take no rest, and with bandaged
head continued to fly and fight.
The escadrille's next serious encounter with the foe took place a
few days later. Rockwell, Balsley, Prince, and Captain Thénault were
surrounded by a large number of Germans, who, circling about them,
commenced firing at long range. Realizing their numerical inferiority,
the Americans and their commander sought the safest way out by
attacking the enemy machines nearest the French lines. Rockwell,
Prince, and the captain broke through successfully, but Balsley found
himself hemmed in. He attacked the German nearest him, only to receive
an explosive bullet in his thigh. In trying to get away by a vertical
dive his machine went into a corkscrew and swung over on its back.
Extra cartridge rollers dislodged from their case hit his arms. He
was tumbling straight toward the trenches, but by a supreme effort he
regained control, righted the plane, and landed without disaster in a
meadow just behind the firing line.
Soldiers carried him to the shelter of a nearby fort, and later he was
taken to a field hospital, where he lingered for days between life and
death. Ten fragments of the explosive bullet were removed from his
stomach. He bore up bravely, and became the favourite of the wounded
officers in whose ward he lay. When we flew over to see him they would
say: _Il est un brave petit gars, l'aviateur américain_. [He's a brave
little fellow, the American aviator.] On a shelf by his bed, done up
in a handkerchief, he kept the pieces of bullet taken out of him, and
under them some sheets of paper on which he was trying to write to his
mother, back in El Paso.
Balsley was awarded the _Médaille Militaire_ and the _Croix de Guerre_,
but the honours scared him. He had seen them decorate officers in the
ward before they died.
VI--STORY OF CHAPMAN'S LAST FIGHT
Then came Chapman's last fight. Before leaving, he had put two bags of
oranges in his machine to take to Balsley, who liked to suck them to
relieve his terrible thirst, after the day's flying was over. There
was an aërial struggle against odds, far within the German lines,
and Chapman, to divert their fire from his comrades, engaged several
enemy airmen at once. He sent one tumbling to earth, and had forced
the others off when two more swooped down upon him. Such a fight is
a matter of seconds, and one cannot clearly see what passes. Lufbery
and Prince, whom Chapman had defended so gallantly, regained the
French lines. They told us of the combat, and we waited on the field
for Chapman's return. He was always the last in, so we were not much
worried. Then a pilot from another fighting escadrille telephoned us,
that he had seen a Nieuport falling. A little later the observer of
a reconnaissance airplane called up and told us how he had witnessed
Chapman's fall. The wings of the plane had buckled, and it had dropped
like a stone he said.
We talked in lowered voices after that; we would read the pain in one
another's eyes. If only it could have been some one else, was what we
all thought, I suppose. To lose Victor was not an irreparable loss to
us merely, but to France, and to the world as well. I kept thinking of
him lying over there, and of the oranges he was taking to Balsley. As
I left the field I caught sight of Victor's mechanician leaning against
the end of our hangar. He was looking northward into the sky where his
_patron_ had vanished, and his face was very sad.
By this time Prince and Hall had been made adjutants, and we corporals
transformed into sergeants. I frankly confess to a feeling of marked
satisfaction at receiving that grade in the world's finest army. I was
a far more important person, in my own estimation, than I had been as
a second lieutenant in the militia at home. The next impressive event
was the awarding of decorations. We had assisted at that ceremony
for Cowdin at Luxeuil, but this time three of our messmates were to
be honoured for the Germans they had brought down. Rockwell and Hall
received the _Médaille Militaire_ and the _Croix de Guerre_, and Thaw,
being a lieutenant, the _Légion d'honneur_ and another "palm" for the
ribbon of the _Croix de Guerre_ he had won previously. Thaw, who came
up from Paris specially for the presentation, still carried his arm in
a sling.
There were also decorations for Chapman, but poor Victor, who so often
had been cited in the Orders of the Day, was not on hand to receive
them.
VII--STORY OF THE MORNING SORTIE OVER VERDUN
Our daily routine goes on with little change. Whenever the weather
permits--that is, when it isn't raining, and the clouds aren't too
low--we fly over the Verdun battlefield at the hours dictated by
General Headquarters. As a rule the most successful sorties are those
in the early morning.
We are called while it's still dark. Sleepily I try to reconcile the
French orderly's muttered, _C'est l'heure, monsieur_, that rouses me
from slumber, with the strictly American words and music of "When
That Midnight Choo Choo Leaves for Alabam'" warbled by a particularly
wide-awake pilot in the next room. A few minutes later, having
swallowed some coffee, we motor to the field. The east is turning gray
as the hangar curtains are drawn apart and our machines trundled out by
the mechanicians. All the pilots whose planes are in commission--save
those remaining behind on guard--prepare to leave. We average from four
to six on a sortie, unless too many flights have been ordered for that
day, in which case only two or three go out at a time.
Now the east is pink, and overhead the sky has changed from gray to
pale blue. It is light enough to fly. We don our fur-lined shoes and
combinations, and adjust the leather flying hoods and goggles. A good
deal of conversation occurs--perhaps because, once aloft, there's
nobody to talk to.
"Eh, you," one pilot cries jokingly to another, "I hope some Boche just
ruins you this morning, so I won't have to pay you the fifty francs you
won from me last night!"
This financial reference concerns a poker game.
"You do, do you?" replies the other as he swings into his machine.
"Well, I'd be glad to pass up the fifty to see you landed by the
Boches. You'd make a fine sight walking down the street of some German
town in those wooden shoes and pyjama pants. Why don't you dress
yourself? Don't you know an aviator's supposed to look _chic_?"
A sartorial eccentricity on the part of one of our colleagues is here
referred to.
The raillery is silenced by a deafening roar as the motors are tested.
Quiet is briefly restored, only to be broken by a series of rapid
explosions incidental to the trying out of machine guns. You loudly
inquire at what altitude we are to meet above the field.
"Fifteen hundred metres--go ahead!" comes an answering yell.
"_Essence et gaz!_ [Oil and gas!]" you call to your mechanician,
adjusting your gasolene and air throttles while he grips the propeller.
"_Contact!_" he shrieks, and "_Contact!_" you reply. You snap on the
switch, he spins the propeller, and the motor takes. Drawing forward
out of line, you put on full power, race across the grass and take the
air. The ground drops as the hood slants up before you and you seem to
be going more and more slowly as you rise. At a great height you hardly
realize you are moving. You glance at the clock to note the time of
your departure, and at the oil gauge to see its throb. The altimeter
registers 650 feet. You turn and look back at the field below and see
others leaving.
In three minutes you are at about 4,000 feet. You have been making
wide circles over the field and watching the other machines. At 4,500
feet you throttle down and wait on that level for your companions
to catch up. Soon the escadrille is bunched and off for the lines.
You begin climbing again, gulping to clear your ears in the changing
pressure. Surveying the other machines, you recognize the pilot of each
by the marks on its side--or by the way he flies. The distinguishing
marks of the Nieuports are various and sometimes amusing. Bert Hall,
for instance, has BERT painted on the left side of his plane and the
same word reversed (as if spelled backward with the left hand) on the
right--so an aviator passing him on that side at great speed will be
able to read the name without difficulty, he says!
The country below has changed into a flat surface of varicoloured
figures. Woods are irregular blocks of dark green, like daubs of ink
spilled on a table; fields are geometrical designs of different shades
of green and brown, forming in composite an ultra-cubist painting;
roads are thin white lines, each with its distinctive windings and
crossings--from which you determine your location. The higher you are
the easier it is to read.
In about ten minutes you see the Meuse sparkling in the morning light,
and on either side the long line of sausage-shaped observation balloons
far below you. Red-roofed Verdun springs into view just beyond. There
are spots in it where no red shows and you know what has happened
there. In the green pasture land bordering the town, round flecks of
brown indicate the shell holes. You cross the Meuse.
Immediately east and north of Verdun there lies a broad, brown band.
From the Woevre plain it runs westward to the "S" bend in the Meuse,
and on the left bank of that famous stream continues on into the
Argonne Forest. Peaceful fields and farms and villages adorned that
landscape a few months ago--when there was no Battle of Verdun. Now
there is only that sinister brown belt, a strip of murdered Nature.
It seems to belong to another world. Every sign of humanity has been
swept away. The woods and roads have vanished like chalk wiped from a
blackboard; of the villages nothing remains but gray smears where stone
walls have tumbled together. The great forts of Douaumont and Vaux are
outlined faintly, like the tracings of a finger in wet sand. One cannot
distinguish any one shell crater, as one can on the pockmarked fields
on either side. On the brown band the indentations are so closely
interlocked that they blend into a confused mass of troubled earth. Of
the trenches only broken, half-obliterated links are visible.
Columns of muddy smoke spurt up continually as high explosives tear
deeper into this ulcered area. During heavy bombardment and attacks
I have seen shells falling like rain. The countless towers of smoke
remind one of Gustave Doré's picture of the fiery tombs of the
arch-heretics in Dante's "Hell." A smoky pall covers the sector under
fire, rising so high that at a height of 1,000 feet one is enveloped in
its mist-like fumes. Now and then monster projectiles, hurtling through
the air close by, leave one's plane rocking violently in their wake.
Airplanes have been cut in two by them.
For us the battle passes in silence, the noise of one's motor deadening
all other sounds. In the green patches behind the brown belt myriads of
tiny flashes tell where the guns are hidden; and those flashes, and the
smoke of bursting shells, are all we see of the fighting. It is a weird
combination of stillness and havoc, the Verdun conflict viewed from the
sky.
Far below us, the observation and range-finding planes circle over
the trenches like gliding gulls. At a feeble altitude they follow
the attacking infantrymen and flash back wireless reports of the
engagement. Only through them can communication be maintained when,
under the barrier fire, wires from the front lines are cut. Sometimes
it falls to our lot to guard these machines from Germans eager to swoop
down on their backs. Sailing about high above a busy flock of them
makes one feel like an old mother hen protecting her chicks....
Getting started is the hardest part of an attack. Once you have begun
diving you're all right. The pilot just ahead turns tail up like a
trout dropping back to water, and swoops down in irregular curves and
circles. You follow at an angle so steep your feet seem to be holding
you back in your seat. Now the black Maltese crosses on the German's
wings stand out clearly. You think of him as some sort of big bug. Then
you hear the rapid tut-tut-tut of his machine gun. The man that dived
ahead of you becomes mixed up with the topmost German. He is so close
it looks as if he had hit the enemy machine. You hear the staccato
barking of his mitrailleuse and see him pass from under the German's
tail.
The rattle of the gun that is aimed at you leaves you undisturbed.
Only when the bullets pierce the wings a few feet off do you become
uncomfortable. You see the gunner crouched down behind his weapon,
but you aim at where the pilot ought to be--there are two men aboard
the German craft--and press on the release hard. Your mitrailleuse
hammers out a stream of bullets as you pass over and dive, nose down,
to get out of range. Then, hopefully, you re-dress and look back at
the foe. He ought to be dropping earthward at several miles a minute.
As a matter of fact, however, he is sailing serenely on. They have an
annoying habit of doing that, these Boches.
VIII--STORY OF A FIGHT OVER FORT DOUAUMONT
Rockwell, who attacked so often that he has lost all count, and who
shoves his machine gun fairly in the faces of the Germans, used to
swear their planes were armoured. Lieutenant de Laage, whose list of
combats is equally extensive, has brought down only one. Hall, with
three machines to his credit, has had more luck. Lufbery, who evidently
has evolved a secret formula, has dropped four, according to official
statistics, since his arrival on the Verdun front. Four "palms"--the
record for the escadrille, glitter upon the ribbon of the _Croix de
Guerre_ accompanying his _Médaile Militaire_.[9]
A pilot seldom has the satisfaction of beholding the result of his
bull's-eye bullet. Rarely--so difficult it is to follow the turnings
and twistings of the dropping plane--does he see his fallen foe
strike the ground. Lufbery's last direct hit was an exception, for he
followed all that took place from a balcony seat. I myself was in the
"nigger-heaven," so I know. We had set out on a sortie together just
before noon, one August day, and for the first time on such an occasion
had lost each other over the lines. Seeing no Germans, I passed my
time hovering over the French observation machines. Lufbery found one,
however, and promptly brought it down. Just then I chanced to make a
southward turn, and caught sight of an airplane falling out of the sky
into the German lines.
As it turned over, it showed its white belly for an instant, then
seemed to straighten out, and planed downward in big zigzags. The pilot
must have gripped his controls even in death, for his craft did not
tumble as most do. It passed between my line of vision and a wood, into
which it disappeared. Just as I was going down to find out where it
landed, I saw it again skimming across a field, and heading straight
for the brown band beneath me. It was outlined against the shell-racked
earth like a tiny insect, until just north-west of Fort Douaumont it
crashed down upon the battlefield. A sheet of flame and smoke shot up
from the tangled wreckage. For a moment or two I watched it burn; then
I went back to the observation machines.
I thought Lufbery would show up and point to where the German had
fallen. He failed to appear, and I began to be afraid it was he whom I
had seen come down, instead of an enemy. I spent a worried hour before
my return homeward. After getting back I learned that Lufbery was quite
safe, having hurried in after the fight to report the destruction
of his adversary before somebody else claimed him, which is only too
frequently the case. Observation posts, however, confirmed Lufbery's
story, and he was of course very much delighted. Nevertheless, at
luncheon, I heard him murmuring, half to himself: "Those poor fellows."
The German machine gun operator, having probably escaped death in the
air, must have had a hideous descent. Lufbery told us he had seen the
whole thing, spiralling down after the German. He said he thought the
German pilot must be a novice, judging from his manoeuvres. It occurred
to me that he might have been making his first flight over the lines,
doubtless full of enthusiasm about his career. Perhaps, dreaming of the
Iron Cross and his Gretchen, he took a chance--and then swift death and
a grave in the shell-strewn soil of Douaumont....
IX--STORY OF PRINCE'S AERIAL FIREWORKS
Now and then one of us will get ambitious to do something on his own
account. Not long ago Norman Prince became obsessed with the idea of
bringing down a German "sausage," as observation balloons are called.
He had a special device mounted on his Nieuport for setting fire to the
aërial frankfurters. Thus equipped he resembled an advance agent for
Payne's fireworks more than an _aviator de chasse_. Having carefully
mapped the enemy "sausages," he would sally forth in hot pursuit
whenever one was signalled at a respectable height. Poor Norman had a
terrible time of it! Sometimes the reported "sausages" were not there
when he arrived, and sometimes there was a super-abundancy of German
airplanes on guard.
He stuck to it, however, and finally his appetite for "sausage" was
satisfied. He found one just where it ought to be, swooped down upon
it, and let off his fireworks with all the gusto of an American boy on
the Fourth of July. When he looked again, the balloon had vanished.
Prince's performance isn't so easy as it sounds, by the way. If, after
the long dive necessary to turn the trick successfully, his motor had
failed to retake, he would have fallen into the hands of the Germans....
After dinner the same scene invariably repeats itself, over the coffee
in the "next room." At the big table several sportive souls start a
poker game, while at a smaller one two sedate spirits wrap themselves
in the intricacies of chess. Captain Thénault labours away at the
messroom piano, or in lighter mood plays with Fram, his police dog. A
phonograph grinds out the ancient query "Who Paid the Rent for Mrs. Rip
Van Winkle?" or some other ragtime ditty. It is barely nine, however,
when the movement in the direction of bed begins.
A few of us remain behind a little while, and the talk becomes more
personal and more sincere. Only on such intimate occasions, I think,
have I ever heard death discussed. Certainly we are not indifferent to
it. Not many nights ago one of the pilots remarked in a tired way:
"Know what I want? Just six months of freedom to go where and do what
I like. In that time I'd get everything I wanted out of life, and be
perfectly willing to come back and be killed."
Then another, who was about to receive 2,000 francs from the American
committee that aids us, as a reward for his many citations, chimed in.
"Well, I didn't care much before," he confessed, "but now with this
money coming in I don't want to die until I've had the fun of spending
it."
So saying, he yawned and went up to bed.
X--STORY OF THE JOURNEY TOWARD THE SOMME
On the 12th of October, twenty small airplanes flying in a V formation,
at such a height they resembled a flock of geese, crossed the river
Rhine, where it skirts the plains of Alsace, and, turning north, headed
for the famous Mauser works at Oberndorf. Following in their wake
was an equal number of larger machines, and above these darted and
circled swift fighting planes. The first group of aircraft was flown by
British pilots, the second by French and three of the fighting planes
by Americans in the French Aviation Division. It was a cosmopolitan
collection that effected that successful raid.
We American pilots, who are grouped into one escadrille, had been
fighting above the battlefield of Verdun from the 20th of May until
orders came the middle of September for us to leave our airplanes, for
a unit that would replace us, and to report at Le Bourget, the great
Paris aviation centre.
The mechanics and the rest of the personnel left, as usual, in the
escadrille's trucks with the material. For once the pilots did not
take the aërial route but they boarded the Paris express at Bar-le-Duc
with all the enthusiasm of schoolboys off for a vacation. They were to
have a week in the capital! Where they were to go after that they did
not know, but presumed it would be the Somme. As a matter of fact the
escadrille was to be sent to Luxeuil in the Vosges to take part in the
Mauser raid.
Besides Captain Thénault and Lieutenant de Laage de Mieux, our French
officers, the following American pilots were in the escadrille at this
time: Lieutenant Thaw, who had returned to the front, even though his
wounded arm had not entirely healed; Adjutants Norman Prince, Hall,
Lufbery, and Masson; and Sergeants Kiffin Rockwell, Hill, Pavelka,
Johnson, and Rumsey. I had been sent to a hospital at the end of
August, because of a lame back resulting from a smash up in landing,
and couldn't follow the escadrille until later.
Every aviation unit boasts several mascots. Dogs of every description
are to be seen around the camps, but the Americans managed, during
their stay in Paris, to add to their menagerie by the acquisition of
a lion cub named "Whiskey." The little chap had been born on a boat
crossing from Africa and was advertised for sale in France. Some of the
American pilots chipped in and bought him. He was a cute, bright-eyed
baby lion who tried to roar in a most threatening manner but who was
blissfully content the moment one gave him one's finger to suck.
"Whiskey" got a good view of Paris during the few days he was there,
for some one in the crowd was always borrowing him to take him some
place. He, like most lions in captivity, became acquainted with bars,
but the sort "Whiskey" saw were not for purposes of confinement.
The orders came directing the escadrille to Luxeuil and bidding
farewell to gay "Paree" the men boarded the Belfort train with bag
and baggage--and the lion. Lions, it developed, were not allowed in
passenger coaches. The conductor was assured that "Whiskey" was quite
harmless and was going to overlook the rules when the cub began to roar
and tried to get at the railwayman's finger. That settled it, so two of
the men had to stay behind in order to crate up "Whiskey" and take him
along the next day.
The escadrille was joined in Paris by Robert Rockwell, of Cincinnati,
who had finished his training as a pilot, and was waiting at the
Reserve (Robert Rockwell had gone to France to work as a surgeon in one
of the American war hospitals. He disliked remaining in the rear and
eventually enlisted in aviation)....
XI--STORY OF THRILLING MOMENTS IN THE AIR
Dennis Dowd, of Brooklyn, N. Y., is so far the only American volunteer
aviator killed while in training. Dowd, who had joined the Foreign
Legion, shortly after the war broke out, was painfully wounded during
the offensive in Champagne. After his recovery he was transferred, at
his request, into aviation. At the Buc school he stood at the head
of the fifteen Americans who were learning to be aviators, and was
considered one of the most promising pilots in the training camp. On
August 11, 1916, while making a flight preliminary to his brevet, Dowd
fell from a height of only 260 feet and was instantly killed. Either he
had fainted or a control had broken.
While a patient at the hospital Dowd had been sent packages by a young
French girl of Neuilly. A correspondence ensued, and when Dowd went to
Paris on convalescent leave he and the young lady became engaged. He
was killed just before the time set for the wedding....
In a few days every one in this Anglo-American alliance was calling
each other by some nickname and swearing lifelong friendship.
"We didn't know what you Yanks would be like," remarked one of the
Englishmen one day. "Thought you might be snobby on account of being
volunteers, but I swear you're a bloody human lot." That, I will
explain, is a very fine compliment....
Considering the number of machines that were continually roaring above
the field at Luxeuil it is remarkable that only two fatal accidents
occurred. One was when a British pilot tried diving at a target, for
machine-gun practice, and was unable to re-dress his airplane. Both
he and his gunner were killed. In the second accident I lost a good
friend--a young Frenchman. He took up his gunner in a two-seated
Nieuport. A young Canadian pilot accompanied by a French officer
followed in a Sopwith. When at about a thousand feet they began to
manoeuvre about one another. In making a turn too close the tips of
their wings touched. The Nieuport turned downward, its wings folded,
and it fell like a stone. The Sopwith fluttered a second or two, then
its wings buckled and it dropped in the wake of the Nieuport. The two
men in each of the planes were killed outright.
Next to falling in flames a drop in a wrecked machine is the worst
death an aviator can meet. I know of no sound more horrible than that
made by an airplane crashing to earth. Breathless one has watched the
uncontrolled apparatus tumble through the air. The agony felt by the
pilot and passenger seems to transmit itself to you. You are helpless
to avert the certain death. You cannot even turn your eyes away at the
moment of impact. In the dull, grinding crash there is the sound of
breaking bones....
In spite of their bombardment of open towns and the use of explosive
bullets in their aërial machine guns, the Boches have shown up in a
better light in aviation than in any other arm. A few of the Hun pilots
have evinced certain elements of honour and decency. I remember one
chap that was the right sort.
He was a young man but a pilot of long standing. An old infantry
captain stationed near his aviation field at Etain, east of Verdun,
prevailed upon this German pilot to take him on a flight. There was
a new machine to test out and he told the captain to climb aboard.
Foolishly he crossed the trench lines and, actuated by a desire to give
his passenger an interesting trip, proceeded to fly over the French
aviation headquarters. Unfortunately for him he encountered three
French fighting planes which promptly opened fire. The German pilot was
wounded in the leg and the gasolene tank of his airplane was pierced.
Under him was an aviation field. He decided to land. The machine was
captured before the Germans had time to burn it up. Explosive bullets
were discovered in the machine gun. A French officer turned to the
German captain and informed him that he would probably be shot for
using explosive bullets. The captain did not understand.
"Don't shoot him," said the pilot, using excellent French, "if you're
going to shoot any one take me. The captain has nothing to do with the
bullets. He doesn't even know how to work a machine gun. It's his first
trip in an airplane."
"Well, if you'll give us some good information, we won't shoot you,"
said the French officer.
"Information," replied the German, "I can't give you any. I come from
Etain, and you know where that is as well as I do."
"No, you must give us some worth-while information, or I'm afraid
you'll be shot," insisted the Frenchman.
"If I give you worth-while information," answered the pilot, "you'll
go over and kill a lot of soldiers, and if I don't you'll only kill
one--so go ahead."
The last time I heard of the Boche he was being well taken care of.
XII--STORY OF ROCKWELL'S LAST FIGHT
Kiffin Rockwell and Lufbery were the first to get their new machines
ready and on the 23rd of September went out for the first flight since
the escadrille had arrived at Luxeuil. They became separated in the air
but each flew on alone, which was a dangerous thing to do in the Alsace
sector....
Just before Kiffin Rockwell reached the lines he spied a German machine
under him flying at 11,000 feet. I can imagine the satisfaction he
felt in at last catching an enemy plane in our lines. Rockwell had
fought more combats than the rest of us put together, and had shot down
many German machines that had fallen in their lines, but this was the
first time he had had an opportunity of bringing down a Boche in our
territory.
A captain, the commandant of an Alsatian village, watched the aërial
battle through his field glasses. He said that Rockwell approached
so close to the enemy that he thought there would be a collision.
The German craft, which carried two machine guns, had opened a rapid
fire when Rockwell started his dive. He plunged through the stream of
lead and only when very close to his enemy did he begin shooting. For
a second it looked as though the German was falling, so the captain
said, but then he saw the French machine turn rapidly nose down, the
wings of one side broke off and fluttered in the wake of the airplane,
which hurtled earthward in a rapid drop. It crashed into the ground
in a small field--a field of flowers--a few hundred yards back of the
trenches. It was not more than two and a half miles from the spot where
Rockwell, in the month of May, brought down his first enemy machine.
The Germans immediately opened up on the wreck with artillery fire.
In spite of the bursting shrapnel, gunners from a nearby battery
rushed out and recovered poor Rockwell's broken body. There was a
hideous wound in his breast where an explosive bullet had torn through.
A surgeon who examined the body, testified that if it had been an
ordinary bullet Rockwell would have had an even chance of landing with
only a bad wound. As it was he was killed the instant the unlawful
missile exploded.
Lufbery engaged a German craft but before he could get to close range
two Fokkers swooped down from behind and filled his aeroplane full of
holes. Exhausting his ammunition he landed at Fontaine, an aviation
field near the lines. There he learned of Rockwell's death and was told
that two other French machines had been brought down within the hour.
He ordered his gasolene tank filled, procured a full band of cartridges
and soared up into the air to avenge his comrade. He sped up and down
the lines, and made a wide détour to Habsheim where the Germans have an
aviation field, but all to no avail. Not a Boche was in the air.
The news of Rockwell's death was telephoned to the escadrille. The
captain, lieutenant, and a couple of men jumped in a staff car and
hastened to where he had fallen. On their return the American pilots
were convened in a room of the hotel and the news broken to them. With
tears in his eyes the captain said: "The best and bravest of us all is
no more."
No greater blow could have befallen the escadrille. Kiffin was its
soul. He was loved and looked up to by not only every man in our
flying corps but by every one who knew him. Kiffin was imbued with the
spirit of the cause for which he fought and gave his heart and soul
to the performance of his duty. He said: "I pay my part for Lafayette
and Rochambeau," and he gave the fullest measure. The old flame of
chivalry burned brightly in this boy's fine and sensitive being. With
his death France lost one of her most valuable pilots. When he was
over the lines the Germans did not pass--and he was over them most of
the time. He brought down four enemy planes that were credited to him
officially, and Lieutenant de Laage, who was his fighting partner,
says he is convinced that Rockwell accounted for many others which
fell too far within the German lines to be observed. Rockwell had been
given the Médaille Militaire and the Croix de Guerre, on the ribbon of
which he wore four palms, representing the four magnificent citations
he had received in the order of the army. As a further reward for his
excellent work he had been proposed for promotion from the grade of
sergeant to that of second lieutenant. Unfortunately the official order
did not arrive until a few days following his death.
The night before Rockwell was killed he had stated that if he were
brought down he would like to be buried where he fell. It was
impossible, however, to place him in a grave so near the trenches. His
body was draped in a French flag and brought back to Luxeuil. He was
given a funeral worthy of a general. His brother, Paul, who had fought
in the Legion with him, and who had been rendered unfit for service by
a wound, was granted permission to attend the obsequies. Pilots from
all nearby camps flew over to render homage to Rockwell's remains.
Every Frenchman in the aviation at Luxeuil marched behind the bier. The
British pilots, followed by a detachment of five hundred of their men,
were in line, and a battalion of French troops brought up the rear. As
the slow moving procession of blue and khaki-clad men passed from the
church to the graveyard, airplanes circled at a feeble height above and
showered down myriads of flowers.
Rockwell's death urged the rest of the men to greater action, and the
few who had machines were constantly after the Boches. Prince brought
one down. Lufbery, the most skillful and successful fighter in the
escadrille, would venture far into the enemy's lines and spiral down
over a German aviation camp, daring the pilots to venture forth. One
day he stirred them up, but as he was short of fuel he had to make for
home before they took to the air. Prince was out in search of a combat
at this time. He got it. He ran into the crowd Lufbery had aroused.
Bullets cut into his machine and one exploding on the front edge of
a lower wing broke it. Another shattered a supporting mast. It was a
miracle that the machine did not give way. As badly battered as it was
Prince succeeded in bringing it back from over Mulhouse, where the
fight occurred, to his field at Luxeuil.
XIII--STORY OF LUFBERY'S DARING FLIGHT
The same day that Prince was so nearly brought down Lufbery missed
death by a very small margin. He had taken on more gasolene and made
another sortie. When over the lines again he encountered a German with
whom he had a fighting acquaintance. That is he and the Boche, who
was an excellent pilot, had tried to kill each other on one or two
occasions before. Each was too good for the other. Lufbery manoeuvred
for position but, before he could shoot, the Teuton would evade him
by a clever turn. They kept after one another, the Boche retreating
into his lines. When they were nearing Habsheim, Lufbery glanced back
and saw French shrapnel bursting over the trenches. It meant a German
plane was over French territory and it was his duty to drive it off.
Swooping down near his adversary he waved good-bye, the enemy pilot did
likewise, and Lufbery whirred off to chase the other representative
of Kultur. He caught up with him and dove to the attack, but he was
surprised by a German he had not seen. Before he could escape three
bullets entered his motor, two passed through the fur-lined combination
he wore, another ripped open one of his woolen flying boots, his
airplane was riddled from wing tip to wing tip, and other bullets cut
the elevating plane. Had he not been an exceptional aviator he never
would have brought safely to earth so badly damaged a machine. It was
so thoroughly shot up that it was junked as being beyond repairs.
Fortunately Lufbery was over French territory or his forced descent
would have resulted in his being made prisoner.
I know of only one other airplane that was safely landed after
receiving as heavy punishment as did Lufbery's. It was a two-place
Nieuport piloted by a young Frenchman named Fontaine with whom I
trained. He and his gunner attacked a German over the Bois le Pretre
who drove rapidly far into his lines. Fontaine followed and in turn
was attacked by three other Boches. He dropped to escape, they plunged
after him forcing him lower. He looked and saw a German aviation field
under him. He was by this time only 2,000 feet above the ground.
Fontaine saw the mechanics rush out to grasp him, thinking he would
land. The attacking airplanes had stopped shooting. Fontaine pulled on
full power and headed for the lines. The German planes dropped down
on him and again opened fire. They were on his level, behind and on
his sides. Bullets whistled by him in streams. The rapid-fire gun on
Fontaine's machine had jammed and he was helpless. His gunner fell
forward on him, dead. The trenches were just ahead, but as he was
slanting downward to gain speed he had lost a good deal of height, and
was at only six hundred feet when he crossed the lines, from which he
received a ground fire. The Germans gave up the chase and Fontaine
landed with his dead gunner. His wings were so full of holes that they
barely supported the machine in the air.
XIV--STORY OF A SURPRISE ATTACK ON THE BOCHES
The uncertain wait at Luxeuil finally came to an end on the 12th of
October. The afternoon of that day the British did not say: "Come on
Yanks, let's call off the war and have tea," as was their wont, for the
bombardment of Oberndorf was on. The British and French machines had
been prepared. Just before climbing into their airplanes the pilots
were given their orders. The English in their single-seated Sopwiths,
which carried four bombs each, were the first to leave. The big French
Breguets and Farmans then soared aloft with their tons of explosive
destined for the Mauser works. The fighting machines, which were to
convoy them as far as the Rhine, rapidly gained their height and
circled above their charges. Four of the battle planes were from the
American escadrille. They were piloted respectively by Lieutenant de
Laage, Lufbery, Norman Prince, and Masson.
The Germans were taken by surprise and as a result few of their
machines were in the air. The bombardment fleet was attacked, however,
and six of its planes shot down, some of them falling in flames. Baron,
the famous French night bombarder, lost his life in one of the Farmans.
Two Germans were brought down by machines they attacked and the four
pilots from the American escadrille accounted for one each. Lieutenant
de Laage shot down his Boche as it was attacking another French machine
and Masson did likewise. Explaining it afterward he said: "All of a
sudden I saw a Boche come in between me and a Breguet, I was following.
I just began to shoot, and darned if he didn't fall."
As the fuel capacity of a Nieuport allows but little more than two
hours in the air the _avions de chasse_ were forced to return to their
own lines to take on more gasolene, while the bombardment planes
continued on into Germany. The Sopwiths arrived first at Oberndorf.
Dropping low over the Mauser works they discharged their bombs and
headed homeward. All arrived, save one, whose pilot lost his way and
came to earth in Switzerland. When the big machines got to Oberndorf
they saw only flames and smoke where once the rifle factory stood. They
unloaded their explosives on the burning mass.
The Nieuports having refilled their tanks went up to clear the air
of Germans that might be hovering in wait for the returning raiders.
Prince found one and promptly shot it down. Lufbery came upon three.
He drove for one, making it drop below the others, then forcing a
second to descend, attacked the one remaining above. The combat was
short and at the end of it the German tumbled to earth. This made the
fifth enemy machine which was officially credited to Lufbery. When a
pilot has accounted for five Boches he is mentioned by name in the
official communication, and is spoken of as an "Ace," which in French
aërial slang means a super-pilot. Papers are allowed to call an "ace"
by name, print his picture and give him a write-up. The successful
aviator becomes a national hero. When Lufbery worked into this category
the French papers made him a head liner. The American "Ace," with his
string of medals, then came in for the ennuis of a matinee idol. The
choicest bit in the collection was a letter from Wallingford, Conn.,
his home town, thanking him for putting it on the map.
XV--STORY OF THE LAST FIGHT OF NORMAN PRINCE
Darkness was coming rapidly on but Prince and Lufbery remained in
the air to protect the bombardment fleet. Just at nightfall Lufbery
made for a small aviation field near the lines, known as Corcieux.
Slow-moving machines, with great planing capacity, can be landed in
the dark, but to try and feel for the ground in a Nieuport, which
comes down at about a hundred miles an hour, is to court disaster. Ten
minutes after Lufbery landed Prince decided to make for the field. He
spiraled down through the night air and skimmed rapidly over the trees
bordering the Corcieux field. In the dark he did not see a high-tension
electric cable that was stretched just above the tree tops. The landing
gear of his airplane struck it. The machine snapped forward and hit
the ground on its nose. It turned over and over. The belt holding
Prince broke and he was thrown far from the wrecked plane. Both of
his legs were broken and he naturally suffered internal injuries. In
spite of the terrific shock and his intense pain Prince did not lose
consciousness. He even kept his presence of mind and gave orders to
the men who had run to pick him up. Hearing the hum of a motor, and
realizing a machine was in the air, Prince told them to light gasolene
fires on the field. "You don't want another fellow to come down and
break himself up the way I've done," he said.
Lufbery went with Prince to the hospital in Gérardmer. As the ambulance
rolled along Prince sang to keep up his spirits. He spoke of getting
well soon and returning to service. It was like Norman. He was always
energetic about his flying. Even when he passed through the harrowing
experience of having a wing shattered, the first thing he did on
landing was to busy himself about getting another fitted in place and
the next morning he was in the air again.
No one thought that Prince was mortally injured but the next day he
went into a coma. A blood clot had formed on his brain. Captain Haff in
command of the aviation groups of Luxeuil, accompanied by our officers,
hastened to Gerardmer. Prince lying unconscious on his bed, was named a
second lieutenant and decorated with the Legion of Honour. He already
held the Médaille Militaire and Croix de Guerre. Norman Prince died on
the 15th of October. He was brought back to Luxeuil and given a funeral
similar to Rockwell's. It was hard to realize that poor old Norman had
gone. He was the founder of the American escadrille and every one in
it had come to rely on him. He never let his own spirits drop, and was
always on hand with encouragement for the others. I do not think Prince
minded going. He wanted to do his part before being killed, and he had
more than done it. He had, day after day, freed the line of Germans,
making it impossible for them to do their work, and three of them he
had shot to earth.
Two days after Prince's death the escadrille received orders to leave
for the Somme. The night before the departure the British gave the
American pilots a farewell banquet and toasted them as their "Guardian
Angels." They keenly appreciated the fact that four men from the
American escadrille had brought down four Germans, and had cleared the
way for their squadron returning from Oberndorf. When the train pulled
out the next day the station platform was packed by khaki-clad pilots
waving good-bye to their friends the "Yanks."
The escadrille passed through Paris on its way to the Somme front.
The few members who had machines flew from Luxeuil to their new post.
At Paris the pilots were reënforced by three other American boys who
had completed their training. They were: Fred Prince, who ten months
before had come over from Boston to serve in aviation with his brother
Norman; Willis Haviland, of Chicago, who left the American Ambulance
for the life of a birdman, and Bob Soubrian, of New York, who had been
transferred from the Foreign Legion to the flying corps after being
wounded in the Champagne offensive....
(Here Jim McConnell continues to relate his adventures in the air,
describing how France trains her air pilots. His book also contains
many interesting letters from him. And, then, alas, he, too, fell from
the clouds on that fatal day in March, 1917, and went to a hero's
grave.--EDITOR.)
FOOTNOTE:
[8] All numerals relate to the stories herein, not to chapters of the
book.
[9] This book was written in the fall of 1915. Since that time many
additional machines have been credited to the American flyers.
THE LOG OF THE "MOEWE"--TALES OF THE HIGH SEAS
_The Adventures of a Modern Pirate_
_Told by Count Dohna-Schlodien, her Commander, and Translated by
Eugenie Martin_
Everybody has heard of the _Moewe_, the German auxiliary cruiser
which on two occasions at least stole through the British blockade
and roamed about the Atlantic, sinking ships and occasionally sending
a prize like the _Appam_ into port. Count Dohna-Schlodien, the
captain of this latter-day privateer, is a popular hero in Germany.
These tales are translations of the gist of his exploits, as told in
the _Wide World Magazine_.
I--STORY OF THE GERMAN MINE-LAYERS
"To lay mines along the enemy-shores and then make a cruiser-campaign."
Such, briefly, were my orders when I was appointed commander of S. M.
S. _Moewe_ at the end of 1915.
It is easy to imagine my pride and elation.
To lay mines and injure the enemy's sea-borne trade! Neither of these
duties was new to the German Navy.
The clamorous complaints in the daily newspapers, voicing the
indignation of England, France, and Italy concerning the heavy losses
sustained by their mercantile navy and cruisers, as well as against our
interference with their over-sea connections, were sufficient testimony
to the activity of our U-boats in the North Sea, the Irish Sea, the
Mediterranean, and the Black Sea.
It fell to my share, however, to take a German cruiser successfully
into the far world-sea, where, since the exploits of the _Karlsruhe_,
the _Dresden_, the _Emden_, the _Ayesha_, and the auxiliary cruisers
_Prince Eitel Friedrich_ and _Kronprinz_ the German flag had not dared
to show itself owing to the overwhelming superiority of the enemy.
We Germans were sick of hearing England boast that her fleet had driven
us from the highways of the ocean, and that her navy safeguarded the
routes between Europe and the United States, Africa, and Australia.
When I got my orders, I realized fully that if my plans were to
succeed, we must not count on daring and good luck alone, but that
cunning must make up for what we lacked in strength.
Shortly before Christmas we made a few brief trial-trips. Then we
busied ourselves with the final and not least important of our
preparations--an attempt to give the _Moewe_ the aspect of an
inoffensive merchant vessel.
Beaming with pleasant anticipations, the crew set to work, and to
such good purpose did they labor that within a few hours the _Moewe_,
under her fresh coating of paint, was--outwardly at least--transformed
into an ordinary merchantman. Not even the most suspicious English
man-of-war would ever imagine for a moment what a dangerous cargo she
carried. But all this labor of love was wasted. A heavy storm and a
deluge of rain forced us to suspend our work, and the next morning the
_Moewe_ was in a sorry plight. The fresh paint had run in streaks, and
made her look like a marine zebra. Fortunately, the weather remained
dry the night before we were to start. The painting was done again, and
the work was accomplished, this time with notable success, for as a
result of the damp first layer of paint the final coating did not look
too aggressively new.
We raised anchor and steamed out of port in a fog. Soon we exchanged
farewell greetings with the German outpost boats, and, shortly after,
reached the zone where at any moment we might run against an English
destroyer or submarine. Everyone on board was strung up to the highest
pitch. What would the next moment bring us? I recalled the remark of a
friend who, on hearing of my appointment, asked: "After all, what do
you expect to do? The very first day you will be captured!" From the
moment we were in the open sea we were prepared for battle, and anyone
who had attacked us, small or big, would soon have discovered that the
_Moewe_ was not quite so peaceful and tame as she looked. Nevertheless,
I must admit that too premature an encounter would have been fatal to
our object.
As luck would have it, the weather favored us; a thick fog encompassed
us, and that first night was as dark as we could have wished.
I told the crew briefly what was expected from them, and pleasure
showed in the face of every man when he heard we were out against
England, for to wipe out the hated English foe is the dearest wish of
every German sailorman.
At dawn, after successful evading all notice, we were in sight of
Norway's snow-capped mountains, and we continued our route with a
favorable wind.
The day was exceptionally fine, and the fact that the first
difficulties had been so easily overcome filled me with confidence in
the future. It depended now entirely upon me to lead my faithful crew
and our good ship to the desired goal and injure the enemy wherever we
might find him.
The last day of the old year turned out to be the hardest we had
experienced hitherto. To get as close as possible to the English
shores was our aim, but an angry west wind continually obstructed us
and interrupted our course. I soon got sick of waiting and preferred
to run the risk of fighting the wind. I had to reckon, however, with
a specially furious sea. Drenched to the skin, I finally gave up the
struggle, and allowed the ship to drift for hours.
In the afternoon the wind abated, and it was once more possible to take
a southerly course.
At last, when the lead gave twenty-five fathoms, a powerful coast-light
suddenly shed its radiance upon us. We now knew all we wanted to know,
and we turned back, with the intention of steering straight for this
spot on the following day.
Meanwhile, the new year had come in, minus the usual bell-ringing and
songs! At seven o'clock in the morning I entered my cabin drenched and
frozen.
* * * * *
The New Year began well.
We lay so quietly under the mild, westerly wind that, having still
a couple of hours before beginning our mine-laying, we set to work
painting the sides of the vessel, badly damaged by the weather.
Then, in broad daylight, we slowly steered for the English coast.
II--STORY OF MINES OFF THE ENGLISH COAST
Those were hours I shall not easily forget. Far and wide, nothing was
to be seen on the surface of the sea. In spite of a brilliant sun and a
remarkably clear horizon, we remained unnoticed. Nearer and nearer we
drew to the coast. Evidently the English had no idea that this first
day of the New Year was the dawn of a great holiday for us and that
there was a _Moewe_ which, instead of waiting for March and April, was
determined, at this unusual season, to lay a few eggs along the English
coast!
Mine-laying is not an easy task; the entire crew must take a hand in
it. As a rule, the mines--egg-shaped black monsters, almost the size
of a man--lie carefully stowed away in long rows in the hold. When the
moment to use them arrives they are brought to the upper deck and there
again arranged in rows. Shortly before they are laid they are provided
with ignition fuses. This detail is attended to by a specially-trained
_personnel_, under the supervision of torpedo officers. At the command
"Throw!" each mine in turn receives a violent push and drops with a
graceful dive into the water at a safe distance from the ship.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when we began to dispose of the
mines. To the accompaniment of hissing steam, the rolling of the mines
between the lower and upper tracks continued without interruption.
Above, on the bridge, joy reigned supreme, for the weather was splendid
and we followed the coastline without anything suspicious coming in
sight. In my most sanguine dreams I could never have imagined that we
would thus remain unchallenged and unmolested.
At four o'clock a brilliant light once more beamed on us from the
shore. We could now see our exact whereabouts, but, anxious not to be
overtaken by the dark, we almost immediately turned back.
The glass now began to drop suddenly; the wind rose, and it began to
rain. Soon a perfect deluge was falling. So much the better--the worse
the weather the better for us! We resumed our mine-throwing, after the
necessary preparations.
Everything went well, though the storm raged more furiously than ever.
At nine o'clock, still undetected, we turned to sea. Our dear cousins
meanwhile remained blissfully ignorant of our friendly visit to their
shores.
The decks were cleared, but there was still no rest for us. The storm
was at its height, and the hour was full of danger. In front of us, in
the direction of the wind, lay the coast and the blinking lights of
the boats at anchor. Behind us were the mines we ourselves had dropped,
and into which we would infallibly drift if we failed to maintain
ourselves against the wind. Only at four o'clock did we go forward once
more, when the first officer came to release me from my post after
twenty-four hours' strenuous duty. On the following day I expressed my
thanks to the crew for the good work they had done.
It was well that we had our task behind us, for in the days that
followed we should have no opportunity of carrying out our designs. For
a whole week we were battered about in the wildest manner, and had only
one thought--to keep the ship head-on to the raging sea. There was no
question of advancing. To avoid detection I would have willingly gone
farther away from the coast, but this could not be done.
At last, however, the glass began to rise again and we approached the
coast for the second time. In the feeble light of dawn a big steamer
hove in sight.
At first, from her build, we took her to be a passenger boat; then, as
she seemed anxious to follow in our wake, we began to have some doubts.
When we saw that she was painted grey, we jumped to the conclusion that
she was an enemy auxiliary cruiser, and one of the largest at that.
What a catch for us!
All eyes were fixed on me. Every man was anxiously awaiting the command
to fight. But the _Moewe_ dare not think of fighting yet. She dare not
expose her cards and reveal her next move, which was still mine-laying.
Even were the issue of the encounter to our advantage, the wireless on
board the other boat would betray everything. Our chief aim must first
be attended to--all our mines must be laid--then only would the _Moewe_
be free to act as she pleased.
With mingled feelings we watched the big boat get behind us. There was
now some eight thousand yards between us--a good firing distance.
Suddenly she veered away from us, as if satisfied with her inspection.
We could even hear her sending a wireless to the nearest shore station,
possibly to signal our presence. Were this the case, painful results
would certainly ensue for us. I altered my course as soon as the boat
disappeared--it was better to avoid complications. At full speed we
steamed for the point where we had decided to lay our next mines. This
time the weather was calm and clear.
At eight-fifteen, as we threw the first mine overboard, some lights
blinked into sight. They came from English fishing-boats, and we
avoided them with care. But gradually the number of these boats grew to
such an extent that we could no longer evade them. The mines tumbled
into the water in their very midst, and though every instant we feared
detection, we continued our exertions during the whole night without
a hitch. Either they took us for one of their own patrol-boats, or
else, after the way of good fishermen, they thought of nothing at all.
At six o'clock, our task satisfactorily completed, we left the shores
of England in dazzling sunlight, looking forward to a couple of days'
much-needed rest.
The first day the men took things easily, and only the most
indispensable duties were performed. The news which we received daily
by wireless told us that an enemy man-of-war had run across a mine, and
we would have given anything to know whether the mishap was due to one
of the "eggs" the _Moewe_ had laid. Subsequently we ascertained that
such was the case.
Something like sixty nautical miles separated us now from the usual
steamer-route.
III--STORY OF THE SHIP BOUND FOR BRAZIL
The next day, on January 11th, at ten in the morning, a cloud of smoke
was signalled. We went slowly towards it. Presently, with glasses, we
could make out the tops of masts and the funnels of our first victim.
She must not escape us. Orders were sent to the engine-room to give us
as much speed as possible. When, at last, we got a nearer view of the
boat, we put her down to be English, and about the same size as the
_Moewe_. As the distance between us diminished, a second cloud of smoke
came in sight on our other bow, and grew rapidly larger and larger.
Evidently a second victim was flying into our arms! If the captain
of this second boat had been more considerate he would have waited
until we had at least settled with Number One. Owing to his untimely
appearance our task would be doubly difficult. But we did not allow our
spirits to be damped. We simply slowed down in order to reconnoitre the
second intruder. This boat also turned out to be English, of the same
size as the first.
When she was sufficiently near, we hoisted the signal, "What is your
name?" The answer came: "_Farringford_."
The time for action had arrived!
As we saw that the boat to starboard was slower than the _Moewe_, we
first tackled the second intruder.
We signalled "Stop," and showed the German ensign, and--to let both
our neighbors see that we were in earnest--we fired a shot. Both ships
stopped immediately. The _Moewe_ steered towards the _Farringford_,
and, at a distance of fifty yards, I shouted: "Abandon the ship
immediately."
My intention was to take the crew on board; then to approach the other
boat and, finally, to sink both vessels.
But this was easier said than done. Owing to the high seas, the
transfer of the crew of the first boat was somewhat difficult and took
time; meanwhile, the other ship utilized the opportunity to disappear
in a dazzling rainbow. I consequently gave up my first intention of
blowing up the _Farringford_. Instead, I ordered a few shots to be
fired at her. Two of these having struck the water-line, and her
sinking appearing to be imminent, we were at liberty to pursue the
fugitive at full speed. Overtake her we must, for if she escaped us our
detection was a dead certainty. Presently the fugitive was once more
in sight. I sent a shell through the air, and, with a great display
of smoke, the steamer tried to increase her pace; but a second shell
recalled the captain to his senses. He notified his intention to stop
by showing all his lights and three red lamps, and after a two hours'
pursuit we got alongside him.
A prize-crew of two officers and six men promptly went on board. The
first thing to be done was to ascertain the owner of the boat and
cargo. Then her papers had to be examined and their accuracy verified.
Finally, the crew was reviewed and the cargo examined. The results were
duly signalled to the _Moewe_.
We were thus informed that she was an English steamer, the _Corbridge_,
three thousand six hundred and eighty-seven tons, taking a cargo of
four thousand tons of coal from Cardiff to Brazil.
IV--STORY OF THE LIVERPOOL TRADERS
This welcome capture meant another two months' cruising for us! The
_Corbridge_, therefore, was not sunk, but received the order to follow
in our wake, after which we jointly returned to the spot where we had
abandoned the _Farringford_.
In spite of a brilliant moon, there was nothing to be seen. Our shells
had done their work well, and the ship was at the bottom of the sea.
We felt justly elated at the success of our double capture on the very
first day of our hunting expedition.
The next twenty-four hours brought us nearer to the usual shipping
route, but nothing untoward occurred. The crew of the _Corbridge_ was
reinforced and put under special orders. Then she was released. I shall
have more to say about her later on.
The second morning after the sinking of the _Farringford_ another cloud
of smoke was signalled. On this occasion, too, we commenced by acting
very cautiously, for fear of the new-comer suspecting our _bona fides_
and signalling our presence by wireless. Having ascertained that the
boat had no wireless on board, however, we steered straight for her.
The captain, however, seemed to have smelt a rat, and tried to evade
us. Our intimation to stop, accompanied by a shell, soon convinced
him of the futility of such an attempt. Sadly, he brought his ship to
a standstill. From the prize-crew I sent on board we learnt that the
boat's name was _Dromonby_, three thousand six hundred and twenty-seven
tons, and that she belonged to the British Government, and was on the
way to South Africa with a cargo of coal. The crew of fifteen men was
transferred to the _Moewe_, and the ship blown up.
Another cloud of smoke being signalled, the _Moewe_ got ready again.
This time also the boat was an "Engländer"--a specially fine steamer,
_Author_ by name, three thousand four hundred and ninety-six tons
register, and worth three to four million marks. After the usual
formalities, the crew, consisting of four Englishmen and forty-five
Indians, was taken on board our ship. We also transferred sheep,
chickens, and eggs, and our larder was thus renewed in a most
satisfactory way. There were also many valuable race-horses on board,
but unfortunately they had to be shot.
The weather remained calm. We worked busily, without any fear of
interference, until still another cloud of smoke appeared on the
horizon to the south. Completing the transfer as quickly as possible,
we turned all our attention to the sinking of the _Author_. In
the general hurry, a mishap occurred. Three patent life-buoys had
inadvertently remained on board the _Author_, and, just as we thought
all was over, these buoys caught fire from their contact with the water
and suddenly exploded. Had this noise been heard by the approaching
steamer, she would certainly have got alarmed, and might possibly
have escaped us. We therefore pretended to be looking for a man
overboard, and meanwhile secured the buoys. The boat came towards us
unsuspiciously, and it is easy to imagine the painful surprise of her
captain when he received the brusque order:
"Stop at once and abandon your ship!"
After a moment's hesitation he complied.
We ascertained, in the usual way, that the ship's name was _Trader_,
three thousand seven hundred tons, and that she was bound with a cargo
of raw sugar to Liverpool. We sank her in a quarter of an hour, by
opening her valves and applying a few bombs. Practice makes the master!
I summoned the three captains of the sunk boats to the bridge, and made
the seriousness of the situation clear to them. I impressed upon them
that, provided the prisoners complied with all our regulations, they
could count on fair treatment, but that the slightest insubordination
would be followed by the severest punishment.
I must say that our prisoners observed my warning in the most
praiseworthy fashion, and in return they were allowed, on favorable
occasions, to air themselves on deck, which they greatly appreciated,
for the accommodation set apart for them, where a hundred and fifty men
were huddled together, was insufficiently ventilated and altogether
inadequate.
The housing of the prisoners presented at first considerable
difficulties and caused the first officer no small trouble and
perturbation. Finally, the space where the mines had been kept was set
apart for the whites, while the Indians were accommodated in the stern.
Fortunately we had sufficient wood to improvise makeshift tables,
benches, and so on. Gradually things began to look more shipshape,
but nevertheless we were very anxious to get rid of this superfluous
humanity at the earliest possible opportunity, and before long the wish
was gratified.
Though we were close to a much-used trade route during the whole of
the following day, we did not catch sight of a single vessel, and we
utilized the time to repaint once more the _Moewe's_ sides, which sadly
needed a fresh coating.
V--STORY OF SINKING OF THE "ARIADNE"
The next morning, at seven o'clock on January 15th, we met the British
steamer _Ariadne_, three thousand tons, with a cargo of maize. In the
most obliging manner she ran right into our arms.
The searching of the ship and the capture of the crew were again
carried out according to the prescribed rules, and I decided
to sink the abandoned ship in precisely the same manner as the
_Farringford_--by shelling her--as this gave our gunners an opportunity
of practising.
The chart house was chosen for a target, and immediately after the
first shell the ship caught on fire. Enormous volumes of smoke filled
the air. Glorious though the sight was, we found it most provoking, for
we feared that the smoke might serve as a warning to some approaching
vessel. We waited patiently, or rather impatiently, for fully half an
hour, for the "passing" of the _Ariadne_, but as she showed no signs of
sinking we finally decided to speed her on her way by sacrificing one
of our torpedoes. No sooner said than done! Very shortly afterwards the
_Ariadne_ took her final plunge.
Almost immediately a cloud of smoke showed in the distance, heralding
the passage of a fast steamer going north. We began preparations at
once to hurry after her, and, if possible, waylay her. While feverish
preparations were going on in the engine-room, we continued our
investigations. The speed of the vessel was a capital point, for,
assuming that we annexed her, her pace, provided it turned out equal to
ours, would prove an enormous advantage. On the other hand, fast boats
are generally provided with wireless, and we ran the risk of being
signalled, in which case we would be compelled to resort to drastic
measures, a course we would rather avoid with a passenger boat. Also,
of course, the vessel might prove to be an auxiliary cruiser, or even
a man-of-war. We approached her, therefore, very cautiously. The first
officer, who went aloft with his glasses, informed us that the boat had
only one funnel and very big superstructures. That meant that she could
only be a passenger boat, or else an auxiliary cruiser. Still very
cautiously we approached her, and soon were practically certain that
we were in the presence of a passenger boat, though her nationality
remained doubtful, as she carried no flag.
VI--STORY OF THE CAPTURE OF THE "APPAM"
At a distance of about two thousand yards, I steered in such a way that
a collision was imminent, unless the ship got behind the _Moewe_. At
last we caught sight of her name--_Appam_. Turning to the International
Shipping List, we read: _Appam_, English steamer of the Elder Dempster
Line, seven thousand eight hundred tons register; carries passengers
and has a wireless. That such a big boat carried also a precious cargo
we did not doubt for an instant.
Without more ado, therefore, we hoisted the signal, "Stop at once," and
also showed our war-flag, in the hope that the ship would abandon all
thought of resistance. But she disregarded our signal, and we had to
follow it up with a shell as a warning to the captain and a reminder of
what it means to ignore, in war-time, the orders of a man-of-war.
Our shell had the desired effect; the _Appam_ slowed down considerably
and, finally, stood still. A few seconds later, I was told that her
wireless was operating. Immediately our own operators intervened in
such a way that the enemy's message became indecipherable. At the
worst, any ship hovering in the neighborhood could only have been able
to make out that something unexpected was taking place. But even that
was to be avoided at all costs.
I therefore ordered a shell to be aimed at the wireless on the
_Appam's_ bridge. It silenced the apparatus at once, and the _Moewe_
then got behind the English boat. I next saw English man-of-war sailors
in uniform in the act of directing upon us small, quick-firing guns.
Had they really fired on us, it would not have been an act of courage,
but cold-blooded folly and reckless audacity, for surely they must
have known that their small guns would have been quite inadequate
against our far better equipment.
It would have been, moreover, a distinctly criminal act towards their
passengers, for if we retaliated the unarmed passengers would most
certainly have come to grief.
To end the critical situation, I quickly fired a second shell over
the heads of the firing brigade. We saw the men scurry away, and
then return to their posts and resume their preparations for firing.
This made my blood boil and I ordered a few well-directed shells to
be fired straight into their midst. Then, at last, their thick heads
understood that we were in earnest. I promptly dispatched two boats to
the _Appam_, for we now could see on board quite a number of English
naval uniforms. Her deck was getting more and more crowded with people,
who, in great excitement, were equipping themselves with life-belts and
moved in all directions like a swarm of bees.
A striking contrast to this scene was presented by a group of
people leaning on the taffrail and making joyful signals in our
direction. We soon unravelled this mystery. These people were our own
compatriots--twenty-one civilians, with three women, and eighteen
prisoners of war from the Cameroons police. They had all been arrested
in Duala, at the beginning of January, and put on the _Appam_ to be
interned in England. Their joy at their happy and quite unexpected
release is indescribable, and we naturally reciprocated and shared in
their delight.
I ordered them to be transferred at once to the _Moewe_, and they
joined us with shining eyes and smiling faces. We celebrated the
occasion by drinking to the health of His Majesty the German Emperor.
More and more satisfactory tidings came from on board our capture. The
ship was laden with a precious cargo, which would compensate us amply
for the risk we had run in attacking a vessel provided with wireless.
Specially welcome was the news that the _Appam_ was carrying a million
marks in gold. Without losing a minute we transported this treasure to
the hold of the _Moewe_. It was comparatively light booty--eighteen
cases in all; sixteen cases of them contained fourteen bars of gold
apiece, and two gold-dust.
So far everything had gone splendidly. What, however, was to be done
with the four English officers, twenty sailors and marines, and the
hundred and sixty passengers on board the _Appam_? To transfer them
to the _Moewe_ was out of the question, every available corner being
occupied.
After some deliberation, I dispatched Reserve Officer Berg, with a
prize-crew of twenty men, to the _Appam_. The released Germans were
told to consider him as the master of the ship and on every occasion to
back him up. That being settled, we hurriedly departed, for the _Moewe_
still feared the possible consequences of that interrupted wireless
message of the _Appam_.
Our next act was to ascertain what provisions the _Appam_ had on board,
for my intention was to send our captive into some port only after a
considerable time, for with our parting from her the secret of our
existence would naturally come to light.
At nightfall we stopped the ship, and I summoned the captain, officers,
and crew of the _Appam_, also the four officers and sailors belonging
to the British Navy. By all laws and rights they were prisoners of war,
and had to join their friends below.
VII--STORY OF THE COLONIAL PRISONERS
The passengers of the _Appam_, our officers told me, were literally
trembling for their lives. I decided, therefore, to have an interview
with the two most representative passengers, the Governors of the
English colonies of Sierra Leone and Nigeria--Sir Edward Merewether and
Mr. James. These two gentlemen, on being conducted to my cabin, had the
situation fully explained to them. Fortunately for them, the German
Colonials on board the _Appam_ had already informed me that both these
men, in striking contrast to the usual English official, were not rabid
German-haters, and had in the prosecution of their official duties
treated Germans comparatively well.
I consequently informed them that, in spite of their official capacity,
I had no intention of detaining them as prisoners on the _Moewe_. (The
fact that, had I done so, they would have been very much in our way, I,
of course, kept to myself.) I clearly saw that both these gentlemen of
high standing had expected a very different fate, for their expression
brightened at my words. They passed a night on the _Moewe_ and were
conducted back to the _Appam_ the following morning, after breakfast,
with instructions to tell their fellow-passengers that the _Appam_
would eventually be brought into a certain port under German command.
Every passenger could keep his belongings, but every eligible man had
to sign an undertaking not to bear arms in this war against Germany or
her allies. So long as the orders of the German officer in charge were
obeyed, everyone would be well treated, and everything would be done to
ensure the safety of the ship. At the slightest sign of opposition or
insubordination, however, the vessel would be blown up.
The _Appam_ remained with us for the time being, as the stocktaking
of the coal and provisions lasted a considerable time. The ex-captain
had originally informed us that his ship was only provided for another
five days. After some persuasion, he admitted that there was sufficient
fuel and food to last double that time. Consequently, the ship could be
taken to the United States of America, the only country where we could
berth our prize.
VIII--STORY OF THE FIGHT WITH THE "CLAN McTAVISH"
The following afternoon a cloud of smoke appeared on the horizon. At
closer quarters, we recognized a fast steamer, provided with wireless,
but without high superstructures. We therefore jumped to the conclusion
that the vessel was an important cargo-boat.
It was already quite dark when we overtook her, and I made use of the
Morse lamp to ask for her name. Her answer came promptly: "First tell
us yours."
One name is as good as another, so I deemed it advisable to usurp that
of the sunk steamer _Author_.
After some hesitation, the stranger signalled with the Morse lamp:
"_Clan McTavish_."
Delighted to be again dealing with an "Engländer," I ordered, without
losing a second:
"Clear for battle to starboard."
The guns took aim, and I shouted:
"This is a German cruiser. Stop at once!"
"We have stopped," came the answer, but, though four hundred yards
divided us, we heard them working with all their might to set their
ship in motion. I fired a shot, whereupon I was told that the enemy
vessel was using her wireless.
Without wasting another second, I gave the order to aim at the
wireless, and the first shell silenced it. Almost immediately, a streak
of light pierced the darkness and something hissed over our heads. At
first I thought I had made a mistake, but as a shell dropped into the
water quite close to the _Moewe_, there could be no doubt that the
Engländer intended to put up a fight.
We opened fire, and shot after shot rang out. But the Engländer was
tenacious. Her shots answered ours--strangely enough, without once
hitting us. That seemed to exasperate her only the more, and thick
smoke enveloped us. Then, suddenly, the enemy ship slowed down and she
signalled:
"We have stopped completely."
Soon we were able to ascertain the damage caused by our firing.
Afterwards, the captain told us that our first shell had killed a
Lascar. The second shell went through the cabin of the second officer,
creating havoc in that part of the ship. The third shot hit the
captain's bridge. Other shells killed seventeen Lascars and wounded
five. A shell having hit the water-line and another the engines, the
captain had at last given up further useless opposition.
While the prize-crew went on board, I summoned the _Appam_ to help us.
She had watched the fight from a distance, and it is easy to imagine
with what feelings.
The _Clan McTavish_, five thousand eight hundred and sixteen tons, was
bringing a considerable cargo of wool, leather, skins, and india-rubber
from Australia, worth about ten million marks. How splendid if we could
have taken all that wealth home with us! Unfortunately, we had damaged
the engines of the _Clan McTavish_ beyond repair. All thought of the
cargo had therefore to be abandoned, especially as we were in a hurry
to get away--pursued, as usual, by the fear of a possible surprise.
So, two hours later, the _Clan McTavish_ disappeared into the deep sea,
and, once more, we feasted our eyes on the rare and suggestive sight of
a sinking ship, rendered even more attractive by a brilliant tropical
moonlight night.
Her crew consisted chiefly of Indians, who meanwhile had been
transferred to the _Moewe_.
One of our shells had hit a boat and killed fifteen poor fellows. Three
men, severely wounded, who had been rescued from the water by the
_Appam_, died during the night.
When the captain reported himself to me, I took him severely to task
and pointed out to him that, by ignoring my orders and entering into
a useless battle with us, he had unnecessarily caused the death of
eighteen men.
By way of excuse, he replied that he had no idea that our boat was a
man-of-war; he had taken the _Moewe_ to be an armed merchantman, and
thought his and our chances were about equal. Moreover, he declared
himself free of all responsibility in the matter; his orders had been
to bring his ship to England. To that end he was provided with a gun,
and it was his duty to make use of it when the occasion arose.
Frankly, I liked the loyalty with which this old Scotch sea-bear
defended his case. I shook hands with him and admitted that, most
probably, in his place, I would have acted exactly in the same way.
Still in company with the _Appam_, after the sinking of the _Clan
McTavish_, we proceeded westwards. At last, however, there came the
day when I thought it was opportune to part from Lieutenant Berg. He
was instructed to make for a port in the U.S.A., and I entrusted to
his care the civilian passengers of the seven ships we had sunk up to
now. Naturally, I would have preferred to leave them in safe custody in
Germany, but the situation precluded this altogether.
Our primary object being to sink more ships, we needed all our
available space for future guests. So we only retained on board the
three officers belonging to the English Army, twenty man-of-war sailors
and marines, the crew of the _Clan McTavish_, and a hundred Indians.
Before parting with them, I once more summoned the captains of the
seven captured boats and impressed upon them that it was their absolute
duty to preserve peace and order on the _Appam_. They replied by
assuring me emphatically that the German commander would be obeyed as
strictly as they themselves had been.
Thus reassured, I let them go, yet it was not without misgivings that
I watched the _Appam_ disappear below the horizon. And, truly, it was
no trifle to bring the boat safely through the lines of the British
cruisers in the Atlantic, to the coast of the United States. Yet I knew
full well that Lieutenant Berg, like all the officers of our merchant
navy, was a master of his craft, able to handle the most difficult
situation. We learned with great satisfaction about a month later,
through a wireless message, that the _Appam_ had reached Newport News
exactly at the appointed time, without any undue complications.
The secret of the _Moewe_ had been preserved!
Among our guests on board, the Indians were undoubtedly the most
interesting. Picturesque to a degree, not only by their brightly
colored attire, but even by their demeanor, which possessed a rare
dignity, their presence was very welcome to me on board my ship. Yet,
naturally, I did not retain them solely for these æsthetic reasons, but
because I knew they could be very useful. In the neighborhood of the
Tropics there reigns an intolerable heat, with intermittent downpours,
and in the interior of the ship the temperature exceeds the limits of
endurance. In such conditions Indians are invaluable.
We employed them principally as coal-heavers, for it was impossible to
use them in any other regular capacity, as they only worked willingly
when their customs and religious ceremonies are not interfered with.
Punctuality in meals was an equally important point with them; in the
middle of their work they would throw down everything and start cooking
their mutton and rice, or rice and mutton. No other food seemed to
exist for them, and our European fare they appeared to regard with
loathing. Sarang, the oldest among them, told me that, so long as they
had rice, they were willing to do any work; but if rice failed them,
they would all die, without the slightest resistance. In consequence,
every ship we captured after this was thoroughly searched for rice
before it was sunk. Unfortunately, we never found much of it, so that
the rations of the poor Indians grew more and more meagre. Yet, I am
glad to say, Sarang's sombre prophecy was not realized; every one of
the Indians survived this skimpy diet. Their good will was invariable,
no matter what they were told to do. Our crew was now less numerous,
as a good number of men had been taken away to form two prize crews,
and the work was pretty hard, the cleaning of the ship and the upkeep
of the war material being no small matter, and the Indians' help was
invaluable.
IX--STORY OF THE "EDINBURGH" ON VOYAGE FROM INDIA
The time had now arrived to renew our coal reserves, and so we went
in quest of our first prize, the _Corbridge_, which the reader will
remember was in charge of a prize-crew, and had parted from us on
January 12th. We expected her now to have reached the appointed spot
where we intended taking over her cargo of coal. Late in January we met
a three-masted sailing-ship, the _Edinburgh_, one thousand four hundred
and seventy-three tons, on her way from India to Liverpool, carrying
two thousand tons of cattle food in the shape of rice-flour. This ship,
whose unlucky star placed her in our way, had already been twenty-one
months at sea, and for an incredibly long time had lain becalmed in
windless latitudes, waiting for a propitious breeze. Now, when the wind
had actually risen and the _Edinburgh_ could at last escape from the
broiling heat and the inexpressible dullness of endless waiting, the
_Moewe_ appeared and shattered all her hopes!
We pitied the poor old captain, who was sixty-seven years old; but war
is war! He and his crew had to take up their quarters with us, and
their ship had to bid a hasty adieu to this world. The cattle will wait
for their food in vain.
The following day, on January 28th, precisely at the appointed time,
the _Corbridge_ loomed in sight and joined us where we were lying at
anchor. The transfer of the coal took fully three days. Heat, noise
and coal-dust were everywhere; there was no getting away from it. But
it was glorious to watch the zeal with which the crew toiled away.
The unloading of a cargo of coal is never a small affair, and the
_Corbridge_ lacked everything that might have made the task easier.
Every moment we were confronted with new difficulties, but they were
always solved by some obscure inventive genius from among the crew.
Ingenuity coupled with good will can achieve much. Night and day the
men labored unremittingly, until the precious black stuff was stored
carefully in every available corner on our boat.
As a last souvenir of the _Corbridge_ we appropriated the pigeons and
the pigeon-house erected on the bridge. Subsequently, these delightful
birds helped us to while away many a pleasant hour, when, on perfectly
calm days, they fluttered about the ship.
As for the _Corbridge_, we had got out of her all we wanted, and she
was presently sunk in the usual way.
Now that the _Moewe_ had once more a supply of coal we felt like
different beings, and pined for fresh deeds.
Yet we had to be more cautious than ever, for, surely, the
disappearance of so many vessels within a few weeks would serve as a
hint to our enemies that all was not as it should be in the Atlantic.
That this was so was proved to us, if only by the fact that the game we
were hunting was now conspicuously rare. In vain did we search the zone
usually overrun by ships. Not a single cloud of smoke came in sight!
At last we decided to leave the beaten track and seek for our quarry
elsewhere. After much patience, and a certain amount of good luck, we
finally succeeded in making fresh victims. As ships were evidently
taking every precaution against us, and were attempting by all possible
means to evade us, we retaliated by resorting to new stratagems--the
continual repainting of the Moewe, in order to vary her aspect as much
as possible, being the most frequent one we adopted.
X--STORIES OF SHIPS ON BOTTOM OF THE SEAS
Our first capture on this occasion occurred on February 4th--a Belgian
boat, the _Luxembourg_, four thousand three hundred and twenty-two tons
register, with a cargo of five thousand nine hundred tons of coal, the
property of a railway company in Buenos Ayres. Considering the high
price of coal and freight, this cargo alone was worth about a million
marks. Yet cargo and ship promptly disappeared into the depths.
The crew of the Belgian ship consisted of the most varied types of
humanity. The majority were neutrals, chiefly Greeks and Spaniards, and
their transfer to the _Moewe_ was rather a comical affair. They were
hampered by the most unnecessary paraphernalia--mandolins, parrots,
zithers, monkeys, dogs, and so on.
On February 6th we captured another vessel, the English steamer
_Flamenco_, four thousand six hundred and twenty-nine tons register.
She met our advances by using her wireless. We retorted with a few
well-directed shells, and this quickly brought her to her senses,
especially as she had caught on fire. The crew rushed to the boats, one
of which upset, and about twenty men fell into the water. This is no
joke in this region, where sharks abound, and we were genuinely pleased
when our prize-crew succeeded in fishing all, save one man, out of the
waves.
While preparations were being made to sink the _Flamenco_, I summoned
her captain and remonstrated with him for having used his wireless, an
act which had provoked us into firing. He replied that his duty was to
thwart our plans, just as much as mine was to capture his boat. One of
the neutrals transferred on board the _Moewe_ confirmed our suspicion
that we were being tracked. He told us that the English cruiser
_Glasgow_ had overtaken them the previous day and had warned them of
the danger of an encounter with the _Moewe_.
At first we were inclined to doubt the story, for up to now we had
neither seen nor heard of this cruiser. On developing some photographic
plates seized on board the _Flamenco_, however, we made the
acquaintance of this English cruiser. We must have unwittingly passed
each other in the night.
We continued our voyage in splendid weather, though the heat was
insufferable. Good luck was slow in coming. But one afternoon, shortly
after five, we caught sight of a vessel, and quickly went in pursuit.
She proved to be the Norwegian _Estrella_, so we let her go. On this
occasion we once more changed the aspect of the _Moewe_.
For days after that we only saw flying-fish, water, and passing clouds.
But on Sunday, after having the whole day in vain searched the horizon,
towards evening we perceived a cloud of smoke.
We hurried forward, but, unfortunately, it was quite dark before we
overtook the steamer.
Our request for her name remained for a time without an answer. Then
came the reply: "_Heraclide_."
This was disconcerting, for Lloyd's Register contained no such name. We
repeated our question and received the same answer:
"_Heraclide_."
"What nationality?"
"Good friend."
"What line?"
Deep silence.
Now we knew how to act. If the boat had claimed to be a neutral, I
should have let her go unmolested. On the other hand, a neutral would
never have given such an equivocal reply, so, of course, she could only
be an "Engländer."
I ordered her to stop.
While we slowed down, the steamer suddenly accelerated her movements in
an evident attempt to escape. That put an end to my patience. We sent
a shell in her direction, and I heard the captain ironically inquire:
"What did you shoot at?"
He must have realized, though, the seriousness of his position, for
he forestalled a second shell by signalling with the siren that he had
stopped. The boat's name now became apparent. She was English, and, as
we had rightly surmised, the _Westburn_, a comparatively old boat of
three thousand three hundred tons, with a cargo of coal and a speed of
only seven knots.
That Sunday our hopes were destined to be fulfilled a second time.
While the crew of the _Westburn_ was being transferred to the _Moewe_,
a white light showed on the horizon. We swiftly got ready, and,
adapting ourselves to the course of the _Westburn_--which was in
tow--we steamed towards the new-comer.
At six o'clock in the morning we ran alongside of her. She proved to
be the steamer _Horace_, three thousand three hundred and thirty-five
tons, with a particularly rich cargo of spirits, grain, wool, meat, and
antimony--all things that Germany is in great need of. Yet it was out
of the question even to attempt to send this prize home, as she was
deficient in coal. There was nothing for it but to sink her and all she
contained.
XI--STORY OF THE EXPLOSION ON THE "WESTBURN"
We had now so many mouths on board to feed that it was imperative to
get rid of them. The _Westburn_ was requisitioned for this purpose,
and all our guests, with the exception of those whom we considered
prisoners of war, left the _Moewe_. There were some hundred and fifty
in all, and they were anything but comfortable in the old boat during
their enforced voyage to Teneriffe, where the prize-commander--the
officers' orderly, Badewitz--was instructed to conduct them. The
prize-crew consisted this time of only eight men. On this occasion,
too, I summoned the captains of the six captured ships and impressed
upon them that, at the slightest sign of insubordination, or attempt at
mutiny, Commander Badewitz had my orders to blow up the ship.
Later, I learned from the papers, that the _Westburn_ arrived in
broad daylight at Santa Cruz, in Teneriffe. A few hours earlier, the
big English ironclad _Sutlej_, twelve thousand two hundred tons,
had dropped anchor in the harbor. When the German war-flag, proudly
fluttering at the stern of the _Westburn_, was noticed by the _Sutlej_,
the _Westburn_ was already inside the three-mile zone in Spanish
waters, and her arrival could not be hindered. It was arranged with
the harbor authorities that the prisoners should remain on board until
the following morning, and the prize-commander gave them once more to
understand that, at the slightest offence against discipline, he would
blow up the ship. So, in spite of the presence of the English warship,
the prisoners had the sense to remain quiet. The next morning they were
partly landed and partly taken on board English ships, while, early in
the afternoon, the _Westburn_ left the harbor to avoid being detained
by the authorities.
Outside, the _Sutlej_ was lying in wait, eager to pounce upon her
presumed prey the moment she left the three-mile zone. Hardly had the
_Westburn_ steamed out of the harbor, however, than she was seen to be
surrounded by a white flame. The ship swayed to one side, while the
crew rushed to the boats.
According to the papers, one of the boilers, all of which were in a
wretched condition, had burst. Whether true or not, this incident
played into our hands. It was very considerate of the ill-fated boiler
to explode just at the precise moment when the _Westburn_ was liable
either to be seized by the Spanish authorities or pounced upon by
the English vessel. It was far better for us that the cargo of four
thousand tons of coal should go to the bottom of the sea rather than
that it should be utilized by an English ship.
The very next day after parting from the _Westburn_ we caught sight of
another steamer. After a four hours' pursuit we ascertained that she
was a neutral, and we slunk away in the darkness, hoping we had not
been recognized.
XII--STORY OF THE "MOEWE'S" PREY--AND RETURN HOME
Our next encounter was with a big, stately passenger-ship, which,
unfortunately, we could not waylay.
The time was now fast approaching when it became necessary to think
of returning home. The nights were growing shorter, and the season of
winter storms being at an end, we ran a greater risk of being captured.
On reaching more northerly latitudes, we received glad tidings from
home more and more frequently by wireless. A special joyful occasion
was when news reached us that fifty men of our crew had been granted
the Iron Cross.
On February 24th one more valuable prize fell into our hands--the
Frenchman _Maroni_, three thousand one hundred and nine tons, with
a cargo of wine, on its way from Bordeaux to New York. Thirty-three
Frenchmen were transferred on board the _Moewe_, but the ship, of
course, was sunk, and with her--much to our chagrin--a thousand cases
of Pommery. We could not get at them quickly enough, for they were
packed away securely in the hold. But we carried away innumerable eggs,
fine French cheeses, and many other provisions we had long been obliged
to do without.
A specially welcome find on the _Maroni_ was the newspapers. Our
cruising-campaign had inspired many indignant articles, and we perused
them with much zest. "Pirate" was the mildest of the terms applied to
us by the French press.
Still further pleasure we derived from the reading of the English and
American papers seized on the next and last boat we sank--the British
steamer _Saxon Prince_, three thousand four hundred and seventy-one
tons, carrying a cargo of wool, grain, and explosives from America to
England.
We learnt from these papers of the great impression produced on the
marine insurance companies by the disappearance of the first boats we
captured. Many conjectures were made, but not one of them approached
the truth. The possibility that a German cruiser had broken through
the British lines in the North Sea did not occur to anyone, until the
_Appam_ reached the United States and her passengers gave authentic
accounts of that quasi-fabulous bird of prey called the _Moewe_.
Long-winded articles told us how Lieutenant Berg had loyally and
conscientiously fulfilled his share of the joint task by retarding as
much as possible the bringing of his ship into port.
It is easy to imagine with what pleasure we welcomed the good tidings
concerning our adopted daughter, the _Appam_, and how gratified we felt
when even the enemy paid tribute to Lieutenant Berg's energetic and
tactful handling of the situation.
After that the _Moewe_ made straight for home, her good star once more
enabling her to get safely past all obstacles. As a reward for their
services, every member of the crew was given the Iron Cross of the
Second Class, and the Commander was summoned by the great War Lord
himself to come and tell him all the details of the sinking of the
hated "Engländers."
PRISONER'S VOYAGE ON GERMAN U-BOAT UNDER THE SEA
_Comfort, Even Gayety, Aboard Craft_
_Told by (Name Withheld by Request)_
Much of the mystery and rumor surrounding German submarine methods is
cleared away by this narrative of a steamship officer who spent many
days as a prisoner on one of the powerful new U-boats. His story was
written for the _New York Times_ on condition that his name be not
disclosed. Treated with great consideration by his captors, he had an
opportunity to learn how the officers and crew lived, to study their
attitude and manners, their work with torpedoes and deck guns, their
system of attack and defense, and their science of navigation. It is
reproduced here by permission.
I--STORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS CAPTURE
This is a true record of actual experience as prisoner on board a
German submarine. The ship I left may be called the _Wanderer_, and to
the submarine I will refer as the "U-boat."
All went well till one day the first intimation of any danger around
was hearing a shot fired, and in a few seconds a shell hit the water
a little distance from the ship. The weather was good and sea calm
and no craft was discernible, though lookout men were watching--and I
draw attention to this to show that, in spite of precautions, it is
difficult to recognize a submarine on the surface, with her conning
tower painted the color of the water, at a range of three to four
thousand yards. Very shortly a second shot was fired, whereupon through
the glasses a conning tower became visible and also men standing on
the deck, so we became aware that a submarine, evidently a big one, was
on our track. We then stopped, return fire being impossible and to run
away useless, as we would soon have been overhauled.
Presently a flag signal was hoisted from the periscope, which read:
"Send an officer here with your ship's papers." Pushing off in a small
boat, I was soon aboard the submarine, where I was at once taken down
below and questioned by the commander as to the name of the ship,
owner's name, nationality, where from, where bound for, and nature of
cargo. After a few minutes' conversation a young officer hurriedly
entered the cabin and informed the commander that he thought a patrol
boat was in sight. The commander promptly ordered some other prisoners
to be brought up, placed in the _Wanderer's_ boat and pushed off.
Presumably this was done at once, for presently I could hear what
sounded like hatches on deck being quickly lowered and a buzzing sound,
which I knew afterward was due to the lowering of the periscope.
In a few seconds all was still, and we had submerged. The whole affair
happened so quickly that I could scarcely realize I was now a prisoner
in a submarine, and as I thought of my shipmates my only consolation
seemed to be that the _Wanderer_ was safe enough, for the present at
least. Left alone to myself in a small cabin, I wondered what was
going to happen next and what was going to be the end of it all. Being
told not to leave my cabin, I obeyed and, as I felt somewhat dazed and
confused, took off my coat and lay down on my bunk.
Thoughts crowded through my head, and I had an almost irresistible
impulse to get out of the inclosed narrow space and speak to some one,
no matter who. This was denied me for two hours, (which seemed like as
many days,) when the commander called me into the saloon, was quite
cheery, told me not to be frightened, that we were a long way from the
original scene, that we were on the surface, and that we were all safe
again. To me the consolation sounded strangely ironical, but he was
evidently in earnest and wished to put me at my ease.
"Where is the ship?" I had to ask.
"Don't trouble," he replied. "She has gone off all right and there is
nothing in sight."
Presently two more of the U's officers entered the saloon and we sat
down to our first meal, which consisted of preserved meat, biscuits,
butter, tinned tomatoes, marmalade, coffee with milk, and a glass
of port wine to finish. My appetite was not good, but the fare was
wholesome enough, and my hosts, knowing I could understand German,
conversed cheerily. For the most part I answered only when spoken to,
asking no questions lest I might be thought inquisitive, but taking
in everything. Here let me say that officers and crew set out from
the start to make me comfortable and feel at home; were hospitable,
courteous, and kind in every way, and put no special restrictions upon
me.
The commander frankly told me to ask him any questions I liked about
the boat, and that if he sometimes made no reply that I was not to take
further notice of it.
"Perhaps," said he, "there are one or two things I do not want you to
see, but you must not mind that, and as to the war or what is going on,
we will not talk of it."
So that what I saw or heard aboard passed the censor, so to speak, so
far as the U officers were concerned, and I formed no opinion that
they willfully gave me any false information. I am not clear yet as to
their motive in taking me prisoner at all, as I was of no use to them
and only took up room and consumed food. Nor could it have been worth
their while to "terrorize" one individual like myself. Of course, I
carefully refrained from touching on this point, nor did I ask what
they intended to do with me if we got safely to port, preferring to
remain silent and patiently await developments.
When on deck for fresh air I saw no land anywhere, nor did I expect to
be allowed to see it, and probably if I had I should not have been any
the wiser. Nor was I shown any charts or allowed to make any periscope
observations, although on some occasions I was asked to retire to my
cabin, mostly around noon, when navigation was being worked out. The
course we took I never knew, and the only clue I had to position was
one day when, to my relief, I was informed they hoped to land within
twenty-four hours.
First, as to the U-boat herself: She was about 250 feet long, had a
crew of about 35 men, carried two 4½-inch guns, could steam 18 knots on
the surface and 11 below if required, and had a range limit of 3,200
miles steaming at 12 knots on the surface.
Leaving Germany she was stored for a twelve-weeks' cruise; when I
joined her she had provisions only for a few more days as prisoners
previously captured had consumed some of them, hence their anxiety to
get rid of the remaining ones sent off in a hurry in the _Wanderer's_
boat. The original stores were preserved pork and beef, vegetables,
tinned soups, fruit, raisins, biscuits, butter, marmalade, milk, tea,
and coffee. Prior to sinking one ship they had commandeered eggs, fresh
meat, butter, vegetables, and some liquor to afford variety to the
larder; so that the bill of fare was varied and there was no stinting
of rations. Any cooking was done on an electric stove.
II--STORY OF LIFE ON THE SUBMARINE
The U was driven by petrol, but they said colza or benzoline or any
kind of machine oil not too thick could be used, and if this could be
replenished from any captured ship so much the better. I would have
liked to know about any of the supply ships which undoubtedly have a
secret rendezvous with these submarines, and also about land bases in
some of the neutral countries so-called, but this information was, of
course, denied me.
The living quarters were small but comfortable, officers having
separate small cabins and the crew bunks with narrow alley way in
between. Ventilation was surprisingly good, pipes for the purpose
running all through the boat, foul air being extracted by exhaust and
fresh air driven in four or five times a day for half an hour at a time
while on the surface.
More than once I remained below for more than twelve hours and did not
suffer from headache or symptoms due to bad air. Sometimes we were
submerged for four hours, sometimes longer, once for close on fourteen
hours, but I felt little inconvenience. The officers stated that up to
twenty-four hours of continual submersion they were fairly comfortable;
after that, for six hours, it was uncomfortable, and subsequently
became intolerable, due to the "sweating" from the framework of the
boat, which rendered the clothing damp. To obviate this, leather
suits were worn mostly during prolonged submersion, and this process
was perhaps the most disagreeable experience of all. For purposes of
ventilation, therefore, and in order that the crew might remain in good
health, as well as for necessary locomotion, the U remained as much as
possible on the surface both day and night.
The idea that most of the submarines come inshore at night and lie
at the bottom in bays is quite a wrong one--perhaps at the beginning
of the war, when the boats were smaller, they may have done so; but
the larger ones for choice avoid the shallower water and keep out in
deeper channels. Safety to themselves prompts such procedure, for they
are quite alive to the danger of nets and explosive bombs dropped from
the air and surface of the water. When homeward bound and nearing
their own shores they often lie at the bottom all night and wait for
daylight before proceeding for fear of encountering English patrols or
destroyers. With their own war craft they have special flag signals
by day and Morse flashes by night. The larger U's have wireless
installation by which in code they can communicate with each other, but
their range of transmission is short.
The sanitary arrangements below were good and much the same as on any
liner. A petty officer was in charge of the sanitation, who also was
first aid ambulance man, had charge of the medicine chest, and when
required acted as a gunner--quite a handy man. There were two good
lavatories on board, effete matter being expelled by force pumps at any
time. Other than drinking water there was scarcity of fresh water for
domestic uses, so there was no chance of a fresh water bath, another of
the drawbacks experienced, although sponging off in cold salt water is
at all times refreshing.
There was a variety of books to read, comic and other papers, among
them two English papers nearly three weeks old; a gramophone and
several records, so that we had music, singing, and occasionally
dancing for exercise' sake, but no smoking below, which was strictly
forbidden and was perhaps the greatest hardship of all.
There was thus a little gayety on board to relieve the monotony,
although, truth to tell, I found the voyage an exciting one and my
shipmates seemed merry enough. In fact, I was surprised at myself
getting used so quickly to the new life, and am bound to confess that
I was no more worried about what was going on above the surface of the
water than I had previously been on my own boat about what takes place
at any minute from under the water.
III--STORY OF THE HALE AND HEARTY CREW
The crew on board were quite self-composed, jocular for the most part,
serious enough in what they were out to do, but not worrying much about
the risks thereof, nor did they seem to regard their calling as any
more hazardous than on any other war craft in dangerous waters. Being
all young men, full and fond of adventure, the incitements seemed
stimulating to their nerves, and victims they looked on as legitimate
prey and with no feelings of remorse. The reports I had heard that men
in Germany had to be forced into the submarine service seemed to amuse
them immensely. On the contrary, they declared there was any number of
volunteers for the work, and that many young officers were willing and
glad even to pay a premium to get on a "sub" in preference to other war
craft, where they said the routine was harder and more irksome.
What their pay was I did not hear, but I gathered it was good, and
that provision in the way of bonuses for "good work" and pensions for
their dependents were allowed. The idea, too, that at the end of a
cruise they were all so nerve-racked that they needed a long rest they
declared was too absurd. Many U-boats, they said, made consecutive
voyages after a short spell in port to store up, and their "rest
depended entirely on the emergencies of the moment."
I must say that on parting with them I saw no signs of any breakdown,
either physical or mental, although all of them looked for a holiday,
which is a sailor's privilege. Sailors, we are told, are proverbial
for their modesty and the unassuming way they talk of themselves, but
this trait I failed to discover in the U-boat officer, who was boastful
enough of the great work he was doing for the Fatherland and quite
callous as to the methods employed in so doing.
I saw little or nothing of the actual manipulations during submersion,
but they were probably on the usual lines known to all such boats and
about which there is no particular secret. Every foot of submersion
is indicated by a handle turning around on a disk as on the face of a
clock, the chief care being not to sink too deep. I gathered this boat
could easily be out of sight in less than ten seconds, and steam 11
knots at 60 feet below the surface, 7 knots at 90 feet, and was tested
to sink to 200 feet, below which depth there was danger of the sides of
the boat being driven in from pressure of the water. At 50 feet below
the surface, while in motion, there was little movement or vibration to
be felt; at 80 feet practically none at all, and the stillness became
monotonous.
During the voyage one ship was torpedoed, but they prefer shelling for
economy's sake, although they had plenty of shells aboard and did not
stint them in attacking one sailing ship. During the torpedoing process
I was surprised how little concussion was felt below--in fact, beyond
a slight "bumping" sensation I might not have known it at all.
IV--STORY OF THE TORPEDO ROOM
Of torpedoes on board there were eight "large" and eight "small," as
they called them, which when discharged liberate their own propeller
and shoot along at some ten feet below the surface at a rate of up to
forty knots an hour, occasionally "breaking surface," i.e., coming up
higher and throwing jets of spray in their course and then submerging
again.
It appears that 55 per cent, or more than half, of the torpedoes fired
miss their mark, and with this average they seem satisfied. Once they
let go at a ship two torpedoes at 3,000 yards' range, and both missed,
the range being too long; but they did not care to come any nearer, as
they believed the ship to be well armed.
They prefer to fire at 500 to 700 yards, which means that at this range
the track or "wake" of a projectile would be discernible for, say,
twenty-five to thirty seconds--not much time, indeed, for any ship to
get out of the way. At 100 yards' range or less they do not care to
fire unless compelled to, as the torpedo is nearly always discharged
when the submarine is lying ahead of the object, i.e., to hit the ship
coming up to it; it follows that a gun forward is more useful than
one aft, the gun aft being of real service when a submarine starts
shelling, which she will do for choice from aft the ship rather than
from forward of her, where she would be in danger of being run over and
rammed.
Owing to the big expense of wasted torpedoes it had been planned to
build special larger U-boats, two-deckers carrying larger guns for
shelling purposes--hence the sooner all merchantmen are well armed the
better for them.
Talking one day of the number of submarines lost, the officers declared
that the Allies' reports of their captures and sinkings were much
exaggerated. Naturally they would say so, but the truth is probably
best known at headquarters, where such figures are checked up. Once or
twice when on the surface we were fired at at long range and quickly
submerged, although the U crews recognize they are a difficult target
to aim at, let alone hit, as I, too, knew from experience.
The periscope is about seven inches in diameter and moves up and down
like a piston rod in a cylinder, accompanied by a buzzing kind of
sound, which became familiar after a day or two. If required it can
reach seventeen feet above the surface and may be used as a flagpost
for signals. At its summit is a mirror, three to four inches in
diameter, from which images are reflected to a larger mirror below used
by the observer.
When a ship is first sighted the chief point is to determine her
course, which may be easy if she is going in the same direction, but
more difficult if not. The next point is to determine as near as
possible the speed of the object ship, the size and general lines
being considered, and deductions drawn. Next, the distance away of the
approaching ship has to be noted.
Under ordinary circumstances on board ship the nearer one standing on
deck is to the water the more limited will the horizon be, and likewise
the higher from the water, as in the "crow's nest," the bigger the
horizon. Standing on deck, seventeen feet from the surface of the
water, the horizon, on a clear day, would, roughly speaking, be three
miles. The same rule practically applies in periscope work, which, as
it can extend seventeen feet in the air, will give a three-mile horizon
vision. Therefore, according as is the position on the horizon rays, so
will the distance away of the object ship be gauged.
The course, speed, and distance off being calculated, the U has then to
manoeuvre get into position for firing, taking care to avoid the actual
track of the approaching ship and to get nearly "broadside on" to her.
Hence there is nothing worries them and upsets their calculations more
than when the ship alters her course frequently--this manoeuvre being
called zigzagging--and which accounts largely for the high percentage
of misses registered. The more often the alteration of course takes
place, the bigger and more uneven the zigzag, the better for the ship.
Daylight is most suitable for torpedo firing, but there is nothing to
prevent its being accurate enough during moonlight, even so far as
minor work is concerned. As the torpedo can be discharged from the
surface as well as when submerged, the precaution of having every light
on the ship extinguished is a necessary one. It is remarkable how few
collisions at sea have taken place during the war, even though the
ships are running without any navigation lights and even during fog
no whistle is sounded. The periscope being in those days a "familiar
object," it is believed that some of the later U-boats have another
device in the shape of a small hatch opening upward which can be opened
by the observer on the submarine, enabling him to look around the
surface of the water.
Ordinary navigation on the U-boat is done on usual lines, i.e., sextant
and compass and bearings from landmarks by day and observation by stars
and of lighthouses by night, but the reckoning of distances by dead
reckoning, that is, on the log, has to be dispensed with. The compass
used is a gyroscopic one, so there is no deviation due to magnetic
influence, and the courses are all therefore "true courses."
There were no signs of any soundings being taken while submerged, but
of course they were frequently taken from the surface while approaching
land. While on the surface, if the sea was at all rough, the U rolled
considerably and the officers, in oilskins, were lashed to the nearest
stanchion to prevent being washed overboard. On the for'ard deck on
either side of the bow was a small anchor about the same size as used
on a 500-ton ship.
The personnel of the U-boat consisted of a commander and three
officers, a commander engineer and three officers, several petty
officers and ordinary crew, all of whom were young men. Each department
had its own section to look after, a full log was kept of all that went
on aboard as in peace times, and discipline throughout was excellent.
So much for my cruise in the U-boat, which was satisfactory enough
as an experience and certainly on the lines of all's well that ends
well. With my queer underwater shipmates I parted on quite good terms,
impressed not a little with their general courage and mostly with their
coolness under conditions which required steady head and hands and
observation which called for considerable cunning and resource.
Compared with a small submarine of the early type I found this U-boat
so vastly improved that it was hard to realize so much advance had
been made in so short a time; and if it be true that practice makes
perfection, there is no knowing what further developments are in store
for this class of war craft.
* * * * *
Before concluding I must refer to certain cruises made by U-boats
across the Atlantic to America. Much fuss was made about these and
the performances were called "marvelous," "astounding," and so on.
From experience I fail to see anything wonderful about them. Once the
submarines navigated clear of the north of Scotland, the rest of the
voyage was plain sailing for the modern U-boat as I saw it--and, in
fact, the voyage for those on board must have been simply a restful and
pleasant holiday run.
THE DARKEST HOUR--FLEEING FROM THE BULGARIANS
_Our Experiences in the Great Serbian Retreat_
_Told by Alice and Claude Askew_
A vivid narrative, by eye-witnesses, of the supreme tragedy in the
history of gallant little Serbia. Mr. and Mrs. Askew went to the
country as members of a Field Hospital, and, with the Staff of the
Second Army, took part in the terrible retreat across the mountains
into Albania. "Little we thought," write the authors, "that it would
prove to be the Via Dolorosa, the stony road to Calvary, of an entire
nation." Original stories told in the _Wide World Magazine_.
I--STORY OF THE FLIGHT FROM PROKUPLJE
We were surprised when we were told by one of our friends on the staff
of the Second Army that we must prepare to leave Prokuplje that very
evening.
"Why," we cried, "only a few hours ago we were told that the Bulgarians
have had a bad set-back!"
"So they have," was the quiet rejoinder. "The Bulgarians won't get here
in a hurry. But the Germans may."
Which goes to show that at this period the Serbian Army was putting up
a gallant fight against foes that were bearing down upon it from all
sides. What was the good of beating back the Bulgars when the crushing
force of the Austro-Germans, with their heavy artillery, had also to be
reckoned with? If it had been only the Bulgars!
As a matter of fact, the immediate source of danger was not so much
that Prokuplje would fall as that the road to Prishtina--the only
route open to the retreating army--might be cut. Koshumlja was
threatened, and if Koshumlja were to be taken we should all be caught
like rats in a trap.
We had come to Prokuplje from Nish, and all the time we were
there--over a week--there was heavy fighting. Had the promised
assistance come even then, at the eleventh hour, the tide might have
been stemmed, the tables turned, for the Serbian successes were by no
means to be despised. The famous Morava division of the Second Army
had covered itself with glory in a tough battle at Mramor, Lescovatz
had been retaken, and the Bulgarians had been driven out of Nish. The
latter victory, however, proved useless, for the Germans immediately
stepped in their place.
And in spite of all this, Prokuplje must be evacuated.
We liked Prokuplje--it is a pleasant little town very picturesquely
situated. Moreover, we had comfortable quarters in what we were
frequently told was the "finest room in the town."
We were always being envied our luck in finding accommodation.
Generally speaking, it was abominable beyond description, but the
man who sleeps in the open air will envy him who has a roof over his
head, and he who lies upon bare boards may be excused if he covets his
friend's mattress.
A friend of ours, coming to visit us at Scutari, was stopped by an
acquaintance in the street and asked where he was going. He mentioned
our name.
"Oh, those are the lucky people who did so well for themselves at
Plavnitza," was the grudging comment.
Had we been asked we should not have agreed that we did well for
ourselves at Plavnitza; indeed, the night we spent there was not far
off being the worst in all our varied experience.
II--STORY OF OUR NIGHT AT PLAVNITZA
In the first place, we had no desire to stay there at all. We were
waiting for a steamer to take us to Scutari, but a violent storm had
arisen and the steamer failed to appear. Furthermore, we were not
actually at Plavnitza, but upon the quay, the best part of half an
hour's walk from the village along a sort of embankment that was swept
by wind and rain and where the mud was so deep and sticky that it
needed courage to face it.
There were many people in the same plight as ourselves, but when it
became a matter of certainty that the steamer was not going to show up
they returned to the village and sought accommodation there for the
night. No doubt a large number were disappointed.
For ourselves, we stayed where we were--on the quay. We had found
shelter of a kind, and we were not disposed to give it up to someone
else on the remote chance that after ploughing our way through the mud
again we might find something better at the village.
There was only one building on the quay, a storehouse for goods
delivered by the steamer. Just now there was nothing doing, and the
doors were locked. There was, however, a small room, with a dirty
narrow bed in it; it was occupied generally by the watchman, but he
happened to be absent that night. He had left his son in charge, a
sickly, pale-faced boy of fourteen or fifteen, who never ceased smoking
cigarettes, and who had the manners and conversation of a grown man.
It was in this room that a crowd of us sought refuge from the storm,
and here, when most of the others took their departure, we elected to
remain. Our small host was very kind--he gave up his bed to us--but it
was quite beyond his power to make the general conditions anything but
disgusting in the extreme. We shiver still at the recollection of them.
Our young friend had been lavish in his hospitality, and so we shared
the room with some half-dozen men--excellent fellows, but whose habits
could hardly commend them as companions for the night. The fact that
there was a lady in the party made no difference to them at all.
Oh, the atmosphere of that room! It was redolent of stale fish,
cigarette smoke, and the smell of foul garments sodden with rain. The
storm that raged outside made it quite impossible to open door or
window.
It was very cold, and we, like the rest, had been drenched to the skin,
but, of course, we could not think of removing any of our wet clothes.
We were faint for want of food, too; expecting to reach Scutari that
night, we had brought but little with us, and that we had consumed at
midday. But in that foetid atmosphere we could not have eaten much,
however richly supplied we might have been.
Our little host sat on a box and smoked and talked with his other
guests for the best part of the night. It was the same with them all.
When they were not smoking and spitting they were eating dried fish and
cheese, the order of which was sickening to sensitive nostrils.
The boy was bare-footed, and his clothes hung about his wizened,
deformed body in rags. They were palpably verminous, and, knowing this,
we shuddered for the bed upon which we lay. Nevertheless, the poor
little fellow was so cold when at last, like the rest of the company,
he stretched himself out on the filthy floor to sleep, that we were
impelled to give him one of our coverings, ill as we could spare it.
We had but a small fragment of candle, which spluttered to its end
somewhere in the early hours of the morning. After that we lay,
sleepless, in total darkness, listening to the moaning of the wind
outside and the contented, unconcerned snoring of our companions. And
there was a great fear upon us--that the coming of day might not bring
us relief, for if the storm continued, as was by no means unlikely,
the steamer would be indefinitely held up, nor could any rowing-boat
venture forth. If there had only been a road to fall back upon! But
there was none.
We shall not easily forget our night upon the quay at Plavnitza, and
it certainly never occurred to us that we were likely to be envied the
experience!
III--STORY OF THE LAST HOURS BEFORE RETREAT
But to return to Prokuplje, where we occupied "the finest room in the
town"--which meant that it possessed a fairly comfortable bed, carpet,
curtains, and abundant decoration upon the walls in the way of Berlin
wool-work and cheaply-framed photographs. We were sorry that we had to
leave it in such a hurry, though, perhaps, we should have regretted
our comfortable quarters still more had it not been that our host had
elected to slaughter three large pigs that day in the yard just beneath
our window, and so all the resultant processes were thrust upon our
unwilling view.
The administrative staff of the Second Army were leaving Prokuplje that
evening, so we were told; the operative staff would take its departure
early the following morning and probably, for strategic reasons, follow
a path across the hills instead of the main road. There would be room
for us in one of the cars, and we were to be informed by the orderly
of our friend, Captain Gworsditch, aide-de-camp to the staff--who
himself would be absent till late that night--at what time we were to
hold ourselves in readiness. No doubt it would be about six o'clock,
certainly not later than seven. With luck it should not take us more
than twenty-four hours to make Prishtina, whither we were bound, but
the road in places was very bad, and so we must allow for longer, and
if we had not provisions enough in hand for the journey, it would be
wise to lay in some more.
We reviewed our stock. We had bread, cocoa and tea, a bottle of Greek
brandy, sugar, and three tins of sardines. Thinking things over, we
calculated that if we had a good dinner before we left we should
require nothing more; if all was well we should dine the following
night at Prishtina.
We did not know that we were shortly to be under famine conditions.
True, we had had difficulty with our meals at Prokuplje, but this was
not so much due to a shortage of supplies as to the fact that we had
no one to cook for us. The young woman of the house was extremely
lazy, and used to protest that it was as much as she could do to
look after her father and the children. Nevertheless, she spent half
her time gossiping in the street, for which, not unfrequently, her
father would thrash her, and, as, in retaliation, she would bully her
little brothers and sisters, the whole house used often to resound
with ear-splitting and most discomforting howls. So it happened that
our food, which was brought to us every morning, uncooked, by Selam,
Captain Gworsditch's orderly--we did not have our own orderly till
later--might, or might not, be attended to; if it were, it was usually
so badly cooked as to be uneatable; if it were not, we had to do the
best we could with it ourselves, which was generally even more fatal in
the result. Eventually, however, we found a cook who was quite clever
in spite of the poverty of material at her disposition.
But we were very remiss in failing to purchase supplies while they were
still to be got, and we suffered for it--not only upon the journey to
Prishtina but afterwards, for Prokuplje was the last town upon our
route at which preserved foods, chocolate, biscuits, and such-like
necessary articles of consumption were to be purchased. And even at
Prokuplje they were getting scarce; the last tin of sardines we bought
came from the private store of the chemist; all the other shops were
sold out.
We waited patiently that evening for the arrival of Selam, who was to
take us to our car, and we did not worry till eight o'clock struck and
he had not arrived; even then we were not particularly concerned, for
we concluded that the staff must have postponed their departure. But
that was not so; Selam had mistaken his orders, and we were left behind!
We learnt this when, about nine o'clock, Captain Gworsditch himself
appeared, having found out that there had been some mistake. He was
terribly worried for it was absolutely necessary for us to get off at
once--yet what was to be done, since the cars had already started, all
the carriages were requisitioned and at that time of night and in the
pressure of flight it was impossible to arrange for horses? There was
one at our disposition, our beloved charger Pigeon, but we were two
people and we had some luggage as well. It seemed as if we must walk or
travel by ox-wagon, but anything of the sort was decidedly dangerous
as it was imperatively necessary to pass Koshumlja with the smallest
possible delay.
For two hours, with Captain Gworsditch, we beat the town in search
of a conveyance, and at last luck befriended us. We found some motor
vans that were going to Prishtina with a heavy load of petrol, and the
officer who was arranging the consignment happened to be a cousin of
Captain Gworsditch. It was arranged that we should travel in one of the
vans, and so we were hurriedly packed in with some half-dozen other
refugees, and by midnight we were off. It was by no means comfortable,
and sleep was impossible because of the jolting of the car on the rough
road, but we comforted ourselves with the reflection that we should not
have another night of it. We were traveling at a fair rate--not till
the following day did we realize that that was because we had started
late and the great mass of traffic was in front of us.
IV--STORY OF JOURNEY TO KOSHUMLJA--AND THE KING
We reached Koshumlja at about eight in the morning and remained there
for a couple of hours. We had fondly imagined we should find an inn
of sorts where we could obtain some breakfast, but there was nothing
of the kind, nor could we purchase any food or wine, as we had relied
upon being able to do. We were, however, most hospitably entertained
by the family of the local chemist, whose shop we had merely entered
to make some small purchase. They gave us bread, cheese, sausage, and
coffee, had our muddy boots cleaned for us, and generally provided
for our comfort before we started off again. They were genial, kindly
folk, true Serbs, and later on we had frequent occasion to contrast
their hospitality with the rough and money-grabbing methods of the
Montenegrins.
They told us a lot of interesting things, among others that a few days
earlier they had been asked by the local authorities to prepare a meal
for a couple of distinguished travellers. No names were mentioned. They
had done as they were bid, and were now quite sure that it was the
King himself whom they had entertained.
On leaving Koshumlja that morning we ourselves saw the King. He was
riding with a small retinue, hardly an assumption of state, and to one
of us particularly the little cavalcade had something about it that was
infinitely pathetic. A brief quotation from one of our diaries will
explain why:--
"At Koshumlja to-day we saw the King. Curiously enough this is the
first time that I have come across him since I have been in Serbia,
though Alice saw him at Tarpola. He is a fine old man, and trouble,
sickness, and age have not bowed him. And meeting him thus my mind
goes back--how many years it may be I should be afraid to guess. I was
a small boy spending my holidays with my people at Vevey, on the Lake
of Geneva, and at the hotel we struck up an acquaintance with Prince
Peter Kara Georgevitch. He was then in the prime of life, tall, dark,
handsome--not yet married. He used to talk to us quite unaffectedly of
his hopes and ambitions. King Milan was, of course, the prime enemy.
"'One day I shall come into my own.' I can quite well remember him
saying that.
"And it was true. Destiny--call it what you will--gave him the coveted
throne. And now, a dozen years later, he has lived to see a fresh
shuffle of the cards. How they will fall it is still for time to show."
We made but poor progress that day, and it was not to be wondered
at. The congestion of traffic was amazing. It would hardly be an
exaggeration to say that from Koshumlja to Prishtina there was an
unbroken stream of vehicles of the most varied kinds, though the
ox-wagon predominated enormously. With these were soldiers and
civilians on horseback; soldiers and civilians on foot; oxen laden
and unladen; pack-horses; buffaloes, donkeys, and mules; dogs on the
leash or running with their masters; men, women, children, and beasts
jostling each other in the confusion of hurried flight. It was not so
much the retreat of an army as of a whole nation.
Yet all was orderly and in the main good-tempered. The soldiers were
kept to their respective "trains," and were well under the control of
their officers. There were as yet no ghastly roadside sights, but now
and again came presages of what was to be--the fall of a tired horse,
the overturning of a cart, and once we were sickened by seeing a couple
of frightened oxen, with wagon attached, precipitate themselves over
the low parapet of a bridge into the torrent that flowed below. There
was little or no excitement, and the empty space was rapidly filled up;
it was not well to fall out of rank, if one could help it.
We soon gave up hope of reaching Prishtina that night. Midday
to-morrow, the chauffeur promised us. In this confidence we consumed
two of our tins of sardines during the day--it was not much for
lunch and dinner--leaving the third for breakfast. And therein lay a
catastrophe, for when we came to open the tin, hungry after another
wakeful and uncomfortable night, the contents proved to be hopelessly
bad! We made a meal off dry bread, and it did not improve our tempers
to see our companions devour a pig's head between them. There was
something revolting in the way they picked the bones.
That day progress was slower than ever; we did not seem able to
make any headway at all. By midday we could scarcely have advanced
half-a-dozen miles. It became increasingly clear that we should have to
spend a third night among the petrol-cans--if not a fourth and fifth.
That was bad enough in itself, but what about food?
Our companions did not seem to mind a bit. They were in no hurry and,
considering that they had lost practically all they possessed in the
world, wonderfully cheerful. But we were anxious to get to Prishtina
and rejoin our friends who might be concerned about us; we were nervous
on their account, too, since, though there had been no attack upon
the main road, we had heard a great deal of firing going on among the
hills, and we knew that the route by which they proposed to travel
came at times--especially at the old Turkish frontier which we were
approaching, very near our own.
V--STORY OF WHAT THE BULGARS DID
It was near the frontier, as we learnt afterwards, that the staff
had a very ghastly experience. They came, quite unexpectedly, upon
the mutilated bodies of some fifty men--Serbs, not regular soldiers,
but transport-bearers and drivers--practically unarmed. They had
been massacred by Bulgars, a skirmishing party that had been shown a
path across the mountains by some treacherous Albanians, and which
had fallen unawares upon the unfortunate Serbs. The brutality of the
Bulgars upon this occasion--brutality as to which there can be no doubt
whatever--was on a par with all the other stories that have percolated
through.
They tied their unfortunate victims--defenceless men, be it
remembered--hand and foot and then proceeded to slash them to pieces
with their swords. Having perpetrated these murders and secured all the
booty that they could carry off, they escaped by the same way that they
had come.
No punishment could be meted out to them, but it is good to know that
the treacherous Albanians were caught and promptly shot, while their
houses were razed to the ground--a more drastic punishment still,
according to local views.
No wonder we heard firing among the hills!
About midday we determined to abandon the lorry and to make our
way on to the next village--some dozen miles--on foot. We did not
feel disposed to face another night of discomfort, but what put the
finishing touch was the introduction into the car of a little live pig
that was destined to be a new travelling companion until such time as
he should be killed, cooked, and eaten. We had no food left of our own,
but we felt that we could never regale ourselves upon that pig.
We found an officer friend who gave us a couple of soldiers to carry
our baggage, and we set out to thread our way through the stream of
traffic; but we did not walk very far, for coming presently across
a carriage, empty except for a load of forage, we determined to
commandeer it. The driver informed us that he belonged to a cavalry
division attached to the First Army, and if his commandant had no
objection to our intrusion he, for his part, had none either.
Presently the commandant himself came along. He knew us by repute,
as did most of the other officers, and the result was that we were
cordially invited to ride with the division and offered hospitality and
refreshment for the night.
It was, however, well after seven o'clock and dark by the time we
had crossed the old frontier and descended upon the broad plain of
Kossovo. Having practically had nothing to eat or drink all day--and
very little the day before--we rejoiced when at last camp was reached
and we found ourselves sitting beside a huge wood fire--it was bitterly
cold--waiting for our supper to be cooked for us and for our tent to be
pitched.
We did not reach camp, by the way, without some excitement. Out of
the darkness there suddenly came the sound of shooting uncomfortably
near. Our friend the commandant was riding by our side at the moment;
he apologized and galloped off sharply. Then came more shooting. We
learnt afterwards that it was a case of Albanian snipers, and that due
punishment had been meted out.
Our supper consisted of "confection," as the tinned meat provided to
the army is called. When cooked it is quite good, as each tin, besides
the meat, contains an ample supply of soup. We had Nestlé's milk, too,
and now for the first time we learnt to appreciate this commodity at
its true value. What we should have done without Nestlé's later on
it would be hard to say. Our friend was very apologetic about the
entertainment he was able to offer us, and kept repeating that it would
have been very different in other circumstances; but we were able, with
absolute truth, to assure him that we had rarely enjoyed a meal so much.
We might have added: "or slept so well." We were accommodated in a
little "dog-kennel" tent, but there was a comfortable mattress and
plenty of wraps, and though the rain fell in torrents during the night,
it did not affect our rest. We only felt a sense of rejoicing that we
were no longer wedged in among the petrol cans, cold and uncomfortable,
and in unavoidable proximity to uncleanly companions--not forgetting
the pig. As a matter of fact, had we remained in the lorry we should
have been another three nights _en route_.
Our kind friend's hospitality did not end with the night. The carriage
was placed at our disposition the next morning, and starting at six
o'clock we reached Prishtina by noon. There was no breakfast in camp
for anybody, but we were provided with _peksimeat_, as the hard army
biscuit is called, water, and cognac as we drove along.
And as we came to Prishtina our spirits revived, and we told each
other that, after all, there was still hope for Serbia. There would
be a concentration of the three armies upon the historic plain of
Kossovo, and perhaps, if things were well in the south, a junction
might yet be established between the Serbs and the Allies. It would be
a grand thing, we argued, if Kossovo should once again be the scene of
a tremendous battle--Kossovo which is already the centre of all that
is best in Serbian legend and story--and if at Kossovo Serbia should
vindicate her honour and re-enter into possession of her own!
Perhaps at Prishtina our flight would find its end! Alas, for such
sanguine views; our stay at Prishtina was destined to be short, and
when once again we set out upon the weary road of retreat it was to
find the wayside scattered with dead oxen, dead horses--and dead men.
At Prishtina Serbia entered in earnest upon her road to Calvary.
A MAGYAR PALADIN--A RITTMEISTER OF THE HUSSARS
_Along the Road from Poland to Budapest_
_Told by Franz Molnar, Celebrated Hungarian Dramatist_
The character sketch is from the pen of Franz Molnar, the celebrated
Hungarian dramatist and correspondent in the field of the _Budapest
Az Est_ and the _Vienna Neue Freie Presse_. This war has been
a war of anonymity. Its vastness has submerged individuals and
individualities. It is the more interesting, therefore, to catch
now and then some impression of personality and to find some figure
standing out clearly and picturesquely from the mass. In Rittmeister
Farkas, Molnar has drawn from life a character which epitomizes the
romance of the war. This story is translated, and the introduction
prepared by William L. McPherson in the _New York Tribune_.
I--STORY OF THE GUERILLA WARRIOR
One evening I notice in front of the General Staff Headquarters some
General Staff officers in conversation with a little officer, two heads
shorter than any of them. The little officer wears a dark hussar's
jacket; his breast is covered with decorations, conspicuous among
them being the Iron Cross. The diminutive but well set-up hussar is
continually being embraced and patted affectionately on the back. He
talks loudly and merrily. I hear that he has visited headquarters in
the interest of one of his fellow hussars.
"You must stay here for supper!"
He stays. I sit opposite him and take a good look at him, for I have
already heard much about him. The Army Corps Hoffmann is very proud
of him; he is our guerilla leader, a legendary hussar type--Clemer
Farkas de Also-Takach. Formerly he was Rittmeister of the 14th Hussars.
Now he is commandant of the cavalry detachment of the army corps, the
"Detachment Farkas." He has as many cavalrymen as an Oberst has in
peace time. Therefore, his hussars call him "Herr Oberst Rittmeister."
He has hussars, uhlans, dragoons, Ukranian volunteers--altogether a
most daring collection of riders and fighters. Nearly all the cavalry
regiments of the monarchy are represented in it. The organization is a
good counterpart of the Hoffmann Army Corps, which has been constructed
in a somewhat similar fashion.
The Rittmeister has a marked resemblance to a peppercorn. He is very
small, very hard and very strong. A handshake with him is an athletic
exercise. His glance is clear and open, like that of a ten-year-old
boy. You can hear him laughing over the next hill. He cannot tell
stories; nor will he. All that he told me was that his veterinary had
saved the life of a little girl, taking twenty-three splinters of a
Russian shell out of her body, and that thirty-six members of his
family were in the field.
Rittmeister Farkas won his fame in Galicia. A Cossack sergeant rushed
at him and tried to spit him with a lance. Farkas broke the lance
under his armpit and then crushed the sergeant's head with the butt
of a revolver. He gave the lance to the Heir Apparent. That was his
first exploit. Then came his first "action." He is posted one day in
Russian Poland with his hussars as support behind the artillery. A
heavy Russian shell explodes in his neighborhood, and as it throws up
the earth it uncovers a telephone wire. Farkas notices the wire, takes
hold of it and follows it. The hussars dig up the ground over it and
find that it leads to a farmhouse. They dig no further and conceal
themselves.
Near the farmhouse is a well. Every few minutes a Russian peasant
comes to the well, works the draw pump and calls something down into
the depths. They seize the peasant and he turns out to be a Russian
soldier in disguise. Farkas takes his favorite sergeant, Galambos, and
three hussars, gets a long, stout rope and slides, with his four men,
down into the well.
A yard above the surface of the water he finds a stone shelving and
under the shelving an opening, which leads into a dark tunnel. Now
everything is cleared up. This region was once an artillery practice
field; no wonder that it is so nicely fitted out. They push into the
tunnel and come to a telephone cell, in which three Russians sit by
candlelight before a modern field telephone. From there the Russian
field artillery is directed according to the information shouted down
the well.
Farkas throws his revolver away. One of the Russians, knife in hand,
hurls himself upon him. Farkas seizes the wrist of the Russian and
breaks it, for he is a master of jiu jitsu; he instructs his men
constantly in Japanese ring methods. Two Russians are killed. The one
with his wrist broken confesses that the telephone cell is a signal
station and that the little detachment is a signal patrol. He also
delivers to Farkas a textbook containing the A B C of more than 300
light signals. Light signals are given with lamp groups, which consist
of two, five or eight lamps. They can send almost any kind of news.
Farkas clambers up out of the well and makes good use of the book.
With his hussars he goes every night on the hunt for light signals.
Whenever at night the combination of two, five or eight lamps is in use
signal patrols are killed or captured. It is plain that the Russians,
before the war, must have instructed 30,000 to 40,000 people for this
service. Many of these people worked in peasant clothes behind our
lines in Russian territory. Farkas hunted down these signal devices
in farm houses, windmills, in the midst of swamps and in the tops of
trees. With ten to fifteen hussars he soon made 140 of them useless. In
this region the Russians lost all interest in signal giving. Farkas had
many times done his work on horseback; oftener he had crawled on his
stomach. To his comrades he said that he had at last got some profit
out of the many pictures of daring adventure which he had seen in the
kino shows.
II--TALES OF FARKAS--THE HUSSAR
The Herr Rittmeister has taken a pledge; while the war lasts he will
not drink, gamble or hunt. Of these three hunting is his only real
passion. He would hate to be a bad shot. In the wall of the Nyiregyhazy
barracks he shot his monogram with a pistol: thus, C. F. They made him
pay for the damage to the wall. Rittmeister Farkas is therefore the
only man in the country who has ever, out of his own pocket, built part
of a barracks.
Once from a local train, which was running through the hunting preserve
of a friend, he saw a deer. He pulled the emergency signal, shot the
deer and then said: "Now go ahead!" For that he was put under arrest in
the barracks for thirty days. Now, however, every one of his bullets
belongs to the Fatherland, and his iron will, his daring, his mobile
spirit, his technical skill, his great, romantic heart, encased in his
small steeled body, belong, all, all to the Fatherland.
The Rittmeister wept when he heard that the Russians stood before the
Bereczke Pass. He did everything in his power to get to that threatened
point. So he became attached to the Group Hofmann, which in the fall of
1914 drove the Russians out of Berog and Marmaros.
About Christmas time in 1914 he is fighting in the Carpathians. On
December 19 he climbs, with his hussars, the Vehikzi Brh Mountain,
1,600 metres high, and at night descends with them, in snow up to the
arm-pits, to Firelopfalva, on the other side. He leads the march and
kills the Russian outposts. The Russians are driven out of the village,
losing 150. He cannot bring away the Russian weapons, so he collects
them in a pile and burns them.
The Russians, who know him well, send three battalions of infantry and
four companies of Cossacks against him. Three days long, until December
22, he stands off, with a few hundred cavalrymen, all their attacks.
Then he sends his people back, remaining the last one on the spot. He
keeps a uhlan sergeant with him to hold off the Russians until his
troop has crossed the mountains. The two hide behind a rock. Farkas
takes up his Mannlicher, with a telescopic sight. Suddenly the sergeant
receives a bullet in his calf. Farkas would gladly retire, but he
cannot carry the sergeant with him and will not leave him in the lurch.
About 10 a.m. the Russians begin to climb in skirmish line up toward
him. At 10 o'clock Farkas, from behind his rock, shoots down his first
Russian; at 4 o'clock in the afternoon his sixty-seventh. Up to the
neck in snow, without a bite to eat, he keeps all assailants at bay.
At 5 o'clock it is pitch dark. Farkas goes away, returns in a sled and
carries off the wounded sergeant.
The Germans he likes very well, and they like him. A German general
said to him: "Explain to me, please, what the rôle of Hungary is in
this war."
Rittmeister Farkas showed his outstretched hand.
"Excellency," he said, "if this war is a box on the ear which we are
giving the enemy, then in this five-fingered box on the ear Hungary is
not the least important finger."
He is assigned for six weeks to the German Guard and receives into
his detachment some Prussian cavalry. Between Uzok and Bereczke he
climbs with them over the mountains and holds for six days, with 500
cavalrymen, a line southeast of Turka against 5,000 Russians, with
seven cannon and ten machine guns. His cavalry troops form on the hill
surrounding the Russian position. Farkas stands in a church tower from
which he can see the enemy. He has three small flags--a green one, a
yellow one and a red one. When the Russians develop to the left he
puts the green flag out of the tower window. Then the cavalrymen on
the hills to the left fire. He waves the right wing flag and other
troopers fire from the right. The Russians turn about and then the
yellow flag is hoisted and the fire comes from a third direction.
Thereupon the Russians intrench themselves in a half circle at the
entrance of a narrow pass; for they believe the enemy menaces them from
three directions. While Farkas plays his tricks with the Russians the
Prussian Guard accomplishes its work.
Farkas may now retire. On the way he meets a German sergeant major with
fifteen or twenty infantrymen. He halts them.
"Listen," says Farkas, "I have been here for six days covering the
Prussians so that they could march quietly. Reciprocate, please, and
cover my troops."
"Glad to do it," answers the German.
So he develops a line with his twenty men in order to hold the Russians
back, while Farkas withdraws his troopers.
For this Turka exploit the latter gets the Iron Cross.
The commandant of the Prussian Guard, General Baron Marschall, says
goodby to him in a personally written letter and calls him a "brilliant
Hungarian hussar officer."
He has already three slight bullet wounds, the tuft has been shot away
from his shako, his pistol holster has three bullet holes (I am almost
embarrassed to write this down, for it sounds like a copy of a romance
of Dumas), his Attila is pierced in three places. There are two holes
in his breeches, his shako is split from the top by a sabre stroke and
one of his spurs has been shot away. Otherwise, God be thanked, he is
unharmed. I am not confident that the reader will believe all of this.
But it is sufficient that several thousand men here know that it is
true and that I also know that it is.
III--THE KNIGHT OF THE ARMORED TRAIN
Rittmeister Farkas is a little wonder of the war; he is so unique,
original and incredible in his way that I had to examine many documents
and official reports before I was absolutely convinced of the truth
of the stories about him. In November, 1914, he receives from Peter
Hoffmann, who loves him like his own son, a gift especially suited
to his adventurous character--two armored trains. Then he is happy.
Naturally he steams with both behind the enemy's front, lets one run
through a tunnel and stop near its exit, so that nobody can attack it,
and starts back with the other to a certain factory building in which
a Russian regiment is quietly enjoying a midday meal. With his single
cannon he shoots off the factory chimney, which falls into the crowd of
diners below. The regiment is panic-stricken. Then the armored train
fires with four machine guns into the regiment, plants seven shells in
the officers' quarters and creates such a confusion among the Russians
that they arrive at Bereczke a week later than they had planned to
arrive. Then he returns the armored trains to His Excellency with
thanks. A little sadly he looks after them; for they were "as if made
for him."
Meanwhile he constructs machine guns and creates a machine gun section
and a section of mounted pioneers. Now his detachment has machine guns
and pioneers. He looks out for all technical details and understands
them all.
"In geography I know nothing," he says; "I know only thirty kilometres
in front of my nose, but I know those kilometres well."
His pride is that he has never eaten before his men have. Once,
however, he ate nothing after his men had eaten. On the crest of the
Carpathians the Russians shot one of his horses. He let the cook make
goulash out of it for the men, but he ate none of it. "Not because I
couldn't stomach it, but because I loved the horse when he was alive."
He preferred to remain hungry.
I talked with his troopers. They never speak his name without standing
at attention. Out of curiosity I ask:
"Why are you so fond of him?"
They look at me and smile embarrassedly--old Landsturm men, with big
mustaches, fathers with many children.
"We are everlastingly fond of him."
At last one of them gives this explanation:
"He leads the fight well."
So I learn that once in the Carpathians, when everything came to a
standstill because the Russians delivered a terrible fire and there was
no cover, he lay on the ground before them and cried:
"Here I am--as cover for you. Lie on your stomachs and fire from behind
me!"
Complaints, which I sometimes hear, are directed not against him, but
against his business management. At the first he paid twenty-nine
kronen for each Cossack captured and five kronen for each Russian
infantryman. The troopers, whom he has led in almost 200 fights and
skirmishes, brought the Russians in so eagerly that prices fell--and
fell very sharply. A Cossack went down to four kronen and an
infantryman down to one kronen. Not because the Cossack is worth four
times as much, but because he has a horse.
To-day, at noon, Rittmeister Farkas left us. God knows when I shall
see him again. Tiny, clever, good-hearted, brave Rittmeister Farkas,
mathematician, marksman, bridge builder, locomotive driver in one
person, doctor, chaplain, letter writer and brilliant commandant of
lonely, middle-aged soldiers, daring Herr Oberst-Rittmeister Farkas--a
little red hussar's cap which becomes smaller and smaller in the dust
of the road--you give me so many things to think about that at night I
can hardly go to sleep.
Who is able to explain these men to those for whom they have been
fighting for more than a year?
OUR ESCAPE FROM GERMAN SOUTH-WEST AFRICA
_Told by Corporal H. J. McElnea, late of the Imperial Light Horse,
South Africa, and set down by J. Christie_
An echo of General Botha's brilliant campaign in German South-West
Africa. Captured by the Germans during a skirmish, the author gleaned
some information concerning the intentions of the enemy. Night and
day he schemed to get away in order to give his superiors the news.
Finally, with three companions, he essayed the task of escaping from
the military prison at Franzfontein and making his way for over two
hundred and fifty miles through a terrible region of uninhabited
mountains and desert to Swakopmund, where the British forces were
in occupation. Lack of food and water, suffering of body and mind,
blistering heat and extreme cold--the author experienced them all
during his nightmare journey, which he related in the _Wide World
Magazine_.
I--STORY OF THE IMPERIAL LIGHT HORSE
My squadron of the Imperial Light Horse, which had been operating for
several months with Luderitzbucht, German South-West Africa, as a base,
finally left on 13th December, 1914, with the Natal Carabiniers and
two machine-guns. We went to Rooikop, where we camped for the night,
and the following morning marched on to our advance camp at railhead.
Here we found some infantry and mounted men belonging to the Kaffarian
Rifles and Nesbitt's Horse. The force marched out from railhead at
sundown, trekked all night, and arrived at Tchukaib at two o'clock in
the morning. About half-past seven in the evening of the same day,
after having watered our horses, we marched out, having left all
spare kit, greatcoats, mess-tins, and so on, in camp. We travelled
until about one o'clock in the morning, when we off-saddled, linked
horses, and lay down to rest. In about two hours' time we got orders to
up-saddle and move on. Strict orders were given not to strike matches,
or make any unnecessary noise. We arrived within sight of Garub Station
just before daylight on December 16th, 1914, and halted behind some
kopjes for about half an hour or so.
During this halt most of us discarded our tunics and strapped them on
our saddles. We then marched on, keeping to the north of the railway
line, until about a mile beyond the railway station, where we passed
the pumping-station, which had been completely destroyed by the enemy.
My troop (No. 2, D Squadron, Imperial Light Horse) now got orders
to trot up in front of the column. We crossed the railway line and
proceeded back towards the station, on the south of the line.
We were next instructed to march towards the kopjes to the southeast,
and my section was sent in front, scouting. I rode on about six or
seven hundred yards in front of the troop, and then I noticed some
other men being sent forward, so I took the right flank with my
section. We now crossed three sand-dunes. In crossing the third I
noticed some fresh spoor, which indicated that the enemy had passed
shortly before towards the kopjes in front. Just as we neared the top
of the fourth dune a single shot rang out, and almost immediately
after the Germans opened a murderous enfilading fire from rifles and
machine-guns. I gave orders to my section to retire, and we galloped
towards our troop, but had only covered about a hundred yards or so
when my horse got hit and I fell heavily on my head.
How long I remained senseless I am unable to say, but when I regained
consciousness I found I was not alone. Trooper Joyner, belonging to my
section, lay about five yards from me, and nearer the enemy. I asked
him if he was hit, but got no reply. I tried to raise myself, but felt
a severe pain across the small of my back. My first thought was that
I had been hit there, and I put my hand round, but could discover no
indication of a wound. I then dragged myself forward towards Joyner,
but when I got alongside him I saw that he was dying and quite beyond
human aid. I decided the best thing to do was to get hold of my rifle,
which was lying about seven yards to my rear.
Having secured the rifle, I banked up some sand with my hands and made
a small sangar, behind which I took up my position. All this time heavy
firing was going on, and bullets were continually dropping in the sand
all around me. Our men had now got a Maxim in position immediately
behind where I was lying, and there seemed to be a duel going on over
my head between it and one of the enemy's machine-guns.
The Germans were very well concealed, and I could see little to shoot
at, but I had an occasional "pot" at anything I thought was moving on
the kopje. I afterwards found out that there were about two hundred
Germans, some of whom were on the top of the sand-dune, which was only
two hundred and fifty yards away. Some of the enemy must have seen me
from their position, for presently I got a bullet right through my hat,
which made me sit pretty tight. Needless to say I promptly removed the
injured headgear and put it beside me.
The firing continued for nearly three hours, during which time I did
not know what was happening, as I could not see our men. I then heard
a loud cheer from the direction of the enemy's trenches, and soon
afterwards the fire seemed to die away, and I could distinctly hear
voices in front. Next I saw five men galloping towards me from my right
flank. At first I thought they were my own men, but as they came closer
I discovered they were the enemy. I then realized, for the first time,
that our fellows had retired, and that I was surrounded.
I lay where I was until the Germans came up to me, and they proceeded
to disarm me by taking away my rifle, bayonet, and bandoleer, which
they examined carefully for dum-dum bullets. They also took my
haversack, which contained my rations, and my field-glasses. Two of
them then assisted me towards the station, where I found a large number
of the enemy off-saddled. These men were reinforcements from Aus, and
it was their arrival that had caused our force to retire. They numbered
about a thousand, with two Maxim guns. As I approached the station a
German officer came riding past. He pulled up his horse and frowned at
me. "You are Imperial Light Horse, D Squadron," he growled. "You were
at Kolmaaskop. You ---- dog!" Then he rode on.
II--ON A PRISON TRAIN IN SOUTH AFRICA
I was now taken to a room at the back of the station, where there were
a number of German officers and a German doctor sitting around smoking
and laughing, apparently well pleased at having driven the British
back. The doctor examined my back, and told me I was not seriously
hurt, but that the muscles were strained. I remained in this room,
under a guard, for several hours. All this time the enemy appeared to
be blowing up the railway in the direction of Tchukaib, as I could hear
the explosions. Presently one of the German officers came in and gave
me some bread and water. He could speak English, and was apparently
seeking information, as he asked me how many men had come to Garub that
morning, which question I refused to answer. After several further
attempts to get information about our troops, and finding it useless,
he left me. Towards evening I was taken from the station to a train
which had arrived from Aus. On the way I was jeered at by several
German soldiers. One, I remember, asked, "Well, how do you like the
German-West, old chappie?" When I arrived at the train I found that I
was not the only prisoner, as there was a Carabinier standing there
under escort. Immediately I saw him I beckoned him to one side and
told him, as I was an older soldier than he, that either that evening
or the following morning we should be taken in front of the German
intelligence officer, and that he was to be very careful what he said.
This Carabinier was Trooper Martins, who was sent with a despatch to
General McKenzie from his officer commanding. When within about two
hundred yards of the kopje where he expected to find the general the
enemy opened fire on him. He turned and galloped off, but his horse
was shot before he had gone far, and he was unable to get away. Some
Germans came down and took him up to their trenches. This man and I
were close companions right up to the night of my escape.
We were now placed in a truck which contained two horses and a native,
and two armed guards got in with us. After waiting for a couple of
hours the train proceeded to Aus, where we arrived after dark. Here we
were marched straight to the German guardroom. The guards placed us in
a dark cell, measuring about ten feet by five, with a wooden bench to
sleep on. The cell had small portholes for windows, and a heavy door,
which was locked and barred. A sentry remained on guard all night.
Next morning one of the guards brought us some breakfast, which
consisted of black coffee without sugar, some black bread, and a little
fat. After we had eaten this food we were taken from the cell, and
brought to a building where there seemed to be much military activity.
My mate was taken inside a room, and I was sent away to the rear of the
place with my guard. While I was waiting several German soldiers came
out, and some of them asked me various questions.
After waiting for about an hour and a half the Carabinier was brought
out, and I was taken inside. Here I found a German officer who could
speak most perfect English. He sat with large rolls of paper in front
of him, and started off by asking me my name, where I had come from,
what my nationality was, my religion, and how long I had been in South
Africa. I then told him that I had no objection to answering questions
concerning myself or my people, but he must not ask me anything about
the force I belonged to. He then reminded me curtly that I was a
prisoner of war.
"Yes, I _am_ a prisoner of war," I said, "and I expect to be treated
as such." I added that, a short time previously, I had been one of
a party who captured some Germans, including an officer, and I did
not think our O.C. brought any undue pressure to bear on them. This
seemed to cool the German down a bit, and he actually started to give
_me_ information--of a sort. He asked me if I knew that there were
twenty-five thousand rebels in the Orange Free State under De Wet and
Beyers, also if I was aware there was a rebellion in Egypt and India,
and that numbers of our Dreadnoughts had been sunk by the German fleet?
Fortunately I knew that all this was false, so I was not dispirited.
He next proceeded to ask me questions concerning the forces, which, of
course, I refused to answer. Finally, with my mate, I was sent back to
the cell.
Here we were given some food, which consisted of boiled meat and greasy
water, intended for soup. When we asked for knives and forks the
guard said we could not have any, "as there was a danger sometimes of
prisoners committing suicide." I happened to have a pen-knife, which I
had managed to conceal from my guards the previous day when asked to
turn out my pockets, and so we managed somehow.
My mate told me that he had been given to understand that if he would
go back to his regiment and try to induce the Boers to go over to the
Germans he could have his freedom. This he refused to do.
The morning following, after breakfast, we were allowed to use water to
wash ourselves. Later on in the day we were taken separately in front
of the German commandant at Aus, and questioned once more. I informed
the commandant through the officer interpreter that I had nothing to
add to what I had said the previous day. After several vain attempts
to obtain information we were sent back to our cell, where we remained
until the following day, when we were taken by a guard and put on the
train in a cattle-truck going east.
All the way along the line, wherever the train stopped, German soldiers
and women came and stared in at us. One soldier remarked amiably that
it would have been better for us if we had been drowned before landing
in that country.
We arrived at Keetmanshoop at about 9 p.m., and were met by a fresh
guard, who took us to a military barracks. Here we were given some
food and blankets, and obliged to sleep in a little room with a light
burning all night. A German officer visited us through the night.
During the time we were in Keetmanshoop several of the soldiers became
very friendly, and some of them were inclined to talk a lot. From one
of them we learnt what I considered to be very important information,
of most vital interest to our forces, and that night I could not sleep,
puzzling my brains as to the best way of getting this news to them.
The following morning I suggested to my mate that if they made him the
same offer as they did at Aus he had better accept it, so that he could
carry this information. I also told him to tell the Germans they could
hold me responsible for any breach of faith on his part. The offer,
however, was not renewed. We remained at Keetmanshoop until December
24th, and were then taken under a strong guard to the railway station,
and placed in the train going north.
While here we were joined by five other prisoners, one of whom had been
in a hospital suffering from a wound. The other four were Dutchmen
living in German South-West who had been arrested because they refused
to fight for the Germans.
We arrived at Marintal about sundown, and here the train remained for
the night. We were allowed to get out of the carriages and sleep on the
ground, alongside the railway line. The following morning one of our
guards "stood" us coffee in the hotel, as it was Christmas morning--a
decidedly merry Christmas for us!
III--BEHIND THE BARS IN WINDHUK PRISON
Finally, after a tedious journey, we reached Windhuk, where we were
taken straight to the jail, and all seven of us placed in a small cell.
Immediately after entering it we heard voices calling us in English
from surrounding cells, and, looking through the bars of the windows,
we saw many anxious faces. All the men were shouting to us to know
where we came from, what regiment we belonged to, and if we could give
them any news how the war was going.
During our stay in Windhuk prison we were rather badly treated, not
being allowed out of the cell for more than ten or fifteen minutes,
morning and evening, and never allowed to communicate with the other
prisoners. On the sly, when the warders were not watching us, we
sometimes managed to get a few words with them through the windows, but
that was all.
About a day or two after Christmas, while I was looking through the
bars of my cell window into the jail yard, one of the political
prisoners--a British subject taken in German South-West after the war
broke out--whispered to me that there was great excitement amongst the
Germans down town owing to the receipt of news that a British force
had landed at Walfish Bay and had occupied Swakopmund. I might here
explain that the political prisoner referred to enjoyed the privilege
of going down town under escort for the purpose of making purchases
for those prisoners who were fortunate enough to have money or banking
accounts. His information was very useful to me, as this was how I
first discovered our forces were at the northern German seaport.
The prison food here was very bad. It consisted of a quarter-loaf
of bread (to last all day), a cup of black coffee in the morning,
without sugar, and the same in the evening. At midday we got an enamel
basin with some dirty-looking meat and mealie soup, and sometimes a
little rice or macaroni. We were given to understand that this was the
same food as the Kafir convicts got. There were from thirty to forty
Britishers in the prison, mostly "politicals"--British subjects taken
in German South-West Africa after the war broke out, the balance being
soldiers belonging principally to the Union Defence Force. There was
also in this prison a captain of the Royal Fusiliers named Limfrey,
who had been on a shooting trip in the country, and who was arrested
by the Germans as a spy. Not being able to prove anything against him,
however, they kept him as a prisoner of war.
On January 8th we were taken from the prison with fourteen other
prisoners, making seventeeen in all (the four Dutchmen being left
behind), and marched through Windhuk to another prison at the military
barracks, where we remained for the night. The following morning we
were given some kit, consisting of a shirt, blanket, mess tin, knife,
fork, spoon, and towel, and then taken to the railway station, where
there were a large number of people congregated to look at us.
From Windhuk we went to Karabib and Okanyande, and were then told to
prepare for yet another journey.
On the day following--January 16th--all the soldier prisoners,
forty-seven in all, including six officers, left in four ox-wagons for
Franzfontein. We travelled by night, and slept by day. Water was very
scarce _en route_, and was obtainable only from boreholes on the farms,
which were few and far between.
The escort consisted of German soldiers on each wagon; also a mounted
party under the charge of an officer.
We arrived at Outju, a large and important military post, on January
19th. Here we found nearly all of the officers of the Union Forces
who were prisoners. We remained for a couple of hours, and I had the
opportunity of speaking to several of them, and amongst them Captain
Turner Jones. With him I discussed the possibility of the information
which I had gleaned at Keetmanshoop being conveyed to our forces, but
he told me that he did not think there was the least chance of anybody
getting away. However, I gave him the information in case anybody
managed it. We then proceeded on our journey, having left the six
officers behind and taken up three men.
IV--UNDER A GUARD OF HOTTENTOTS
We arrived at our destination on the morning of the 24th. Franzfontein
is a military post of some importance, in direct telegraphic and
telephonic communication with Windhuk and about a hundred and fifty
miles from the railway. On arrival here we were told off in messes of
ten, one man being in charge of each mess. We were then marched into
the barbed-wire enclosure, where we found two hundred and ninety-three
other prisoners. They had all been there for about four months, and
represented eighteen different regiments.
The first thing we did on arrival in the camp was to rig up a "bivvy"
for shelter from the blazing sun, and to sleep in at night. This was
done by fastening a blanket and waterproof sheet together, and with
two sticks, and stones for anchors, we made a little tent large enough
for two people. Cadman, of the S.A. Mounted Rifles, and myself were
the inmates of our particular "bivvy." Martins and Lawford, our other
mates, slept under a tree alongside. We then fixed up a fireplace.
Most of the men had already built little ovens, so we were soon as
comfortable as circumstances would permit.
The enclosure was of a triangular shape, about a quarter-acre in
extent, and had a stream of water running right through from fence to
fence. Outside the barbed wire there was a thick thorn-bush hedge built
up to form a sort of stockade. We were obliged to parade each morning
at 6 a.m., afternoon at four, and every evening at six, when the man
in charge of each mess reported if his ten men were on parade. This
report was conveyed through the sergeant-major to the German officer
who was always present. Rations were drawn each morning by the men in
charge of every mess. The only amusement in camp was bathing in a pool
which the prisoners had constructed by widening the stream, with an
occasional open-air concert at night-time, which always concluded with
the National Anthem and "Rule Britannia," everyone present standing
to attention. At the base of the triangle was the guard-house, which
was fitted with a large alarm-bell. Two soldiers were always on sentry
outside the triangle, night and day.
The garrison consisted of twenty-five to thirty soldiers, and a
number of Hottentots. The Germans were also reputed to have several
bloodhounds, and special native trackers. I also heard that they had a
Maxim gun in the barracks.
From the time we left Keetmanshoop until we arrived at Franzfontein my
sole thought was the best way of escape, and I discussed this matter
with several men on the journey. My first idea was to go north towards
Portuguese territory, through Ovamboland; but I found I should have to
travel through a fever-stricken country inhabited by hostile natives.
Immediately on my arrival at Franzfontein, one of the first things I
noticed--which appeared to me to be rather extraordinary--was that most
of the men appeared to be in possession of water-bottles. I could not
understand why the Germans had not taken these away.
Soon after our arrival in camp I received a message from Dr. Dawson--a
prisoner who acted as medical officer to the prisoners--stating that he
would like to see me. I found him in a rather dilapidated house close
to the base of the triangle. He told me that he had heard that I had
been caught on the Luderitzbucht side recently, and wanted to know all
the recent news.
After having talked with him for some time, I came to the conclusion
that I was speaking to a man who could be a good friend, and whom I
could trust, so I asked him what he thought of the chances of escaping.
He told me that several men had been discussing it, but he was afraid
it was hopeless, as he considered it a physical impossibility for
anyone to carry sufficient water to maintain a human being during the
time it would take to reach Swakopmund, the nearest point occupied by
our forces.
Life in the camp during the next few days was very monotonous, and food
appeared to be daily getting scarcer. They gave us flour, which we
mixed with our mealie meal porridge to make it "pan out," as we found
making bread not at all economical. Sometimes the meat was very bad,
and once or twice the doctor ordered us not to eat it. We received
firewood every evening, and of this there was no scarcity, on account
of the surrounding country being composed of thick bush.
All the time the problem of escape worried me.
V--THE NIGHT ESCAPE IN THE STORM
On February 3rd, about 2 p.m., I met Dunbar, of the Transvaal Horse
Artillery, and asked him if he could introduce me to any man in camp
who knew the road to Swakopmund. He told me that nobody had ever been
in that part of the country before, so that no one knew the road. About
an hour later he informed me the doctor wished to speak to me. On
entering the room where Dr. Dawson was, he told me to close the door
and sit down. Looking out of the window, to make sure that there were
no German soldiers about, he said, "I am informed that you are anxious
to escape. Why is that?"
I told him I possessed what I considered to be valuable military
information, which I was anxious to communicate to the authorities. He
then asked me if I had thought of the difficulty of reaching Swakopmund
across something like two hundred and fifty miles of mountainous desert
country. I replied that I had seen a map, had a fair idea of the
distance, and was prepared to take my chance. Dr. Dawson next inquired
if I thought I was strong enough to stand the journey, as it could not
possibly be done in less than seven days, and anyone attempting the
task would have to carry at least four water-bottles and two water-bags.
"If you are going to escape," he added, "it must be to-night, between
eight and nine o'clock. There are three other men going at that time,
and you can join them."
He inquired what preparations I had made with regard to food and water
on the road, and I told him none.
"I can supply flour to make fat cookies," he said, "but you will have
to see to the water-bottles and water-bags yourself."
Then, in confidence, I told the doctor what I had heard at
Keetmanshoop, and he agreed with me that the news was most important,
and that I must go at all costs.
Soon afterwards the doctor sent for the other men who were to be my
companions in the attempt to escape. They were Sergeant Mackenzie,
of the Upington commando, a Scotchman; Trooper Maritz, of the South
African Mounted Rifles, a Boer; and Trooper Franzen, of the Veteran
Signalling Corps, a Norwegian. When they entered the room he formally
introduced me to them, and told them that I wanted to accompany them
on the journey. After having discussed our plans for getting away
from the camp, and the route we were to take, we parted, having
arranged to meet again at 8.30 p.m. under a specified tree close to the
fence. Needless to say, I was very excited, but I started to collect
water-bottles and bags, and by 7 p.m. had everything prepared for the
journey. One of my messmates, Trooper Cadman, kindly gave me his boots,
as he thought they were in better condition than my own for our long
desert trek. Another, Trooper Martins, gave me his socks, water-bottle,
and water-bags. Trooper Lawford gave me his haversack and tunic. The
tunic I was not inclined to accept, as it was the only one he had,
but the generous fellow pressed me to take it. Trooper Dunbar, of the
Transvaal Horse Artillery, gave me his belt, containing a pair of
wirecutters, which he had concealed from the Germans. These were the
only cutters in the camp, all others being taken away.
At about 8 p.m. I said good-bye to my own messmates, all of whom
wished me the best of luck, and requested me to communicate with their
relatives if I was fortunate enough to get through.
I then made my way to the appointed spot, where I met the other three
men, also the doctor and a few of our comrades who were "in the know."
Here I received fifteen or sixteen "fat cookies," which I placed in
my haversack, together with a half-bottle of rum. The doctor had
previously given us a small compass, and each of us had a "first field
dressing" in case of wounds, also some boracic powder and a tin of
ointment, which we found very useful on the journey.
And now came the business of the escape. One man was placed at the
point of the triangle, as shown in the sketch, and another at the
base, to signal to us when all was clear. The signal arranged was the
striking of matches. All four of us, after having shaken hands with our
benefactor, the doctor, crept down alongside the fence. It was very
dark, and there was a slight drizzle of rain. The other prisoners in
camp were attending a concert which had been arranged by the doctor to
avert suspicion. As we lay there, waiting breathlessly for the signal,
we could hear the two German sentries talking outside the fence, only
some ten yards away from where we lay. We had to remain motionless for
about half an hour, and needless to say the suspense was very great. At
last, however, the sentries moved, going in opposite directions around
the triangle, and soon afterwards we saw the eagerly-awaited signal.
Franzen, one of my three companions, immediately got out underneath the
wire and through the bush on the outside. The dogs at the farmhouse
about a hundred yards away promptly commenced to bark, and we had to
remain where we were for about ten minutes, dreading discovery all
the time. Maritz, another of my companions, then followed Franzen;
Mackenzie went next, and I followed. Getting underneath the fence was
a rather difficult task, as we had to lie flat on our bodies and drag
ourselves through, each hand being fully occupied holding a water-bag.
When I got outside the fence I rearranged the bushes to cover the gap
we had made, and then made tracks in the direction of a large tree some
fifty yards from the fence, going from here to an old kraal wall where
we had arranged to meet. On arrival there, I found that I had lost one
of my precious water-bottles and the half-bottle of rum in getting
through the fence, but we decided we must go on without them.
"Well, this is the first part of the business finished," said someone,
and then, shaking hands, we set out.
VI--FLEEING ACROSS THE AFRICAN WILDS
We travelled all night over flat country covered with thick thorn-bush,
going in a south-westerly direction until 6 a.m. the following morning,
when we rested for an hour. Then we pushed on again; we wished to put
as great a distance as possible between us and the camp, as we thought
there was a danger of the Germans finding the missing water-bottles
and the half-bottle of rum at daylight. Even if they did, however, we
knew the native trackers would have a difficulty in picking up our
"spoor," as it had been raining during the night, and the rain would
have obliterated our footprints.
About noon we saw a herd of whitish animals, like mules, which I
understood were quagga. We also saw several herds of zebra. We halted
again at 1 p.m., rested for another hour, and then walked on until 9
p.m. The country here was hilly, with patches of thorn-bush, and the
veldt offered fair going. We rested until 11 p.m., walked on until
three next morning (February 5th) and rested until five. From 5 a.m.
we walked all day over sandy, flat country covered with thick bush.
Here I got separated from the others for about two hours, but was in
no danger, as I carried the compass at this time. I afterwards saw my
companions about a mile away, and we exchanged signals and soon came
together again. I then handed the compass back to Franzen, and between
him and Mackenzie it was carried for the remainder of the journey.
About 7 p.m. we got some water to drink from crevices in the rocks, by
sucking it up. It was a laborious business, but we wanted to conserve
our scanty supply as much as possible. This was about 9 p.m. Soon after
dark it commenced to rain very hard, and we got wet through, having no
shelter and all being in shirt-sleeves (I had discarded the tunic given
me by Trooper Lawford and buried it in the sand the previous day). We
moved on again at midnight, but were only able to proceed slowly as it
was still pitch dark, and the ground very rocky. However, we struggled
along until 4 a.m.
We started off again at daybreak, feeling frightfully cold and
miserable, our clothes being soaked through. We managed to fill four
water-bags from pools in the rocks, crossed a sand flat, and halted
about noon at a small kopje in the middle of it. While resting there
we saw a Klip Kafir coming from a north-westerly direction. He passed
without seeing us, and returned at about 3 p.m. with a companion. We
had to remain hidden until 5 p.m., owing to the proximity of these
natives, as they would have been dangerous to us. They are quite
uncivilized and wild, use poisoned arrows, and are generally shot by
the Germans at sight. They had four dogs with them, and we were lucky
the animals did not scent us.
We were obliged to sit tight for some time after these savages passed,
as they disappeared down an old riverbed, and we were not sure whether
they had remained there watching us or not. However, luckily for us, it
was the last we saw of them, so at about 5 p.m. we resumed our journey,
and continued walking until 7 a.m. the following morning (Saturday,
February 6th). During the night we suddenly came upon a few native huts
at the bottom of a cliff, close to an old riverbed, but we passed as
quickly as possible and none of the inmates appeared to have heard us.
Probably these huts belonged to the natives we had seen earlier in the
day.
We had now arrived at the "Blue Mountains," which we could see so
plainly from our prison camp at Franzfontein. We were obliged to keep
to the north of this range, as we looked upon it as being one of our
"danger-points." We had heard that the enemy had a signalling-post on
the highest peak, which communicated with Omarura. Since then I have
been informed that they not only had a signalling-post, but a whole
company stationed on top of these mountains, so our luck was again in.
Having rested from 7 to 11 a.m. we moved on once more. The country
now became very broken and hard to walk over. Deep kloofs and huge
boulders were much in evidence, and we had to do a lot of climbing. To
make matters worse, my boots were giving way fast, and had it not been
for the wirecutters given to me by Dunbar, I don't know what I should
have done, as with them I managed to pull out the nails and repair the
boots with a piece of wire I had in my pocket. My feet were now getting
very sore, and the climbing began to tell, for each hill seemed to be
steeper and higher than the previous one, and the ground got steadily
worse and worse.
About 2 p.m. we suddenly came on some running water, which gave us
great encouragement, as we thought it was the Omarura River, and we
rested here for an hour. Our "fat cookies" were now running low, and
we only dared eat half of one for each meal, when we could easily have
demolished six or seven and still felt hungry. At 3 p.m. we resumed our
journey for about two hours, but as we found the stream was bearing too
much to the north-west we reluctantly decided to leave it. Filling up
our water-bottles and sacks, and taking a good drink, we again struck
off in a south-westerly course across a high mountain. The stream we
had just left might only exist for a day, being caused by the recent
rains in the mountains. It was the first running water I saw in German
South-West, with the exception of the small stream at Franzfontein.
We continued walking until 7 p.m. and then waited for the moon to rise.
It made its appearance at 11 p.m. and we again resumed our wearisome
tramp and continued marching until 5 a.m., passing through a broken,
hilly region. We rested for about half an hour, and then "trekked"
on once more, continuing the whole day until 6 p.m. over frightful
country. I thought we should never come to the end of these terrible
mountains, and my poor feet were not improving. We rested from 6 till
10 p.m. and moved on again till 1 a.m., when we halted for three hours,
all of us feeling very tired and exhausted. This was Tuesday, February
9th. We started again at 4 a.m., got out of the hills about 7 a.m.,
and continued walking over fairly flat country until 11 a.m., when we
were obliged to halt and rest, as the heat was unbearable. At 3 p.m. we
"trekked" on. Our troubles seemed to be on the increase, for presently
my boots gave out altogether. One of my comrades, Maritz, manufactured
a pair of sandals for himself from my leggings, using his sheath knife,
and gave me his own _veldt schoons_[10]. His feet were in good hard
condition, as he had been going without boots for some considerable
time. The _veldt schoons_ he made himself whilst a prisoner, from
raw hide, and I found them very useful, although a little on the
small side. I was obliged to cut a piece off the toe of each, which
afterwards handicapped me, as the sand worked in and made blisters on
my feet. I used the pugaree from my hat and the bandages from my "first
field dressing" to prevent this, but with very little benefit.
We continued walking until 9 a.m., when we halted for two hours. Our
food was now running out. I had one "fat cookie" and Mackenzie had a
half of one. I shared mine between Franzen, Maritz, and myself. The two
men at first seemed reluctant to accept their portion, but I insisted
on it, saying that we might just as well all die together. At 11 p.m.
we again resumed our interminable journey, and walked on till 3 a.m.,
when we rested for one hour, and continued until daybreak. We could
now distinctly hear the roar of the sea, and also see the fog along
the coast. This gave us great encouragement, and we went ahead with
renewed energy. About 10.30 a.m. we struck some wheel-tracks leading
south-west, which we decided to follow. This was Wednesday, February
10th.
VII--LEFT BEHIND TO DIE IN THE DESERT
I now found it very difficult to keep up with the others, owing to my
feet being so bad. The heat was terrific, and, to make matters worse,
our precious water was almost finished. Early in the afternoon I found
that I was unable to continue at the same pace as the rest, so I told
them to go on. I would follow as best I could, I said, and if they
reached Swakopmund they could send back assistance. My own idea was
that it was better for one man to die than all four, as the others
could not be of any assistance to me by remaining. As they moved on
Franzen waved a cheery good-bye. "We will wait for you at Swakopmund,"
he shouted. I now took off my _veldt schoons_ to attend to my
blistered feet, and remained for a few hours resting until it got a bit
cooler. I divested myself of all superfluous articles, left two of my
water-bottles and the wirecutters behind, and walked on alone. By this
time I could distinctly see the waves beating upon the shore and soon
afterwards reached the beach, where I followed the coastline south.
Towards evening I sighted some buildings, which I thought were the
outskirts of Swakopmund. This gave me great encouragement, so I
continued as fast as circumstances would permit, and reached the
buildings after dark. To my disappointment I found only several
broken-down shanties, without any signs of life. I afterwards
discovered that this was a sealing station, and the name of the spot
Cape Cross. The buildings had been destroyed by the Germans, and the
people who worked there, being mostly British, were taken prisoners.
Cape Cross is ninety miles from Swakopmund, and had I known this fact
then I should probably have thrown up the sponge. My only thoughts at
the time were of our own pickets, whom I feared might shoot me. Several
times I fancied I heard the challenge, "Halt! Who goes there?" to which
I replied "Friend!" in a loud voice; but each time the only answer I
received was the mocking echo of my own voice. Presently I noticed a
tramline, which I followed for a mile or two, when suddenly I heard a
peculiar noise, resembling pigs grunting and lambs bleating. I went
in the direction of these animals, as I supposed, and suddenly found
myself right in the thick of a herd of seals, some of them much bigger
than myself, who started jumping all around me. I "cleared" for all I
was worth, as I had nothing to protect myself with. This must have been
about 11 p.m., and soon afterwards it began to rain heavily, so I dug a
hole behind a mound to protect myself from the piercing wind. It was
bitterly cold, and I was soaked to the skin in a very short space of
time. My bags were empty, and here were tons of life-giving water going
to waste, so I devised a plan to catch some of the precious liquid, by
cutting the side and top seams of my water-bags, spreading them out on
the sand, and then making an impression in the centre which formed a
cup-shape. When the rain ceased I got out of my burrow, and had a good
drink of the water which my sack had caught. This was the last fresh
water I had until the following Saturday afternoon.
Feeling miserably cold and weak, I moved stiffly on through the
darkness. At daybreak, to my concern, I found that I was nearly
surrounded by the sea, but the water on my left was not very deep. Here
I saw thousands of pelicans and other birds, so I looked for eggs,
but could not find any. Taking off my _schoons_, socks, and riding
pants, I waded across the water to dry land. Here I noticed a few wagon
tracks going north and south, so I decided to follow them, wherever
they led. After wandering along for some hours I saw some rocky ground
on my left and went towards it in search of fresh water. I found a
little in the crevices in the rocks, but unfortunately it was brackish.
However, I filled my remaining water-bottles, as it was better than
nothing, and continued on my journey along the sea coast until the heat
became unbearable. I then halted and took off my shirt, and with the
assistance of some large whale-bones, with which the beach was strewn,
and the remains of an old deck-chair which had been washed up on the
shore, I rigged up a shade and remained under it until it got cool,
when I again moved on. This time I walked until it got quite dark,
when I dug a hole in the sand behind a mound and got into it. By this
time my hopes of reaching Swakopmund had almost completely vanished,
and I wondered if I should ever wake again. I felt quite indifferent
to my fate; in fact, as I scooped out the hole, the thought occurred
to me that I was digging my own grave. After getting into it I saw two
wolves, or wild dogs--I don't know which--but they only looked at me
and trotted off. If they had attacked me I should have fallen an easy
victim.
I slept well that night, and did not awake until daybreak, when I again
got on the move. Several times during the day I must have been quite
delirious, for once I found myself sitting on a rock cleaning out the
salty sand from a hole, so that when it rained again the water there
would not be salty, and some poor traveller might get a drink! About
noon I crossed a riverbed, and found some more water, which was also
brackish. Later on I crossed yet another channel, which, I understand,
was the Amuroro River. There was a little vegetation here, but no
water. However, I found a large wild-fig tree laden with green figs, so
I thought I was in clover; but to my dismay found the inside of them
perfectly dry, and full of insects. I did manage to eat some of the
outside peel; then I lay down under the tree and slept for a couple of
hours. When I awoke I found four arrows quite close to me, and tied
them together with a piece of calico. Looking around the tree, I found
four more. They were all cleverly made, with feathers at the end, and
I took them with me and moved on.
I have no recollection of what happened during the night of that day,
but I must have been wandering on all the time. The following day I saw
a mountain away on my left, so I thought of going towards it, as there
might be a chance of getting water. I went about a mile, but finally
decided it was no good going any farther. I then commenced turning
up all the stones I could find, so that if it rained I might catch a
little water to drink. The fluid in my bottles was now getting putrid.
I had been taking a mouthful at a time, not allowing any to get down my
throat, as I feared that if I swallowed the awful stuff it would drive
me mad. I was now asking myself which was the best and easiest way of
putting an end to my misery; I had no hope of getting out alive.
I believe if it had not been for the valuable information which I
possessed, and which first prompted me to attempt to escape, I should
have committed suicide, but a reluctance to let my news die with me
kept me going. I now seemed to be having recurrent spasms of delirium,
for once I remember suddenly coming to my senses and finding I was
laughing. I imagined then my end was pretty near. It did not seem to
worry me; in fact, I felt a sort of happy feeling, and thought to
myself, "Well, I am going to meet my old friends who are dead."
VIII--DIGGING MY OWN GRAVE--THE REUNION
I tied my water-sack to a piece of the deck-chair which I had been
using for a walking-stick, to represent a flag, and propped it up in
the hope that it might be seen by some passing ship or a patrol. It
would also mark the place where my body would be found. I then lay down
and went to sleep for a couple of hours. Soon after I awoke I noticed
three figures walking along the beach, about half a mile from me. I
stood up and signalled to them, and they stopped, looked towards me,
and then moved on.
"Whoever you are," I thought, "I am going to follow you." So I picked
up my flag, arrows, and water-bottles--I must have looked a regular
Robinson Crusoe--and went towards them. They sat down and waited
for me. When I got up to them I thought they were natives, as they
appeared to be black, and it was only after Mackenzie spoke that I
recognized his voice, and knew that they were my own mates, whom I had
lost three days previously.
"Good heavens, Pat!" cried Mackenzie. "How have you lived? Where did
you get water?"
By way of reply I handed him my water-bottles. He took the cork out of
one, smelt it, and threw both away; they smelt horrible. He then gave
me some water, and I may say that I never tasted anything so sweet
in my life before. I only took a little at a time, but each mouthful
seemed to give me fresh life, and my tongue, which was swollen, got
back to its normal size, and the horrid dry feeling in my throat went
away. We remained here about an hour, during which time my mates and I
compared notes as to what had happened since we parted on the Wednesday.
It was now February 13th, and a Saturday afternoon. They told me that
on arrival at the sealing station, the evening we separated, they
turned into a house and fixed up a lamp with some seal oil which they
found. They left the lamp burning at the window so that I could see it,
and being very tired, all of them went to sleep. The lamp, however,
must have gone out. In the morning, finding that I had not turned up,
Franzen and Maritz went back to see if they could find me. In the
meantime Mackenzie hunted for shellfish among the rocks, and managed
to find enough for two meals. There was a plentiful supply of water,
as the previous night's rain had half-filled several old tanks. After
going back a few miles Maritz and Franzen found the lid of a small tin
box which they knew I had been carrying in my haversack. From this they
realized that I had passed their sleeping-place during the night, and
was probably somewhere in front. To make quite sure, however, they
waited all that day, and resumed the journey on Friday morning. They
noticed my "spoor," but had lost it some hours previously.
Mackenzie advised me to throw away the arrows I had been carrying, as
one of us might easily get scratched and poisoned with them. I was
now feeling much refreshed, so we all "trekked" on together. We had
not gone very far when we saw a white sea-bird, with red on its bill,
standing on the sand. It looked sick, so we gathered round it, and I
gave Maritz my piece of deck-chair to kill it with.
We then set about collecting firewood, there being any amount of
driftwood scattered about the beach, and with the aid of flint and
steel, which Mackenzie carried with him, we lit a great blazing fire.
In the meantime Maritz had skinned the bird, and Franzen had got some
salt water in a kettle they had picked up at Cape Cross. After boiling
our bird for about fifteen minutes we tackled it, my share being the
liver and one of the legs. It did not taste at all bad. We then sat by
the fire for some little time, feeling a good deal better, and again
resumed our journey. We walked until 3 a.m., and then tried to sleep,
but found it too cold. At daybreak we resumed our tramp. It began to
drizzle, and about nine o'clock we came to some flat, rocky ground,
where I borrowed a water-bottle from Franzen, and managed to fill it.
We walked on until about 3 p.m., when we sighted what appeared to be
tall chimney-stacks in the distance. Franzen asked me what I thought
they were, and I said, "Perhaps some abandoned place, like the one we
passed up the coast."
"I think it's Swakopmund," he said.
This I ridiculed, for I had quite given up hopes of seeing the town. I
was feeling very weak now, and my feet were frightfully sore on account
of the sand getting through my _schoons_. The others decided to push
on as fast as possible, and, if the place turned out to be Swakopmund,
to send back help. Before long they were out of sight, and I was alone
once more. However, I "trekked" on, and just as the sun was going down
I saw, to my huge delight, smoke emerging from a chimney-stack. I knew
then that it must be the place we were looking for, and this made me
plod on with fresh energy.
IX--SAVED AND READY FOR THE FRAY AGAIN
When I was about a mile and a half from the smoking chimney I saw
three men coming towards me leading a horse. I signalled to them, and
sat down to await their arrival. They turned out to be men of my own
regiment, attached to the police of Swakopmund. They had been ordered
out to meet me, my mates having reported that I was following on behind
them. I was put on the horse, and on the way into Swakopmund was met by
hundreds of men of the garrison. Some brought brandy and others tea,
and one party had a stretcher. They let me have a little brandy, and
removed me from the horse to the stretcher, and in this I was conveyed
to the hospital.
The men of the garrison cheered again and again, and all of them seemed
greatly excited. I suppose our arrival was something new for them, as
I understand that duty at Swakopmund had been very uneventful.
I was taken to the Antonios Hospital, which was under the charge of
Major Moffatt, and he and everybody else was most kind and attentive.
My pulse on arrival read thirty-eight, and the nursing sister put me
on the scales the following day, when I found, to my great surprise,
that I had lost twenty-nine pounds in weight. Very soon, however, I
began to regain strength, and in a few days could move around. After
spending ten days in hospital I was brought before a board of officers,
who inquired into the cause of my capture, and returned a verdict "that
I became a prisoner through the fortunes of war, and through no fault
of my own."
The same day I was sent to Walfish Bay, and the following morning
joined the S.S. _City of Athens_ for Cape Town, on a month's sick leave.
There were seven or eight Germans on board who had been made prisoners.
I was told that they refused to believe that four men had escaped from
Franzfontein Camp. They said that such a thing was quite impossible.
I have since been informed on good authority that we were almost
recaptured within a few miles of Swakopmund. Since the surrender of
German South-West I have ascertained from a released prisoner from
Franzfontein Camp that our escape was "given away" by one of our
fellow-prisoners just three days after we left. The Germans promptly
gave chase, and must have been very close behind us at Cape Cross.
The Germans, however, returned and reported us dead, and as proof of
their statement they produced my hat, which I had lost on the night
of my encounter with the seals, south of Cape Cross. Some of our men
had little difficulty in identifying the hat, as it was punctured by a
bullet in the action at Garub, and had an "I.L.H." badge on it, which
they knew by sight. When the officer commanding the camp first heard
of our escape he laughed and said we could not get through, and that
we were mad to try it. We did pull through, however, by the mercy of
Providence, and are now again ready for the fray.
In conclusion I would like to state that I am quite convinced that,
if they had had the chance, there were many other men amongst the
prisoners at Franzfontein who would have accompanied our party. My own
part in escaping from the enemy and bringing what I believed to be
important information to our own forces I consider was nothing more or
less than my duty, and what nine out of every ten soldiers would have
done in similar circumstances.
FOOTNOTE:
[10] I should like here to put on record my admiration for my three
companions. No man ever had better "mates." Had it not been for
Maritz's noble act in giving me his own shoes I could not possibly
have reached the sea; it was a splendid piece of self-sacrifice.
Mackenzie was our leader. His optimism and cheeriness kept heart in us
all through that weary trek, and all three of them showed the utmost
good-fellowship and pluck.--H. J. MCELNEA.
WHAT AN AMERICAN WOMAN SAW ON THE SERBIAN FRONT
_How I Viewed a Battle from a Precipice_
_Told by Mrs. Charles H. Farnum of New York_
Mrs. Farnum was decorated by Prince Alexander for her relief work
in Serbia. Here she tells how she stood for six hours at a military
observation station on October 11, 1916, and watched the successful
fight of the Serbians to regain the village of Brod at the beginning
of their advance against the Bulgarians. Her story is told in the
_New York Sun_.
I--STORY OF A DINNER WITH PRINCE ALEXANDER
Having conducted hospital work with the Serbian armies in two Balkan
wars it was out of the question for me to go anywhere but to Serbia
when the present conflict started. I love Serbia and the Serbian
people, and when I have told my story perhaps you will, too.
After serving through one campaign, a disastrous one for Serbia, I came
to America, and with the assistance of Miss Catherine Burke raised
$38,000 for the American unit of the Scottish Women's Hospital. I was
only too eager to accept when it was suggested by the Serbian Relief
Committee that I return to the war zone to see that the money was
properly administered.
This explains how I came to be in Ostrova on a certain evening last
October, seated at dinner next to Prince Alexander of Serbia, whose
generosity of heart led him to overestimate my service to his nation.
"Would you like to go to the front?" he asked me.
I had been behind the battle lines, and I wanted to tell my countrymen
just how the Serbs were fighting.
"I would like nothing better," I said, "but, of course, it is
impossible."
The Prince smiled. "Madam," he replied, "nothing that you may wish is
impossible."
I thought at first that it was merely his innate politeness, but with
the least possible delay Prince Alexander delivered me into the care of
Col. Sondermayer, chief of the medical service of the Serbian army.
"She is to go wherever she wishes to," was the command delivered to the
Colonel.
And so we started out in a somewhat rattly automobile and went upward
into the mountains, passing a continuous stream of soldiers--French
going to Kisova and Serbians to Dobrpolje. Ammunition trains and
convoys of wounded rumbled over the roads day and night. They were the
back currents, the eddies of the war we were traversing.
As we passed a stone post at the side of the wheel-rutted road one of
the officers said: "We are now in Serbia. This soil has been wrested
from the conqueror."
I cried, "Stoy!" which is to say "Stop."
The chauffeur brought the car to a standstill and I jumped out. The men
followed me and we knelt and kissed the soil we all loved. I do not
think their emotion could have been stronger than my own.
Shortly after this Major Todorovitch pointed into the sky and said,
"See the aeroplanes. They are our scouts."
I looked in the direction he indicated, but all I could see was a
series of puffs of white. It was shrapnel from the Bulgarian guns
bursting so close to the Serbian planes that the round puffs of smoke
were drawn out into streaks by the suction of the fast flying machines.
Occasionally we could see the sun flash on the wings of the aeroplanes
just as you can sometimes see the approach of a canoe by the flash of
the sunlight on the paddles before you can really distinguish the craft
itself.
At Vrbeni I met Gen. Vassitch, the "_voivode mishitch_"
(commander-in-chief) of all the Serbian forces. Col. Sondermayer
explained that I wished to go to the front.
"How far forward do you wish to go?" asked the General.
"As far as your officers can go," I replied.
The General shrugged his shoulders as though to say, "There is no place
for these women in war," then seeming suddenly to realize that I was in
earnest, he bowed and said, "Madam, you should have been one of us--one
of our Serbian soldiers."
Calling his aide-de-camp, Major Todorovitch, he directed him to obey
my orders and take me wherever I wished to go, so we again got into
the rattly automobile and began to climb still further up into the
mountains.
In the distance I heard the roar of the big guns. As their noise
grew louder the strumming of the machine guns mingled with it and
their staccato was always distinguishable even amid the ear crushing
thunder of the high explosives. Then came the rat-a-pat of rifle fire,
foolishly insignificant in point of noise compared to the cannon, but
cruelly deadly, as any one who has seen war knows.
Artillery is terrifying, but after all it is cold steel in the
hand-to-hand, bestial fighting that slays.
II--THE WOUNDED ON THE SERBIAN ROADS
The ammunition wagons almost jammed one side of the road now and the
other side was jammed with the carts bringing back the wounded. On
their scant beds of straw they lay, some groaning, some shrieking
in delirium, some grinning, but almost all of them contented and
uncomplaining if they had a cigarette.
Your wounded Serbian prefers his cigarette to an anæsthetic, and I
have seen the most painful, shocking operations performed in the field
hospitals with no other sedative for the patient than a cigarette. In
Serbia no one begs. It is considered almost a crime, but there is one
temptation the soldiers cannot resist, especially the wounded ones.
That is to ask for a cigarette.
During one of our halts I spoke to one poor fellow whose lips were
blue, eyes dim and breath coming in short, painful gasps, almost sobs.
I knew that before he reached the field hospital his body would be
taken from the cart and laid at the roadside for burial.
Although the words almost killed him he managed to gasp, "Little
Sister--for the love--of mercy--a cigarette."
I gave him one. I saw him take one blissful puff, blow from his mouth
the smoke, which was no bluer than his lips, and die. So small a thing
as a cigarette had sent one man who died for his country before his God
with a smile upon his lips, despite his suffering. Was this not worth
my whole trip?
We passed the Serbian artillery and to the summit of Dobrpolje. Here
in the crevice of a great rock we ate lunch, which had been supplied
by officers at the very front. There were pancakes, raw onions, bread
and Turkish coffee, and a meat stew. I know something about fare at the
front, and there is no doubt in my mind that these same officers went
on short rations for many a day to make up for the repast they set me.
There was more sugar in the coffee than a soldier in Serbia gets in
four days.
In our crevice in the rock we were 500 yards in advance of the Serbian
guns. The panorama of the battle was spread out before us. The great
projectiles from the masked Serbian artillery, which was being fired
over a range of hills, swept diagonally in front of me from a line
behind. They exploded in the village of Brod and on the hill in the
rear of it were the Bulgarian trenches. Through binoculars I could see
into the Serbian trenches and sometimes men in the Bulgarian trenches.
The enemy's guns were firing from behind the hill on which stood the
village of Brod, but they did not have the range of our artillery, and
most of their fire fell on a village a quarter of a mile in our rear.
At times, however, a big shell exploded in the Serbian trenches and I
saw monstrous mushrooms of earth and debris hurled high into the air.
In the debris were many fragments. Some were of timber and some were of
human flesh and bone.
Stretching away directly in front of us was a wide plain, at the far
extremity of which against a hill was Monastir, resembling a great
cluster of pearls against the dark mountain. The French from the
heights of Kisova were shooting down into this plain.
It was terrible; it was grand. It was cruel; it was sublime. My
emotions almost overcame me. Major Todorovitch, noticing my agitation,
thought I was unstrung and wished to return to the rear.
"Do you not feel well?" he asked me.
"I feel--I feel like a man," I said.
It was the only way I could express myself. I understood now how men
fought and died, and were willing to fight and die innumerable times if
it were possible for their country. If some of my sisters who cry for
peace at any price could have seen the grandeur of this war in a just
cause I am sure they would feel as I did.
Major Todorovitch leaped to his feet and grasped both my hands. I
thought he would crush the bones.
"Come," he cried, "you are one of us. You shall have the greatest honor
of us all."
Dragging me to the edge of the precipice, where had a Bulgarian officer
seen him a burst of shrapnel would have greeted him, he planted his
feet firmly against a solid rock.
"Lean over!" he cried enthusiastically.
Holding to his hands, my arms straining behind me, I leaned far over
the edge of the precipice. I seemed suspended over the very heart of
the battle. It seemed for a moment as though the spirit of the war had
caught me up and flown with me where the whole fabric of the world
conflict was being woven beneath my feet.
"Now," cried the Major, "you are further into Serbia--Serbia
reconquered--than the bravest of our brave have been. No Serbian
fighting man has yet been so close to Monastir."
The fineness of his compliment could not have been excelled.
I had been told that I might remain upon the summit of Dobrpolje an
hour, but the scene fascinated me so and my soldier escorts were so
chivalrous that they gave in to me and it was not until nightfall that
they dragged me away to the rear, although we had reached the summit
about midday.
Once more we were in the backwash of the battle. The roads were lined
with stretcher bearers and in the stretchers lay men whose blood
dripped through the canvas and stained the dust of the roads--the dust
for which they were fighting and dying and suffering the tortures of
the damned.
From the _postes de secours_ they were taken to the rear in carts, and
the steady rumble of the heavy wheels reminded me of the passing of
the tumbrels in the "Tale of Two Cities."
At one point we passed about 800 Bulgarian prisoners and they did not
seem at all unhappy at being out of the fighting. It is a commentary on
the nature of the Serbians that they gave cigarettes to the prisoners,
although the Bulgars have committed nameless atrocities against their
foes and have devastated thousands of acres of prune trees, thus
destroying a lucrative and immense Serbian industry.
That night Brod fell to the Serbs, but nevertheless I had been that day
further into Serbia than any of her fighting sons at that time.
III--A WOMAN OFFICER OF THE CAVALRY
I do not know what silly things Major Todorovitch told Gen. Vassitch,
but the General, before all his staff, made me an officer of the First
Cavalry, which is the crack Serbian regiment, and a uniform has been
sent to me and is on the way to the United States, although there is
not enough cloth in Serbia to clothe her own troops. Perhaps when I go
back I can use it, for although many an officer offered me a horse,
none proffered me a pair of trousers to ride in.
When I was back in Salonica Prince Alexander sent for me and with his
own hands pinned on my breast the Order of St. Sava, which is the most
coveted of all the Serbian orders.
When I asked him if he really thought I merited it, he said, "I know of
no better friend to Serbia than you." I had already held the Kossova
medal, which is given only for personal attendance to the wounded, and
the Royal Order of the Serbian Red Cross.
Through the kindness of Col. Sondermayer another woman and myself
were smuggled into a dinner given to Venizelos, at which no women were
supposed to be present. During the course of the dinner Venizelos
suddenly turned his head so that he happened to see me and started, as
might be expected at a dinner where women were excluded. I also was
covered with confusion and could not help showing it.
The next day Col. Sondermayer called with an invitation to visit
Venizelos. When we reached his office he was overwhelmed with work,
but he rose from his chair and said kindly, "Have I not seen your face
before?"
"Yes," I replied, "last night at the dinner when you turned your head
and I lost mine."
He laughed, and we were engaged in conversation for an hour. Venizelos
entrusted me with a message for the Greeks in America.
"Tell them," he said, "that we need them. If they cannot come to fight
they can send money, and it will be used to take care of those who are
fighting and those who are left alone after the great battles."
I might refer here to the attitude of the women and even the little
children of Serbia and Greece. It is true that the hardest, most cruel
burdens of war fell upon the women and the children who are left widows
and orphans or who suffer while the men are at the front. It has always
been so, but as in every patriotic nation the women are suffering and
doing their share as bravely as the men. The soldiers are glad and
proud to die for their country, and their women folk and children are
proud to have them, despite the sorrow and privation.
It should be a lesson to us in America. Our men and our women and
children would be as ready and as willing to bear their burdens, but
now in peace and prosperity we should prepare against the time when we
may have to take up our burdens so that they may fall no more heavily
than is necessary.
Venizelos is above all a Greek.
"I do not care for myself or for what may become of me," he said. "I am
working and living and will die for Greece. Greece must live and live
in glory and integrity."
Salonica seemed to me the concentrated essence of life. It is a
kaleidoscopic scene. You come across the uniform of pretty nearly every
nationality, and every known language seems to be spoken. There are
soldiers and refugees, Turks and Christians, Greeks and Jews, and the
town hums like a beehive day and night. Troops are coming and going,
not only white men but negroes, Sudanese, Congoese, Annamese and many
others.
When I was in Serbia I had scooped up a handful of earth and had
treasured it and brought it back with me to Salonica, where I showed it
to some Serbs. Tears came into their eyes and they gazed upon it with
a reverence worthy of a sacred relic.
One man thrust his hand into it and said, "You have had the honor
and the joy, which, alas, I have not had, of setting foot on Serbian
soil freed from the invader. But I swear to you by this sacred earth
that I will not die until I have kissed the soil of my country. After
that----" he shrugged his shoulders.
By now this man, who was a soldier, may have fulfilled his vow, and if
so he is happy, though his kiss may have been a dying breath.
"KAMERADS"!--CAPTURING HUNS IN THE ALPS WITHOUT A FIGHT
_An Extract from the Diary of a Lieutenant of Alpine Chasseurs_
_Set down by Henri Viard_
A racy story told by a young French subaltern, showing how six Alpine
Chasseurs bluffed three hundred Huns, with eight officers, into
surrendering without a fight.--In the _Wide World Magazine_.
I--STORY OF SCOUTING IN THE ALPS
At 5 a.m. on a certain day orders were received for an attempt to drive
the enemy from certain strong entrenchments.
To baffle observation, we went forward through the woods. Connection
between units was very awkward to maintain, and, many a time, the
direction would have been lost were we not guided by the sound of
the guns. Nothing but the distant booming of Fritz's cannon and the
occasional explosion of a shell broke the forest hush. In Indian file,
with scouts some distance ahead, we scrambled through the undergrowth,
our feet frequently caught by roots and all kinds of clinging
impedimenta, our faces lashed by brambles. We were eager and silent.
When exasperated by obstacles, the men swore in dumb show. The orders
were to keep mum; so mum we kept.
One's imagination was at work, though, and this warpath-treading
business was to me a sort of reminiscence. Had I not lived it before?
When a boy, reading Fenimore Cooper and similar authors, I sometimes
played at "Pathfinder"; now as a man I felt as if I really was a
"paleface" leading a surprise party through virgin backwoods after
redskins. Of a truth, the savages that had come upon us from the
northern prairies were far worse than Sioux, Cheyennes, Hurons, or
Kickapoos. They had sung the She-go-dem, they had sent out the tomahawk
and yearned for our scalps. Well, we'll have theirs instead.
At last, the two leading companions, Captain B----'s and my own,
reached the edge of the woods and espied the village, four hundred
yards away, all bright in the morning sun. The bulk of the battalion
had not come up yet. Captain B---- turned and asked, "What next?"
"_Allons-y!_" we replied; "the others will follow suit." Accordingly
we massed up quickly in two columns, just outside the cover, and then,
"Forward!"
A rush, a pounce--we were intent on catching them. Whew! Caught a crab!
The hornets had flown--the nest is empty. Where are the brutes? We
meant to surprise them, but, by Jove, they gave us an eye-opener.
The solitary thoroughfare descending to the bridge was enfiladed by
four machine-guns ambuscaded on the other side of the water. The
moment we got into this beastly funnel the hose was turned on and
torrents of bullets splashed by. I leapt to the right, my comrade to
the left side of the street, and we fell flat into whatever recesses
the walls offered. So long as those deadly jets continued the road was
impassable. We could only communicate by shouts, but fortunately our
vocal chords are sound. The guns made an infernal din. The bullets
ricocheted with vicious hisses--pish, whizz, zizz--striking sparks from
flints, zigzagging about, grazing the roadway, raising clouds of dust
that hung like a fog overhead.
I squatted my Chasseurs behind the church buttresses, and from these
shelters they made faces at their comrades over the way and exchanged
banter.
"Put your hand out to see whether there is a draught!" yelled one.
"Can't hear. Come and tell dad, ducky," came the retort.
Irrepressible boys! Danger seems to sharpen their wits.
Presently an order reached me--Heaven knows how--to look out and select
whatever "combat position" I could for my men.
But what position was I to select? I couldn't see much of a panorama
from my hole. I must go out and reconnoitre.
I called for a volunteer, and every man in the platoon answered, "I,
sir! I, sir!" Nearest, best heard. A glance at the fellow next to me.
It was Pierrat, a brick. He would do. So, my steps dogged by this hardy
terrier, I began to play hide and seek from enclosure to enclosure,
dodging down towards the river. Now a back yard, now an orchard, had
to be negotiated. They were tricky places; you never knew whether you
wouldn't come to a dead stop before you were half-way through. From
time to time, whenever a fresh bit of shelter is reached, without
looking back, I called out to Pierrat: "Keeping on?"
"_Oui, oui_," he answered, and it was a comfort to be sure that my
faithful shadow was still at my heels.
II--A DASH ACROSS THE DEATH ZONE
When we were almost at the bottom of the declivity I descried near the
bridge, but on the other side of the road, the railway station. A nice
position, this--quite my fancy. Suppose we occupied it! But it must be
investigated first, and--well, it was on the other side of the road. My
rifleman and I took a long look at the building, and calculated the
distance between it and us, and cast a wistful look at each other.
"Rum job, sir," Pierrat agreed. Then, after a moment's consideration,
he blurted out: "But I've an idea. Let us make the dash together. The
odds are that one of the two will get over."
"Quite so," I told him. "Yet, if I'm the one who does not, will _you_
take command of the fellows?"
He hesitated for a second, took another look at me, and then answered,
resolutely, "Why not, sir?"
I shook hands with my new-found successor and, in two leaps the
seven-league-booted ogre would have been proud of, we were across
the death-zone. Thence, crawling through some gardens, we reached
the station unscathed. I got into what had been the waiting-room and
the station-master's tiny office. Broken chairs, topsy-turvy tables,
lacerated prints, smashed telephone and telegraph fixtures, and empty
bottles galore strewed the floor. Wherever Teutons have been, "dead"
bottles are certain to be found.
"Drunkards!" grumbled Pierrat, probably feeling very dry.
While I was observing the bridge and mill through the waiting-room's
glass door, a stray bullet came crashing in to frame my head in a
star of cracks, just under a clean round hole. A fig for aureoles!
I'm not a saint yet, nor a hero--which fact I demonstrated instantly
by a most unheroic back-start. The place was unhealthy; I would have
a look elsewhere. Accordingly I went out on the platform. The part
for passengers was too exposed--only fit for express despatch into
the other world--but what of the goods department? Merchandise has
a knack of lingering on local lines, so provident authorities build
weather-proof accommodation for it. This goods depot was a splendid
specimen of the sort, with stout, breast-high walls, formerly glass
roofed. The glass being already smashed, it would not crash down on
the men; but the walls stood, a strong parapet from behind which an
efficient fire could be poured into hostile trenches.
I had got my combat position!
The trouble now was to man it. How many of my fellows would live to
cross that bullet-swept road? Well, we should see. The first thing was
to try and fetch them.
Leaving Pierrat with strict injunctions to keep under cover and have a
nap if he liked, but on no account to attract the enemy's attention,
I sneaked back somehow to my platoon and ordered a move. "Every man
will shift for himself," I told them. "Rendezvous this side of the
road opposite the station." I knew Chasseurs could be trusted to find
their way through anything. My only doubt was whether I should not be
outpaced. As a matter of fact, I was by no means the first in, yet not
the last.
When everybody had joined but those whom it would be no use to wait
for, I bade them crouch behind me in a line on the verge of the bullet
stream, ready to plunge ahead the moment they heard the word.
Presently there came a lull. "Over, lads!"
And over we went. Some did not reach the other side. There are tombs
opposite the station, each marked by a little wooden cross with a
tam-o'-shanter on top, which will be tended so long as any one of us is
left. How many? There was no time to count them just then.
At last we were in the station.
Here I concealed the men behind the parapet, with instructions to cut
loopholes and amuse themselves by potting at whatever was worth a shot.
At first they did not make much practice. Little by little, however,
they spotted places where the Huns offered a target, and then there was
sport.
Whenever a silhouette jerked into view, all my Chasseurs giggled for
glee. They arranged a sort of rotation between the best shots, and no
one would give up his turn to snipe. Pending developments, the more
indifferent marksmen watched their comrades' practice, and at each
"bull's-eye" a murmur of approval came from the spectators. One of
them, a youngster, could scarcely control his excitement. He had a
quick eye and, being often the first to catch a glimpse of something,
yelped like a boy on his first morning out after grouse. "Here's
stuff!" he cried. "Here's stuff!" His neighbour, a steady, unerring
killer, suspected of poaching propensities in civilian life, used
unconventional language under his breath at each exclamation. At last,
as the tyro uttered a shout a little louder than usual, he gave him
a vicious kick, bawling, "Hold your row!" The contrast between the
advice and the stentorian way in which it was imparted made everybody
smile--even the kicked one, who retorted, good-humouredly, "Keep your
nerve, mate, or you won't shoot straight!"
Noon. Upon my word, this little game seemed as if it could go on
indefinitely, for the Germans, their attention concentrated on the
village, which they kept riddling with bullets, had not "registered" us
yet.
I contemplated the bridge with longing, greedy eyes, for I felt mad to
get to the other side of it. At last I ventured to send a suggestion up
to my C.O. Back came the reply: "What's the sense of risking a bearer's
life to transmit unnecessary messages? Pocket your pluck and stay where
you are."
The time dragged awfully. What would introduce novelty into the
situation? I was just "fed up" with it.
III--THE PLATOON AT THE CASTLE WALLS
About 4 p.m. the scene changed. From somewhere, like bolts from the
blue, six-inch shells began to shower down, not on us, but in front of
us. It made all the difference.
It was our own guns, firing at the Huns, and the first shots, somewhat
short, fell in the river, sending up superb water-jets which the
now oblique sun illuminated with all the colours of the rainbow. At
times, spray splashed down right upon us and, though there is nothing
particularly nice about a shower-bath when one is not in the undress
for it, we laughed at the quip the sprinkling elicited from a Parisian:
"Well spouted, Versailles waterworks!"
But our gunners soon found the exact range, and houses and enemy
trenches and their contents began to play fireworks, with stones and
pebbles and heads and limbs for stars and rockets. The Huns did not
seem to like this; we could see them reel back. After each _rafale_, my
men were so elated at the ensuing stampede that most of them popped up
in full view over the parapet, cheering like mad, and forgot to shoot.
Presently our C.O. came down to the station and decided that the town
should be entered. I had been the first to get near the bridge, and
no one disputed my right to be the first across. "Fix bayonets and
forward!" My men, highly-strung by protracted tantalization, rushed
headlong into the village. I expected the Germans to counter with
cold steel, but nothing of the sort happened. Where were the beggars?
We searched the buildings. In the mill I found only three blanched
Bavarians hidden away behind sacks of flour, and holes were promptly
driven through the lot, sacks and all.
I formed my platoon up in two small columns, with orders to advance
crouching along the dykes on both sides of the road, which was still
swept by machine-guns. Suddenly the _crécelles_ ceased rattling, and I
perceived against the enclosure wall of the castle a man signalling to
us. I did not know for a moment what to make of his gesticulations, but
I could see that he wore red trousers. It was "Come on!" that he was
signalling. On, then, and the Evil One take the hindmost!
I heard later that the fellow was a prisoner and risked everything to
give us a useful hint.
_Pardieu!_ he did. He rendered the battalion an invaluable service that
eventide.
The instant I realized the red-trousered signaller's meaning I guessed
that something out of the common must be taking place within the
castle. With my sergeant and four men, revolver in hand, I bounded at
the double ahead of the platoon and threw myself against the entrance
door. It crashed open, and I tumbled against six feet of grey-coated
"Kultur."
Blood and fury! My left hand flew at his throat, clutched it, and gave
it a violent twist, while my right tried to level the shooting-iron
between his eyes. They met mine, and something in them made me shout
in German, "Do you surrender?" He seemed to hesitate for the fraction
of a second; then he gasped in pure French, "That was my intention."
I relaxed my hold, and he added, calmly, "_La guerre est une chose
effroyable. Je me constitue prisonnier_."
Very civil, I am sure. I felt I ought to bow, for classical language
like this knocks a fellow a couple of centuries back. It knocked every
glimmer of passion out of me. I recovered self-possession in a jiffy
and--to make amends for whatever bad form there might have been in
my recent exhibition of excitement--turned round majestically and
surveyed the situation with lordly composure.
Jove!
In the huge yard were some three hundred Huns. The sight gave me a
start, but I showed no emotion. Why didn't they shoot, though? They
looked puzzled.
"I ask for the lives of my men," said the well-bred voice behind me.
The tall jackanapes, it appeared, was their _Hauptmann_ (Captain). Was
he, then, surrendering the lot as well as himself?
I couldn't believe it, but I acted as if it was a matter of course.
"Granted," I growled, without turning a hair, "but arms down and hands
up!"
"Ground arms!" bawled the German's voice. Scarcely had the command
rung out when, like clockwork, forward bent three hundred automatons,
down went three hundred rifles, and up again to attention stood three
hundred disarmed boobies.
"Hands up!" Up went six hundred paws, and three hundred hoarse voices
chorused "Kamerads! Kamerads!"
Ripping! I could have yelled with joy at the sight and shouted "Bravo!"
But not a sound escaped my lips. Instead I folded my arms and remained
motionless, looking very fierce, I dare say.
Wouldn't there have been a hullabaloo if somebody had guessed what
thoughts were passing through the poor brain inside that stern figure?
IV--A DARING RUSE--AND SURRENDER
Presently, seven officers stepped out, marched up, fell in behind my
prisoner, and extended the hilts of their swords to me. "Keep 'em," I
ordered, dryly; "you'll give 'em to my C.O. Now let's move off, and be
sharp!"
"May I beg leave to tell my men they will not be shot?" the Captain
asked.
"Very well," I told him; "but don't be long about it."
He went towards his docile crowd and gave them the welcome assurance.
Evidently they had been taught that the French give no quarter. I
wished he would make a speech, for the whole point for me was to gain
time so that supports might arrive. Back he came, and I was in a sweat
with the perspiration oozing from my temples. When was he going to see
that there were only four men, one N.C.O., and my anxious self on the
premises?
Having placed my quartette of Chasseurs and the sergeant on guard at
the ward end of the archway, so as to prevent any of the rats in the
trap peeping out, I went with a thumping heart to the outer door and
took a glance up the road. Hurrah! My platoon had crept up along the
ditches. "Up with you!" I shouted, and, screening myself round the
corner of the gateway, added, in a lower tone, "Do not look surprised."
Then, aloud, I yelled: "Prisoners' escort! About-turn!"
It would never do to give the German officers a chance of realizing how
enormously their men outnumbered mine, so I quickly returned to where
the _Hauptmann_ and his subalterns stood in a disconsolate group.
"You remain with me, gentlemen," I told them. "Make your men form fours
and file out."
"Right! Fours! March!"
When the last four passed out--the whole of the idiots leaving their
rifles and bayonets in the yard, of course--I ordered "Halt," and with
the eight specimens of Hunnish officerdom swinging behind me in step,
moved deliberately to the head of the column.
The enemy being now disarmed, I could afford a little more bluff;
besides, through an extraordinary piece of luck, there were just
enough survivors of my platoon left to make up the exact regulation
number for a prisoners' escort.
"Quick march!" I ordered.
Off we moved, the Captain by my side, the lieutenants following
respectfully three paces behind.
On the way towards the bridge, I thought I detected from the corner of
my eye the _Hauptmann_ giving me, once or twice, a sidelong glance. I
pretended, however, not to see, looking steadily in front, watching
anxiously for my supports. Here they are! The Colonel has caught sight
of us and is advancing rapidly at the head of the battalion.
I heaved a deep sigh, which did not escape the Captain's attention, for
he turned to me inquiringly.
"Allow me to introduce you to my commanding officer," I said, with a
graceful smile, the full irony of which he probably did not fathom.
I do not think that particular Bavarian has made out to this day how
it all came to pass. Let him try and tackle the mystery on the sunny
Mediterranean shore, where chivalrous France affords captive officers
ample and comfortable leisure.
So far as I understand it, the man thought superior forces had
surrounded the castle, leaving no chance of escape. Feeling entrapped
and labouring under the delusion that any further attempt at defence
would be futile, his anxiety to save his men became uppermost in his
mind. As to the men themselves, when they saw their captain surrender
and heard no officer order anything, discipline made them remain
inactive. The moment the Captain's command to "ground arms" rang out,
discipline caused them to lay their rifles down without further thought
or ado. One of them, whom I asked what induced them to throw their
hands up, replied, as if astounded at the question: "Why, we were
ordered to."
But what about the seven subalterns? Of course, they could not see
through walls, and discipline, I imagine, made them "follow their
leader" like the men.
If so, discipline be hanged! It is a comfort to think that had a
French officer been weak enough to behave as their chief did in
similar circumstances, there would have been someone there to blow his
brains out and lead the company to a sortie. But what is the use of
moralizing? Leopards do not change their spots. Besides, a gift horse
should not be looked in the mouth, and the _Hauptmann_ did me, at any
rate, a good turn.
Before taking leave of him that evening I inquired what he thought of
Alpine Chasseurs. His reply is worth recording, the first words so
unexpected from one of the inventors of "frightfulness," the last ones
eulogistic, after all.
"To begin with," he declared, "your artillery is diabolical. The use of
such weapons ought to be prohibited. It is murder! As to your men, they
are extraordinary. The way they creep along is inimitable. Hardly has
one got a glimpse of them than--_houp-là!_ they are on the top of you."
Then, after a pause, he added, emphatically:--
"They are wild-cats!"
LIFE ON A FRENCH CRUISER IN WAR TIME
_"Les Vagabonds de la Guerre"_
_Told by René Milan_
Translated from the admirably written papers published under the
title "Les Vagabonds de la Guerre" in _Le Revue de Paris_ for
_Current History_. Especially interesting is M. Milan's account of
the part played by wireless telegraphy in the war.
I--STORY OF WAR ON THE ADRIATIC SEA
At last, on the curve of the waves, is marked the outline of the
enemy! Alas! They are only torpedo-boat destroyers! Swift and powerful
destroyers, I admit, but Austria might very well have offered us an
adversary of our own class. But let us be satisfied with the windfall.
Too many days have been thrown away against invisible adversaries.
These at least are real, living and full of ardour. They gallop toward
us, torpedoes pointed; we point toward them our big guns, which cannot
yet reach them; the game is equal. Like us, they have run up the
battle-flag, and the _Waldeck-Rousseau_, driving over the waters like
a thoroughbred, drags with her her cruisers and her two squadrons of
torpedo boats to the adventure in which some one must die.
A few minutes pass, packed with anxious silence. The men shut up in
the hidden vitals of the ship strain their ears to catch the muffled
sound of the first salvo; they may be killed in a moment, if some
well-pointed torpedo should touch the cruiser, but they give their
whole souls of bronze to their apparatus and their machines, so
that nothing may go wrong in this marvelous crisis. Through their
range-finders, the gun-pointers watch the distance vanishing by a kind
of miracle. Twenty thousand yards--eighteen thousand yards--fifteen
thousand--fourteen thousand. Two thousand yards more, and the storm of
our artillery will break over our adversary. In three parallel lines
the Austrian destroyers pour forth torrents of smoke; they are in solid
formation; each line glides over the blue water like a gleaming boa
constrictor. Alongside of us our torpedo-boat destroyers have drawn
together and are plowing up clouds of foam that sparkle like silver in
the sun.
But what do we see over there? The Austrian lines open out, bend upon
themselves, and their heads describe a wide curve. Is it possible? They
are going away! They refuse to fight! With a raging anguish we all try
to persuade ourselves that our eyes are deceiving us. It is a trick of
the sunshine, a puff of wind that bends their smoke. * * * Not at all.
They have completed their turning movement and show us their heels,
looking like three railroad trains speeding away on rails of foam.
Oh! to have our eyes on our revenge for so many useless weeks, and to
see it escape just at the limit beyond the reach of our guns! To feel
that under our feet our gigantic machines, which, nevertheless, are
not weakening, can no longer catch up with the prey whose legs are too
long for us! To measure the distance, and to feel it growing greater,
a little more each second, like an elastic that is being stretched!
Fourteen thousand yards!
Fourteen thousand one hundred. Fourteen thousand two hundred. * * *
Ah! we would fain command the waves, hurl a sudden hurricane into the
air, churn the sea into foam and billows. Our potent keels would not
slow down, but the destroyers would crash against each billow, would
go slower, would exhaust their force, and our triumphant dash would
overmatch their cowardice.
They flee toward the labyrinth of the Dalmatian Islands, which grow
larger before us like a family of ocean monsters rising from the sea.
We continue to pursue. Sixteen thousand--seventeen thousand yards.
Perhaps the poltroons will be seized with remorse or indecision. But
it is not so; their flight is a premeditated ruse. High up in the sky,
slipping and gliding among the transparent clouds, a war plane swoops
over the French warships, passes along them, and drops bombs that only
our skillful dodging makes harmless; they burst opposite our ships.
On the surface of the water one of the cruisers perceives the furrow
of a periscope! Some lurking submarine has launched its torpedoes,
perhaps; our speed has deceived it; no one is touched; we take a flying
shot at the streak of foam, which instantly disappears. The submarine
plunges into the depths, the aeroplane is already out of sight, and
the destroyers are close to the channel of the archipelago. Eighteen
thousand yards--nineteen thousand.
II--IN THE WAKE OF A TORPEDO
After a few hours of unquiet dozing I arose, made a summary toilet,
ate I know not what food, swallowed hastily, before going on watch.
In the middle of the day I found myself on the bridge again. A bright
sun was silvering the distance. The three cruisers, deployed in loose
order, continued their course toward the south of the Adriatic;
behind, almost invisible, the smoke of the naval forces formed a black
mane on the horizon. On board, every one who was not on duty was
enjoying a siesta. Every one was finding consolation in dreams for
the disappointments of the day before, but a few scores of eyes were
watching the very calm sea. The _Ernest-Renan_, a few thousand yards
away, was following a parallel course.
Something very white suddenly appeared in the furrows of foam. My
binocular immediately followed this wrinkle on the water; you would
have said a jet of steam, slipping along just under the surface. For a
few seconds I hesitated. Perhaps the fin of a porpoise swimming close
to the top deceived me. The remembrance of training in peace times
brought back to my memory the track of a periscope, and I hesitated no
longer.
"Quick! All on the left! Raise to eight hundred meters! Declination,
forty! All engines at full speed ahead! Close the bulkheads! Begin
firing!"
The cruiser bounds. In the hold the men of the watch close the
bulkheads. The artillery fires. The shells fall around the white,
moving streak. They burst like balls of dry snow on a blue wall. All
the men, awakened from their siesta, all the officers come up on
deck. A few meters from our hull passes the fleecy track of a torpedo
launched against us. It has missed us, but a big 194 shell (7¾ inch),
fired from one of our turrets bursts immediately above the periscope.
It plows the water and splashes it up in the air; the stem of the
periscope rises, falls, rises again, falls again, as a wounded animal
tries to stand and falls again. Then nothing more is seen. The blue
waves show only their habitual indolence. Across the void a storm of
cheers comes to us from the _Ernest-Renan_; they have seen the shell
tearing up the water, and they are certain that the explosions have
crushed in the submarine.
We are going fast, so fast that in a few seconds the cruiser is far
from the place of death. The guns turn and follow it, ready to fire
again, but nothing shows any more.
"Cease firing! As you were! Open the bulkheads! Resume your course!
Engines at sixty revolutions!"
III--DIVINE SERVICE ON A WARSHIP
Every Sunday, divine service is celebrated on board--a serious, simple
ceremony. Around the movable altar, flags stretched make stained-glass
windows of bunting; the vault of the church is formed by the low
whitewashed ceiling of the space between decks; to right and left, the
partitions of the cabins, the white stems of the smokestacks, form
the metal walls of the shrine; the parti-coloured tubes, steam pipes,
well-polished cocks, cast red and yellow reflections; chairs for the
officers, benches for the crew, are grouped to a depth of eight or ten
yards. He comes who so desires. A bugle call announces services, and
whoever is not on duty, either comes or stays away. While the priest
is accomplishing the holy rites, you hear in the hold the breathing of
the engines, the snoring of the ventilators; above your head, on deck,
patter the sailors of the watch; the big Adriatic rollers slap against
the hull and the quivering of the rapidly moving cruiser makes the
altar tremble.
IV--THE BOOTY OF THE HIGH SEAS
Above the horizon appear the masts, smokestacks, and hull of a ship.
Whether her conscience be troubled or at rest, she knows she cannot
escape our speed, and does not try to fly. At 5,000 yards her flag
informs us of her nationality. English or French, she may go ahead. If
she is neutral we show her the international signal:
"Stop immediately!"
And stop she must. If she looks like going on, a blank cannon shot
warns her not to play with fire. If she pretends not to understand the
invitation, a shell falls just ahead of her, and lets her know we are
not joking. If her screw continues to revolve a rap or two on the hull
lets her know that the affair is serious. They always stop in time.
The cruiser comes to, within gun range of the suspect. In an instant
one of our boats is lowered into the water, the crew seize the oars;
the officer on duty, armed with a sword and a revolver, and with a big
register under his arm, jumps into the boat, which pushes off.
"Captain, kindly range on deck all persons on board! Let each have
his identification papers in his hand. I shall inspect them in five
minutes!"
Stewardesses, stewards scatter through the cabins, which are filled
with a sudden stir. In the midst of a concert of exclamations, murmurs,
and laughter, feverish fingers dive into portfolios and bags. Travelers
whose souls are white immediately find what is wanted; the ladies fix
their hair, hastily dab a little powder on a suspicion of sunburn, and
give themselves a finishing touch. The whole thing is tremendously
amusing to them. Just as if it were on the stage! It would not take
much to make them put on their prettiest dresses. But the officer is
getting impatient, and the Captain is apologizing; one passenger cannot
find his passport, which he thinks he has left in his trunk. Exactly!
the story is an old one! But let this German quarry climb up, just as
he is!
Finally, every one is drawn up in two or several lines--like a row of
blind men holding out their trays, each one holds his passport. The men
are extremely serious, almost indignant, and, behind their foreheads,
you can divine silent tempests; they are on the watch for an imprudent
word, in order to invoke their Consuls, their Ambassadors, and the
inviolable rights of neutrals. A vain hope. The officer sharply scans
them, and turns over their papers with a careful finger. Stamps and
paragraphs are in order, and also the description; the passports, the
certificate of nationality, do not smell of trickery. But there is no
touchstone like language; a few words, a few phrases, tell many secrets
to expert ears, and hesitation shows guilt where the papers show
innocence.
"Be so good as to tell me where you come from. Be so good as to tell me
your name and your birthday. Have you been long abroad? Be so good as
to answer in your own language. What is your profession?"
You must question pointblank, in different ways, and be careful not to
carry on the conversation. No discussion, an instantaneous judgment,
and you pass on.
The true prizes, the genuine booty, you recognize by sure
symptoms--Germanic faces, Teutonic accents, harsh or honeyed answers,
stammered explanations. In vain do they disguise their names and hand
us forged writings, their Germanic race leaks through all their pores.
They are hurrying to foment rebellion in Egypt or Tripoli; they are
on their way to the Balkans to do their work; to burrow underground
in India or China. Invariably they have Swiss or Dutch passports, but
their certificate of nationality, brand new, is fresh from the printing
press, and reminds you of false coins, too new and shiny. Suspects!
The officer goes down to their cabins. Under the mattress, behind the
washstand, in the folds of a counterpane, lie the incriminating papers.
Enemies!
From this point, one must go on decisively, gracefully, in the French
fashion. The officer halts in front of the German, addresses him by
name, lays a light finger on his sleeve or shoulder, and says, without
raising his voice:
"I arrest you. Follow my sailor, who will take your baggage and put you
into the boat."
Cries, explosions of anger, insults must not disturb him. He must add
nothing. What has been said has been said.
V--STORY OF THE WIRELESS AT SEA--THE SECRET LANGUAGE
We have on board an ear that never sleeps; it is the wireless
telegraph. The apparatus is buried in the depths of the hold; a padded
cabin isolates the operators from the noise of the machinery and the
cross-currents of discord. From watch to watch the telegraphers pass
over the receiver to each other, and the finest murmurs never escape
their vigilance.
The air vibrates in an uninterrupted concert. Coming from stations
near or far, from ships wandering on the Atlantic or close at hand,
calls, conversations seek out their way; the ether transmits them
instantaneously. The powerful antennae of the Eiffel Tower, of Ireland,
of Germany, of Italy, or of Constantinople dominate with their noisy
throats the feeble whispers. With their full force, to any distance,
they launch the official news of the great ordeal. If some one talks
too loudly, 500 or 1,000 kilometers away, (300 to 600 miles,) they
raise their tones, throw more strength into their voices, until the
interrupters become silent.
A tacit agreement alternates their messages. The German does not
obstruct the Frenchman, the Turk waits until Malta has finished.
Madrid, talking to Berlin, rests while London speaks. For these great
stations, controlled by their Governments, send out only announcements
of the first importance, such as the whole world should know, and they
wish neither to confuse nor to be confused. Reports from the front,
happenings at sea, diplomatic or financial transactions, plans or
insults, circulate in all languages, and you can be certain that the
newspapers will not publish them. If by chance the reader of newspapers
finds them in his daily sheet, it will be a week or a fortnight later,
in a garbled, unrecognizable form.
Sailors hear every bell and every sound; while the rest of the world
must be content with the meagre, delayed communications authorized
by the censorship, the sailor already knows. His griefs and joys
precede the griefs and joys of the anxiously waiting millions. Ireland
announces a simple movement of Russian strategy, but Norddeich--the
German post--clamors to all the echoes of a German victory, an advance,
the capture of thousands of prisoners. Norddeich laconically explains
some event at sea, but Eiffel sets his biggest sparks cracking,
announcing to Moscow, to Newfoundland, to the Sudan and the Red Sea
the disaster at sea that has befallen some Teutonic force. In how many
days, with how many changes, will the public read these bits of news?
At every hour of the day and night we receive them brutal and imperious.
No illusions are permitted to us. Our enemies do not lie too grossly in
these proclamations destined for their Ambassadors, their Consuls, the
innumerable agents who uphold the prestige of Germany throughout the
world; it is vital for Germany that these men should receive authentic
information, which they will make the most of in their bargainings.
There is nothing in common between the rhapsodies of her newspapers or
of the Wolff Agency and her wireless announcements. At the most, in the
case of defeats, she sends out statements made carefully vague. But
this very vagueness makes us prick up our ears, and within a few hours
London or Paris confirms the English or French victory.
Outside the Chancelleries and Governments, there are no day-to-day
records of the war except on warships. We discuss squarely over flags
placed exactly where they ought to be; our forecasts, our hopes are
rarely deceived. And if the obligation of secrecy did not impose
silence upon us we could tell our friends many a bit of news.
But underneath the great tenors of wireless telegraphy whisper the
myriads of baritones, basses, members of the chorus. Thus in the
tropical forest the roaring of lions by no means hinders the dialogues
of insects and rodents; this network of lower voices gives the jungle
its deep life. The slender tones of talking ships fill the atmosphere
of the sea with a mysterious animation. A big liner, come from tropical
seas, announces her passage of such and such a frequented cape. A
torpedo-boat patrolling toward Gibraltar tells Port Said about the
ships which it has sighted. This torpedo-boat has not got strong enough
lungs to shout to the other end of the Mediterranean; it calls Bizerta
or Toulon, who answers, takes its message, and relays it forward, like
a rebounding ball, to the antennae of Malta, to the masts of a French
cruiser in the Ionian Sea, to the wires of a Russian ship in the Ægean,
and finally it reaches Port Said. A mailboat announces its position, a
squadron asks for orders, a naval attaché or an ambassador sends out
information gained by spies; the Resident General of Morocco is sending
wheat to Montenegro; the main guards give warning that a submarine
is in sight; colliers ask to be told exactly where they are to meet
certain cruisers; the whole Mediterranean taps the antennae of the
Commander in Chief as a swarm of subalterns tap at the door of military
headquarters.
No disorder, no discord in these gusts of whisperings. Like the
musicians in a well-drilled orchestra, all these talkers speak at the
minute, at the second previously fixed for their turn; chronometer
in hand, the telegraph operators watch for the instant allotted
to them, and immediately send forth trills of short, brief notes;
whether they have finished or not at the end of their period, they
stop and wait, for immediately a distant voice begins its part, and
would protest violently if any one prevented its speaking. The whole
extent of the Mediterranean is divided into sectors, the time is cut
up into fragments, and no one is allowed to break the silence if the
pre-established table bids him keep still.
Besides, the guilty parties are quickly found out. Just as the fingers
of a blind man acquire surprising sensitiveness, so the operators' ears
distinguish the timbre, the tone, the musical value of the chatters
whom they have never seen. For the initiated the electric radiations
have a personality like human speech. Two posts, two ships have
distinct voices, pronunciations. This one talks with a sputter, the
other speaks with solemn slowness; the voice of one suggests a match
scratched on sandpaper, another buzzes like a fly, another sings small,
like the flight of mosquitoes. It is a concert almost magical. In his
padded cabin the operator hears and distinguishes the whirr of the
cricket, the squeak of the violin, the rasped wing-cover of the beetle,
the hiss of frying, which the fantastic electricity is sending forth,
hundreds of leagues away. It flickers, ceases, begins again; you would
say a goblin symphony in some wide wilderness, and yet the least of
these vibrations is a message of war, of life and of death.
And indeed they are careful not to talk without saying anything. They
all use only secret languages. This perpetual chatter contains no word,
no phrase which any one can understand unless he possesses the key on
which rests the safety of ships. Cipher, cipher, cipher, nothing.
OVER THE TOP WITH THE AMERICANS IN THE FOREIGN LEGION
_Told by Donald R. Thane, of the Foreign Legion of France_
Back from the trenches, where he fought in the Foreign Legion of
France, Donald R. Thane, an American boy, was wounded and "gassed"
all in the same day. Mr. Thane has seen Mars in his blackest moods;
he has seen him at play and laughs at some of the grim jests of the
war god. His gossip of the trenches--or rather some of it--just as
he told it, nervously, and coughing now and then, for his lungs are
still raw from the gas, gives an American boy's view of the war and
what is going on "out there."--Courtesy of the _New York Herald_.
I--STORY OF AN AMERICAN BOY IN FRANCE
I was walking through Belgium when the war started. Things began to
get hot and I went over to Paris. It was there that I enlisted in the
Foreign Legion.
Why did I do it?
Well, I'm not going to pull anything about wanting to rescue France, or
being fired by the flame of liberty or anything like that. They asked a
negro prizefighter--an American--the same thing. He ruefully regarded
the many bandages that adorned his more or less mangled body, and said:
"Well, sah, I guess mah curiosity got de best ob mah good sense."
Looking back on it, he answered for me, too.
As soon as I enlisted I became a number. It was No. 38,606, and I
think that when we started to fight there were about 65,000 men in the
legion. I don't know how many there are now. I do know that regiments
have been so decimated that they were consolidated. You must not
think of a regiment of the legion, however, as you do of an American
regiment with a fixed number of men. I have seen Zouave regiments with
43 companies and about 240 men in each company.
I was assigned to the First regiment of the legion, where there were
a number of other Americans, about whom I will tell you later. If the
Americans had all enlisted at about the same time probably they would
have had a separate regiment, but as they came in separately they were
scattered throughout the legion.
They sent us down to Lyons for about a month of training, which was
a lot more than was given at first. Some of the men practically got
uniforms and then went into the trenches. I knew a French sergeant
whose brother enlisted and was killed ten days later.
At Lyons wounded officers and non-coms, taught us soldiering without
an interpreter. All the commands were given in French, and the drill
masters executed them as they gave them. Lots of the boys didn't know
a word of French, but they soon learned to execute all the movements,
commence firing, cease firing, rush and retire, to the French commands.
That was all the officers cared about. All we needed was to be able to
fight in French.
II--IN A LITTLE WOOD NEAR LASSIGNY
My regiment was stationed in a wood a little way south of Lassigny, and
for a time everything was very pleasant. The Prussians couldn't see us,
and we had to fear only an occasional shell which came our way. The
Boches had a habit of combing the whole line once every morning and
once or twice toward evening. I suppose it was just so we wouldn't get
too "cocky."
The regiment was divided into three parts. One-third stayed up in the
outpost trenches and did a little patrol work in the woods. A second
part was in the second-line trenches, repairing them and ready to move
up if an attack came, and the third part was in the rear washing up and
resting.
The men on outpost had to be pretty careful, because sometimes at
night the Boches would move up and throw a few grenades or take some
pot shots at them, but on the whole we were pretty comfortable in
the woods at Lassigny, getting used to the sound of shell fire and
occasionally experiencing what it is like to have some one shoot at
YOU, purposely--to kill you.
But this came to an end. One day the Prussians began to pay a great
deal of unsolicited attention to our sector. Their artillery hammered
at us incessantly all day and all night. We knew an attack would come
when the artillery fire ceased, and more and more men were moved into
our trenches all the time.
I was sorry for the outposts, who had little or no protection against
this kind of fire, but who had to stay out in the front to see when
the attack started. The French officers seemed to know about when the
assault was due, and one night they moved us out of the woods into a
more exposed position. Here we huddled in bombproofs about thirty feet
below the surface of the earth.
Shells were bursting all around us. We could hear the earth and stones
thrown up by the explosions come rattling down on the roof of our
shelter, and we always looked up at the raftered ceiling and wondered
if it was going to hold. To die here like rats in a trap was not what
we expected. I had never been in an attack and I dreaded it, but I
thought surely it must be better than this sitting here, waiting for
the top of the ground to fall down and crush me.
The muffled roar of the cannon fire ceased. The assault was commencing.
We sprang to the entrance of the passage which leads to the world
above. It was blocked by falling earth and rocks. With spades, with
bayonets, with bleeding fingers and tattered nails we flew at the
debris and clawed our way to the air, like sewer rats at bay and forced
to fight.
We wanted to fight. It was not all courage on our part. If the Boches
should win our trenches they would throw hand grenades in on us until
all was silent in our self-made tomb, just as we would do if we reached
their lines.
It is a rotten war!
We scrambled out just as the third wave of Prussians surged against the
barbed wire entanglements and died away. It did not break back upon
itself, like a water wave striking a breakwater. It simply melted,
because our machine guns were rat-a-tat-tatting and our artillery was
dropping a curtain of high explosives into a strip of No Man's Land
about as wide as a city street.
It was horrible. Yet as every shell burst we felt exultation, because
if those men passed the wire some of US would die. We wanted them
killed right there. We did not want them to get among us, stabbing and
shooting and clubbing.
It was my first fight. I could not help it--I was afraid. I wanted
to get on my knees and pray that the gray waves should not pass the
barrier, but my knees were too stiff. I prayed standing--prayed that
more men would be killed!
For three hours this kept up. I stood there horrified, but for the
first time in my life glad to see men die. No more waves were coming.
Night was falling. The red in the sky seemed to be reflected in the
narrow strip of ground before us, but it was not that. The guns spoke
more slowly.
Great God, it was over! They had not passed. I was glad, but I was sick.
III--WE ATTACK THE PRUSSIAN TRENCHES
I spoke of the enemy coming over in waves. Many persons seem to think
that this implies a weird and complicated formation. It does not.
Nothing is simpler.
When they prepare for an assault the first line of trenches is filled
with men. At the command they climb over the side and charge. Some run
faster than others. This makes the onrushing edge of the mass of men
thinner than the main body and irregular. It is like the tumbling crest
of a white cap.
As these men charge the trenches are filled again. As soon as they are
ready the second crowd starts over. Then the third, and the fourth and
so on. There is no attempt to take cover, because there is no cover. It
is a rush to get there. There is no regular formation. The trench spews
forth a swarm of fighting demons and they come trampling and yelling
across that terrible strip of earth as fast as they can come.
After our artillery annihilated the attack it began to shell their
trenches. We knew that we would make a counter attack. Some of us may
have slept that night. I didn't.
Early in the morning, when it was very cold and the impassive stars
blinked dimly and more dimly, the "taraffia" was passed down the line.
This is chiefly rum, and it makes one feel, "Why wait any longer? Let's
get up and at them now." If it wasn't for this I think we would go
crazy in those last twenty minutes before the attack.
Our artillery ceased.
"_En avant, mes enfants! On les aura!_" shouted the officers.
The first company mounted the side of the trench and dashed forward.
Most of them were dangling in the barbed wire as we rushed past. The
earth in front of us seemed to be whipped into a seething mass. They
were sweeping low with their machine guns so as to hit us in the legs
and drop us. With a shot through the stomach we might go on for minutes
and maybe kill a Prussian before we died. But a hit in the legs drops
a man and the artillery can blow him to pieces later, when the assault
has been repulsed.
It is a scientific war.
A few of the first company reached the Prussian trenches before us. We
clubbed and stabbed and slashed with the long knives they had given to
us. The legion does not take any prisoners, because legionnaires are
not taken prisoners. The Boches feel that we have no business in the
war.
The trench was so narrow I could not use my bayonet, so I used the
knife. I do not know how long we had been fighting, but the Boches
cleared out. We tried to get our squads together and prepare for
what we knew would be coming. The enemy simply had retired to their
second-line trenches to let their artillery turn upon us in their
first-line shelter. All morning they hammered us, but we hung on, lying
flat upon our bellies and clinging to our mother, the earth, as if she
would protect us. Showers of dirt almost buried us alive. Sometimes
bits of metal found a soft billet, and there was one fewer of us to
withstand the attack that would come as surely as death awaits us all.
Suddenly quiet struck us like a blow. The echo of the guns had scarcely
died away when we heard the twitter and whistling of birds that had
survived the terrific shocks of the explosions.
Then we heard a different sound. It was the yelling of the Boches. They
were coming! Some rushed through the crooked communication trenches
which we had blocked a little bit with earth and stones. Others swarmed
over the top of the ground. Some seemed to rise from beneath our very
feet.
Have you ever kicked into an ant hill? If you have you know how the
Boches fell upon us. I saw some one climb over the rim of the trench
and run back toward the French lines.
I followed him.
I could not feel my legs. I seemed to be flying. The strumming of a
machine gun broke upon my consciousness. I leaped headlong into a shell
hole. Dead men were around me and wounded lay thrashing there. Other
men leaped on me and fell into the pit. We lay there until the sound of
the machine gun stopped, then we started madly again for our own lines.
A star shell burst and merciless light made everything stand out with
terrifying plainness. It is cadaverous light, like that from a mercury
tube.
We plunged into another shell hole. When the rest of the men came
tearing past us we leaped out and followed them. I am not proud of my
conduct in my first fight.
After this assault I gradually became accustomed to the noise and shock
of artillery fire. We could hear the shells coming, passing over our
heads and speeding away in the distance. It is a strange fact that
after a few weeks of artillery fire one develops a sort of instinct
which distinguishes between a shell coming toward him and one just
sailing off somewhere else in space.
I got so that shells all around me did not bother me, but let one come
in my direction and this extra sense seemed to know it, and I would be
flat on the ground before I had time to think about it.
It was at Belloy-en-Santerre, on the Somme, July 2, 1916, that I had
a chance to ease my conscience for the way I had acted as a green
recruit. Everything was made ready for an assault by our troops. The
town had been literally knocked to pieces.
There was a wide strip of terrain between the trenches at this point,
but all of us were by now accustomed to feel the breath of death
against our cheeks, and when the big guns stopped roaring there came
the familiar "_En avant, mes enfants! On les aura!_" We leaped over the
parapets and tore across at them.
The artillery had made their first-line trenches almost untenable. The
only men left in them were the machine gun operators in their heavily
armored turrets and they kept spraying devastation among our legs until
some of the boys got round behind and threw grenades into the turrets.
After that the machine guns were quiet.
We reorganized when we had reached the first defences. I don't know how
many of the boys were flattened out against the ground behind us, but
I do know that several companies had to be consolidated to make one.
Then we swarmed over to the next defence line and stabbed and slashed
and threw grenades. Parties of us ran to the bombproofs and threw in
everything explosive that we had, and let me tell you that, all stories
to the contrary notwithstanding, I never knew of anybody going down
into a bombproof and being stabbed by Prussians who said they were
wounded and needed help, because nobody ever goes into a bombproof to
see until they have thrown grenades in and all is quiet. It would be
foolish to do otherwise.
As I have said before, it is a rotten war any way you look at it.
IV--WHEN THE BOCHES THROW GAS BOMBS
Well, after the attack we held the first two lines of trenches. When I
went off duty after being on outpost I simply lay down in the mud and
mess of things and slept. I waked up coughing and wracking as if my
body were going to burst.
The Boches had crept over and thrown gas bombs among us. Some of the
men were too far gone to get out of it. Others had managed to get away.
A few had gas masks, and one of these put his arms under my shoulders
and dragged me with him to the rear. We all should have had our masks,
and nowadays a soldier found without his is severely punished. I had
mine then, but it was under my blanket and I couldn't get to it quickly
enough.
They stuffed something under my nose, and it hurt almost as much as the
gas, but it brought me to, and I was put in an ambulance. The body of
it was filled with wounded men, so I sat with my legs dangling over the
tailboard, propped up against a leather strap. The poor fellows inside
groaned and grunted with every bump of the crazy vehicle. The road was
pitted from shell-fire, and I had to hang on for dear life to keep from
being thrown off.
Presently the Boches began shelling the road. They were not purposely
after the ambulances. They were just shelling that road. If ambulances
were there they were likely to get hit.
I heard one coming. I knew she was headed toward us, but there was no
place to duck to. Right behind us the road seemed suddenly to bow up
like a steel band when the ends are sprung suddenly together. Then it
settled back. I was so stunned by the shock of the explosion that I
hardly felt anything else, but as the ambulance careened onward I began
to feel a pain in my thigh. I put down my hand, and when I looked at it
it was red. I had been hit.
A man lying on his back in the ambulance, with his feet beside me, had
lost more than half of one of them as a result of the same explosion.
There wasn't time to do anything for either of us. The driver went
ahead like mad and got us to a dressing station, where dozens of men
were waiting for treatment.
Some of them were serious. The surgeon looked at me and said, "You're
easy. Can't waste much time on you. Lie on that table."
I lay down on my stomach and he probed for a second, then gave a yank.
I thought he had pulled my leg out by the roots, but he thrust a pair
of pincers in front of my eyes and said, "There it is. Want it?" and he
dropped a bit of shell into my hand. I still have it.
Then a big ambulance, with seven other men in it, took me to Compiègne,
where I lay in the dining saloon of a château for a few hours and then
was sent to Paris.
The wound healed quickly and I was sent back to the trenches, but the
gas had left my lungs bad, and I couldn't stand the cold and wet. It
wasn't long before they invalided me out.
But I'm all right now, and I'm going back if they'll let me.
V--THE BOYS WHO ARE "GONE" FOREVER
A lot of the boys I knew in the legion are gone now. While I was in the
hospital some of them got theirs. For instance, there was Allan Seeger.
It was reported not long ago that he killed himself while lying in a
shell hole, wounded. I don't believe that. I knew Seeger well, and it
doesn't sound like him.
He enjoyed a close, strange friendship with a negro from the
Barbadoes, whom we called Cafe-au-Lait because he was the color of
coffee more than half milk. Cafe-au-Lait had Seeger's watch when I
returned to the trenches, and he was in the shell hole with him when
he lay there wounded. He had been shot through the stomach and some
stretcher-bearers rescued him. He was put in an ambulance and sent
to the rear, but he died before they could get him to a hospital,
according to Cafe-au-Lait, who mourned his loss pitifully.
Then there was Christopher Charles, a dancer from New York, whom you'd
never take for a fighter, but who could show the way to most of us.
Another New York man in the legion was "Norri" Norritch. He was killed
at Belloy-en-Santerre after they took me away with my lungs full of
gas. They said he had made hundreds of thousands of dollars in New York
real estate.
There was one Briton in the legion whose name was Longman. He had been
discharged from the British army because he went to pieces after a girl
had turned him down. His one idea was to get killed. He was always the
first man over the top for an assault, and he never bothered about
taking shelter from shell fire unless he was dragged into it. But he
couldn't get hit.
Longman was reinstated in the British army for heroism and sent down to
the Balkans. Newspapers all over the world have told his story. He went
through the Serbian campaigns with all the fever, typhus and pestilence
raging through the camps, and it never touched him. He wooed death and
she passed him by.
Then the Turks took him prisoner. They never would have done it had he
known. Something knocked him on the head, and when he waked up he was
in a Turkish hospital.
It would be hard to find a more conglomerate body of men than the
legion. Spaniards, Italians, Greeks, Poles, who will not fight for
Russia, but want to fight against Prussia; Americans and British,
shoulder to shoulder, sharing blankets and little luxuries that filter
into camp from time to time.
In my company were a Spaniard and a Chilian who had always been deadly
enemies. The Spaniard had lost a fortune gambling, and then the Chilian
won the girl the Spaniard was going to marry. They fought a duel, which
the police interrupted. Both joined the legion and were assigned to the
same squad.
VI--THE LEGIONAIRES IN THE BATTLE OF MONTLUEL
The discipline is very strict in a way, but the legionnaires have
to be handled differently than any other troops. They still delight
to tell about what was dubbed the "Battle of Montluel." Three pals
from the legion were in the town on leave. One was an American civil
engineer, one an Irishman of the school you read about--chivalrous,
humorous, always ready to fight--and the third was an Englishman who
had travelled so much that he belonged nowhere in particular.
They drank all the good wine in Montluel and refused to pay for any of
it. At last they wandered into a tavern they had missed and demanded
something to drink. The innkeeper refused them, having heard of their
escapades.
The Irishman dashed at him. The proprietor floored him with a chair.
The two others leaped upon the innkeeper. Peasants and townsmen
rushed in with flails, sticks and anything handy and began beating the
life out of the three legionaires, who yelled for the gendarmes. The
gendarmes came, but they arrested the soldiers and returned them to
their military commander. They were sentenced to twenty years of hard
labor on the railroad in Algeria.
But they begged so hard to be allowed to fight as long as the war
lasted that the commander agreed, saying they deserved to be shot
anyway.
I don't believe they will ever serve their twenty years in prison,
for if they are not killed they will have won their pardon. Already
they have won "citations" and would have been decorated were they not
technically prisoners.
I would just like to say one word about training men for fighting in
Europe. I don't want to presume to give advice, but I fully believe
that the only place to train men for this kind of fighting is right
behind the lines, where they will hear the shells bursting. Then
they can be moved up to the reserve trenches and used for repair and
construction work until they are ready to be put into the fighting.
In this war every man must take care of himself. There has never been
fighting like it. I don't care how well trained a soldier may be, he
has got to see something of the war before he will be any good in a
fight.
SECRET STORIES OF THE GERMAN SPY IN FRANCE
_How Sixty Thousand Spies Prepared for the War_
We have had a certain amount of experience of the German spy and
his devious ways, but in France--the first country that the Huns
had earmarked for destruction--the espionage system was even more
fully developed. Ever since the beginning of the war the writer of
this remarkable article has been engaged in collecting authentic
information concerning German spies and their methods, and some of
the results of his investigations are set forth. A startling light
is thrown on the ramifications of a system that employed abroad more
than sixty thousand men and women in every walk of life, and which
is still far from having been eradicated.--Related in _Wide World
Magazine_.
I--STORY OF A STARTLING DISCOVERY AT MONTE CARLO
In the early days of the war, when everything in the military and
civilian life of France was still in a state of perturbation, certain
undecipherable messages were picked up nightly by the wireless
telegraphy station at Cros-de-Cagnes, a little fishing village on
the French Riviera, some seven miles from Nice. Other stations in
many other parts of the country and abroad likewise received those
mysterious fragments from the unknown--partly in code, partly in
unintelligible German--and transmitted them to military headquarters,
where futile attempts were made to make head or tail of them. One
thing, however, was certain: they emanated from an enemy source, a
secret wireless installation somewhere, as the experts were convinced,
either on the French or Italian Riviera. The problem of the whereabouts
of the German or Austrian spies who thus dared to carry out their
nefarious operations under the very noses of the French and Italian
authorities at once became of intense interest to the police all the
way between Marseilles and Genoa. But they searched for the culprits in
vain.
Before the middle of August, 1914, however, thanks to a perspicacious
English journalist, the mystery was elucidated.
Singularly well-inspired, he had gone to Monte Carlo to obtain war
impressions. Had he searched all through France he could not have
found a more fruitful subject for study than the little independent
principality over which the Prince of Monaco and M. Camille Blanc et
Cie. reign. For many years before the war the administrators of the
gambling hall had done everything in their power to make Monte Carlo
attractive to Germans and Austrians, in order to fill the void left
by English visitors, a great many of whom had instinctively fled to
Egypt or elsewhere, to get away from these ill-mannered or otherwise
obnoxious guests. The Boches and their accomplices having been expelled
from the principality on the second day of mobilization, our journalist
found the authorities of the Casino still staggering under the blow
which the cataclysm had dealt them. The Casino was closed, the palaces
and villas and hotels on the hillside seemed to be sleeping more
soundly than usual under the hot August sun, the Terrace overlooking
the sea was deserted. Over everything was written, as it were, that
stock phrase of the croupiers--who now sat, armed with fans in lieu of
money-rakes, outside their own establishment--"_Rien ne va plus._"
With several pages of jottings in his notebook and his brain filled
with impressions, the journalist, who intended to take an early
afternoon train back to Nice, turned, on his way to the railway
station, into the half-closed Café de Paris. Here, getting into
conversation with a communicative _garçon_--a clearly well-informed
Monagasque--he unexpectedly gleaned the most important item of
intelligence he had yet come across, a piece of information so curious
and so significant that he there and then decided to change his plans
and spend the night at Monte Carlo.
"Yes, sir; it was high time they got rid of the Boches," said the
waiter. "Monaco had become a veritable spies' nest. At any rate, they
got hold of one--Kurz, the Austrian sub-director of the Casino. He was
undoubtedly working for Francis Joseph, otherwise how can one explain
the incriminating plans and documents which, _on dit_, were seized at
his house? They got him early in the month, just after the Prince's
notices to the Austro-Boches were posted up, and he's now at the island
of Ste. Marguerite, where some others would be, too, if they weren't
being protected."
As he reached the end of this last phrase the waiter lowered his voice
to a confidential whisper, and after a quick glance in the direction
of the _caissière's_ desk, in order to assure himself that he was not
observed, continued:
"The man with whom Kurz was naturally hand in glove we've still in our
midst, though I don't suppose he'll have the face to stop here another
twenty-four hours. Vicht, the Director-General of the Casino, is a
German, and since the declaration of war he's done all he could to get
the authorities to maintain his too-recent naturalization. He tries
to make out he's a Monagasque. _Mais cela ne marche pas._ The wonder
is that he's still here, for it's well known what he and Kurz have
been up to for years past. Everybody acquainted with the position of
affairs here knows that these two men had at their disposition a small
army of detectives, whom they employed to shadow the _habitués_ of the
Casino, including certain well-known journalists, in order to ascertain
the origin of information against Germany and the Germans which had
been published in the press. Vicht and Kurz had become all-powerful
here, and would have turned the principality into a German possession
if they'd had the chance. They made a start last winter, it is said,
by assisting in the publication of a German weekly newspaper run by
an unsuspecting journalist. Ah, Vicht's a wily customer--a man to be
watched, I think."
Thus put on the scent, the journalist decided, as I have said, to
postpone his departure and await developments, which came much sooner
than he expected.
Having dined at the Hôtel de Paris, he went out in the cool of the
summer evening to stroll on the Terrace and smoke his cigar. It was a
magnificent summer night, one of those _soirées d'été_ when Monte Carlo
and Monaco, with their soft-scented breezes from the hillsides and sea
and the twinkling lights in the little harbour opposite the Condamine,
were steeped in romance--a night for reflection. Thoughts of the war
and the astounding fact that an enemy subject was still at liberty
in the principality filled the journalist's mind as, at the end of a
quarter of an hour's perambulation on the flower-adorned promenade, he
stopped to rest and, leaning on the parapet, looked down on the harbour
of the Bay of Hercules.
II--STORY OF THE MASTER SPY AND HIS YACHT AT MONACO
A good-sized yacht was moored there. Whose was it? It was not the
_Princess Alice_, Prince Albert of Monaco's boat, which had been used
for so many oceanographic expeditions, and whose lines he knew well.
Suddenly he remembered to whom it belonged--to Jellineck, the motor-car
manufacturer, director of the Mercédès Company, and Austrian Consul
at Monaco, and the whole story of that notorious spy's machinations
flashed back to his mind. Strange that he had not thought of it before,
when it was so recent!
Jellineck, an intimate friend of a French prefect of the
Alpes-Maritimes, whose sister, it is said, had once been a governess
to the children of the Austrian manufacturer, had succeeded in
escaping when war was declared, and some of the blame had been laid by
one of the Nice newspapers on the shoulders of the French official.
Matters were made still worse when Jellineck's yacht, which had been
sequestrated and taken to Cannes, was allowed, in most peculiar
circumstances, to be removed clandestinely to Monaco, where presumably,
it was in neutral waters. The affair created a great commotion locally,
because Jellineck's _rôle_ as a master-spy had long been suspected,
a supposition supported by the fact that a special messenger of his used
to make the journey every week from Nice to Ventimiglia, to receive and
dispatch his correspondence.
Whilst the journalist's eyes were fixed on the dark outline of
Jellineck's yacht, on board of which there was not the slightest
sign of life, his attention was attracted by a strange luminosity
playing, like a will-o'-the-wisp, over the masts. By jove--wireless!
To his observant eye and well-trained technical mind there was not
the slightest doubt about it; that light could be nothing else than
radio-telegraphic sparks, the play of which can so often be seen around
the antennae of wireless telegraphy stations.
This electric phenomenon furnished, as it were, the missing link in
a long chain of deductions which, subconsciously, his brain had been
turning over and over days past--ever since, in fact, he had first
heard from a friendly police-inspector at Nice of the mysterious
messages picked up at Cros-de-Cagnes. The master-spy Jellineck--the
removal of his yacht to Monaco--wireless messages dispatched or
received there. With whom was he still communicating? Surely it must be
Vicht!
No further time to be lost. The journalist left the Terrace
immediately, walked swiftly down to the Condamine, and took a short
cut to the police-commissary's office at Moneghetti. The little
dark-eyed Italianesque official acted with commendable promptness and
circumspection. Before the night was over two wireless installations
were seized--one on board Jellineck's yacht; the other, traced in
the same way, in a Monte Carlo villa residence, which, if it had
not actually been occupied by Vicht or members of his family, had
certainly been rented by an accomplice, who, like himself, cleverly
managed to slip through the fingers of the police. The flight of the
Director-General of the Casino, first to Ventimiglia, afterwards to San
Remo, and then to Diana Marina, coincided with the astute journalist's
discovery--a tell-tale fact indeed.
It has now been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Monaco was, with
Paris, Brussels, and Geneva, one of the Germans' chief spy centres,
and the operations of their innumerable agents naturally spread to
Nice, Cannes, Toulon, and other places along the Riviera. Even after
Vicht's flight this dangerous man preserved sufficient influence in
the principality to obtain his salary, which was brought to him from
Ventimiglia, whilst his accomplice, Kurz, had the impudence to write
to the gas company and order the gas to be laid on at his Monte Carlo
villa, presumably in view of his triumphal return there after the
victory of the Germans! A German millionaire, named Uhde, the owner
of an important building rented by a big bank, situated just beyond
the frontier line between Monaco and France, was arrested on the day
after mobilization, just as he was trying to escape in his car. The
owner of the château and estate of Almanarre, near Hyères, Uhde, who
was formerly an officer in the Zieten Hussars, had chosen his property
with true military foresight. It enjoys an extensive view over the Bay
of Toulon, where he could follow at his ease all the movements of the
French warships. His suspicious behaviour and frequent journeys to
Germany led to a lawsuit, some time before the war, between him and
M. Léon Daudet, whose _ante-bellum_ revelations concerning espionage
in France have been shown to be in a great measure correct. Uhde lost
his action for libel before the Toulon court, which condemned him to
pay the costs, and he met with little better results on appealing to
Aix, where, having claimed four hundred pounds damages, he was awarded
merely two pounds.
III--STORY OF THE MYSTERY OF THE MOTOR BOAT RACES
The German and Austrian agents at Monte Carlo, Nice, and elsewhere
along the French Riviera hid their plans so carefully that the
observation of direct spying was rare. Yet on other occasions than the
one related above, as testified by M. Georges Prade, they were caught
in the very act. The following striking instance came to the notice of
this well-known sportsman in April, 1914, a few months before the war,
when he was organizing the motor-boat races at Monaco.
An extremely powerful motor-glider, with an engine of four hundred
horse-power, attained the enormous speed of sixty-two miles an hour
in that year. Boat and motor were built by M. Despujols, a Paris
manufacturer, and the glider was entered in the programme of events
as piloted by a Spaniard named Soriano. On the last day of the races
everybody heard with surprise that the boat would not take part in the
trials, as the motor had already been taken to pieces and sent away. A
little later it transpired that a buyer, name unknown, had paid no less
than two thousand four hundred pounds for this specialized motor, and,
though it was utilizable only for racing, had withdrawn it from the
contest. The mystery deepened when it was further learnt that the motor
had been sent first to Lyons, and thence to the well-known electrical
and dirigible manufacturing firm of Siemens-Schuckert, at Biesdorf,
near Berlin.
The whole truth came out in the course of an official inquiry conducted
by M. Prade, to whom M. Despujols confided the details of the strange
affair. The purchaser was an individual named Schmidt, who pretended
he was a Russian, but who always steered German motor-boats and raced
under the German flag. He was to have competed against M. Despujols'
boat, but preferred to kill two birds with one stone and buy him out.
Working in league with an engineer of the famous firm of Bosch, the
magneto manufacturers, who represented the German house of Siemens, and
with a workman who, although he was known to be earning only two pounds
a week, was discovered to have distributed bank-notes very lavishly
in return for information, Schmidt learnt that the motor in question
was just what he was looking for. Sent to Berlin at the end of April,
1914, it was destined to form part of a curious motor-boat torpedo,
filled with explosives, running automatically, and controlled from a
distance by Hertzian waves. The value of such an engine as this in a
naval engagement, had it been brought to perfection in all its parts,
is self-evident.
Industrial espionage, of which this motor story is a typical example,
was practised on a very large scale at Nice. The capital of the
Riviera, where the Italian population is very numerous, was regarded
by the Germans as one of the best centres for their operations when
Italy came into the war on the side of the Entente Powers. Hence the
completeness of their spy organization. Their principal meeting-place
was at the bookshop of Hohberg, a vender of German "Kultur" in the
Rue Maccarani. Hohberg was the publisher of a paper called _Deutsche
in Nizza_, which had a circulation of twelve thousand copies weekly
and contained articles with such titles as "In the Interests of
Germanism." It heartily recommended its readers to patronize the
Reichsadler-Apotheke, which masqueraded as an Anglo-Russian pharmacy,
or the notorious spy Hübner, a florist of the Rue Masséna. It warmly
upheld a campaign in favour of Riviera sanatoriums--run by German or
Austrian doctors--such as the ones near Gorbio and Mentone, and which
were admirably suitable as hiding-places for German officers, supposed
to be convalescing but really spying. It contained a complete list of
German doctors, tailors, etc., and frankly invited every Boche to pay
a call at the Nice office, which thus served as a central organization
for all the spies who, as tourists, naturalists, botanists,
_masseuses_, chiropodists, and quacks overran that town and the whole
of the beautiful Alpes-Maritimes.
"The man's topographical knowledge is extraordinary," said a Nice
friend of mine one day, referring to a young Austrian, the tutor to
the children of Jellineck-Mercédés, who used to spend every available
holiday tramping about the lavender-covered hills near Breil and the
Franco-Italian frontier. "Although I've carried my beehives from place
to place in these parts during more than twenty years, and pride myself
on knowing every inch of the ground, yet he has often astonished me
by his references to this or that mountain pathway or little-known
landmark. These Austrians and Germans, almost without exception,
possess a faculty for geographical surveying, linked with a strange
liking for pedestrianism in the neighbourhood of frontiers and forts.
Can that be merely a coincidence?"
This was some years before the war, and at the time my friend's
declaration produced no more than a passing impression. But I have
since come to see what an important truth and warning it contained,
the very kernel of the thesis which another clear thinker and Alsatian
patriot, the Abbé Wetterlé, developed with great skill at the general
meeting of the Touring Club de France on December 5th, 1915.
IV--HOW EVERY GERMAN TOURIST BECAME A SPY
The Abbé Wetterlé showed in his lecture how every German, through his
civil and military education, has become a potential spy; how, on going
forth to spend his holidays in France or elsewhere abroad, he could not
help being the active agent of those directors of his conscience, the
Pan-Germanists.
"Recollect, everywhere and always, that you belong to the supreme
race," they said to him, through their newspapers, pamphlets, and
tracts. "Even if you know the language of the country where you are
travelling, speak nothing but German. Never put up at any hotels but
those kept by Germans, and amongst these choose only the ones kept by
compatriots who you know have preserved all their attachment for the
Fatherland. Insist in these establishments that they serve you with
German products, and that the bill of fare is drawn up in your native
tongue. Drink only beer imported from Germany. In the shops buy only
those goods which bear the mark 'Made in Germany.' Praise wherever
you go German industry, German methods, German science. To keep your
feet on the right path, we will supply you with guides, in which you
will find every needful address. Our good counsel will accompany you
everywhere. And thus, whilst amusing and instructing yourself, you will
render signal service to your country and will become a pioneer of
Germanism in those countries which we wish, progressively, to dominate.
Moreover, _never forget in the course of your travels that you can make
a thousand useful observations. Note down what you see and send us the
information you collect._ Details apparently the most insignificant
may be of use to our industrial, commercial, and patriotic societies.
Finally, strengthen the patriotic feeling with our compatriots
established abroad. Tell them that Germany does not forget them, and
that it is to their interest to remain in close relations with it. If
you act in this way--and you cannot do otherwise, for we shall keep a
sharp eye on you--you will contribute largely to the glory of Germany,
which to-morrow will dominate the world."
This picture is in no way exaggerated. Identical language was addressed
to German tourists by the Pan-Germanist Association and the Deutschtum
im Ausland Society, and the guides they published inculcated the
principles of the most barefaced espionage.
The information which these ambulatory amateur spies collected was
undoubtedly precious. It assisted in the spread of German commerce and
German ideas. Our enemies worked on the principle that every little
helped, and that the observations of a spectacled professor tramping
through France could be turned to almost as much use as those of a
professional spy, working under cover of a bank or an insurance company
like the Viktoria zu Berlin in Paris, which our friends and Allies the
French very soon closed down. The sum-total of the efforts of all these
amateur and professional spies was enormous, and would indeed have led
to the domination of Europe by the Teuton but for his inborn crass
stupidity.
I wonder when we shall really learn to know the true character of the
German? French people, who long ago put a stop to Teuton tricks, are
amazed to hear that we still allow the enemy to remain in our midst,
and that we actually help them to carry on their businesses, just as
though the war never existed. "Are you aware of the fact," I have often
been asked by Parisian friends, "that these large German concerns were
nothing more or less than gigantic spying organizations?"
V--REVELATIONS OF THE SPY SYSTEM
Those who have any doubt about this should read the remarkable
revelations of M. Georges Prade anent the Viktoria zu Berlin Insurance
Company, the premiums of which represented over eighty million pounds.
In the Paris offices of this company, in the Avenue de l'Opéra, M.
Prade discovered a peculiar organization called the Special Büro. The
_employés_ of this office were all Germans, between twenty-five and
thirty years of age, and officers in the German reserve. They spent
from five to six months in France, received forty pounds a month
each, with an allowance for travelling expenses, and spent their
time motoring all over France. Eastern France and the Alps was their
favourite region. Naturally they all disappeared a few days before the
German mobilization in July, 1914. Whilst these men were spying out
the land, their colleagues in Paris were performing equally useful
work for the German Government, "establishing an exact estimate of
the public fortune, a useful element in assessing war taxation and
indemnities," and otherwise obtaining valuable information. The
Viktoria, for example, offered special terms to French officers. It
insured them, without extra charge, against war risks, and, through
the medium of visiting agents, advanced money at very reasonable terms
on their policies. The Berlin offices of the Viktoria thus secured
the names of all the French officers who owed it money, an excellent
arrangement indeed on which to base an organization for spying.
One of the most astounding institutions in Paris before the war was
a free German school, open to children of all nationalities, where
instruction was given entirely in German, and French was treated as a
foreign tongue. Naturally history and geography were taught from the
German standpoint, and a love of Germany and the Kaiser was dinned
into the pupils. Stranger still, none of the professors held a French
certificate, a _sine qua non_ for a French teacher, or were even
naturalized. Yet in 1908 one of them was even decorated with the Legion
of Honour.
Side by side with this instance of "peaceful penetration" may be placed
that of a commercial agency, the Agence Schimmelpfeng, which existed
in Paris for years, and, under the guise of a society for giving
confidential information to commercial houses and their customers,
covered a most elaborate and minute spy system, with central offices in
Berlin. To give but one example of the work of this agency, it knew the
name of every baker in the East of France, how many men he employed,
and the exact number of sacks of flour he used per week. Thus the
German military authorities knew almost to a loaf how much bread could
be counted on for an invading army.
German spies were always particularly active in Eastern France. Another
precaution they took was to secure all the contracts for coal for the
frontier forts, in order to be able to withhold supplies at a critical
moment and thus render them useless. On a par with this was the
establishment of a German chemical works adjoining an airship factory,
which they were ready to supply with hydrogen just as long as it suited
them. The arrangement had this additional advantage: when any little
hitch occurred with a machine, German workmen were always ready with
their help. A French dirigible had thus no secrets for them.
Supplies and the methods by which as complete a control of them as
possible could be obtained must have been made the study of a special
section of the Secret Service department in Berlin. It is not curious
that in 1912 a German firm should have succeeded in obtaining the
contract for the exclusive furnishing of lubricating oil for the French
army motor-cars? But this is nothing in comparison with the plans laid
for getting possession of the iron-fields of Normandy and a certain
part of the French Channel coast.
VI--STORY OF A "GERMAN GIBRALTAR" IN NORMANDY
Germany, lacking iron ore, obtained extensive concessions of land in
Normandy and annually sent vast quantities of mineral to Krupp's,
where it went to the making of munitions to be used against the
Allies. In the extraction of this ore only German machinery, worked by
German coal, was used. Simultaneously our arch-enemy got possession
of a place called Diélette, eighteen miles west of Cherbourg, and
constructed there a deep-water port, capable of accommodating vessels
of fifty thousand tons. The ostensible purpose set forth by the
_concessionnaires_ was the shipping of ore and the working of a
submarine iron-mine, but the real object was made clear when the German
newspapers, in their bragging way, began to write about Diélette as
the "German Gibraltar." And a German Gibraltar it would have become
but for Great Britain's intervention in the war. For if France had not
had our Navy behind her, nothing would have been easier than to land
German troops at Diélette. The port and arsenal of Cherbourg would have
been but a mouthful for the Huns, the western side of Cherbourg, owing
to the natural disposition of the land, being undefended, as it has
always been looked upon as impregnable. And so it was until the port of
Diélette was constructed.
Diélette, the proposed German submarine base for the Channel, and
adapted not only for military and naval purposes, but most conveniently
situated for spying on Cherbourg, was used for the first time as a port
only a week before the outbreak of war. On July 25th, 1914, the first
big vessel arrived and was loaded in the record time of twenty-four
hours. Under the superintendence of Raders, the chief spy, large
quantities of explosives had been accumulated. The greater part was
seized by the French Government, but when the authorities attempted to
visit the mine it was discovered that many of the galleries had been
wilfully flooded.
After all the arrangements had been made at Diélette, the Germans began
to say that the carriage of iron ore thence to a German port had been
found to be too costly, so they immediately began to acquire land and
make arrangements for smelting on the spot. Furnaces were built at
Caen, a railway line was constructed, the canal from that town to the
sea was deepened, and things were so arranged that at any given moment
Caen could be cut off from its natural port, Ouistreham. The electric
cable transmitting the motive force for this port and for the opening
and shutting of the bridges over the canal was aerial, and passed over
land acquired by another of the prime movers of the Diélette and Caen
schemes, a man named Thyssen, an intimate friend of the Kaiser. This
cable was cut on August 12th, 1914.
The machinery and materials, directors and workmen of all these
undertakings were German, so that, although some of the capital of the
company was furnished by French shareholders, practically the whole of
this part of Normandy was already, when war broke out, in the hands of
the Huns. Normandy in their power, they set about getting Brittany.
Private individuals bought up large tracts of land and islands, and
there is no doubt that the splendid port of Brest would before long
have been theirs. Was not one of the Kaiser's sons familiarly known in
Berlin as the "Duke of Brittany?"
I have mentioned two of the chief spies connected with the Normandy
plots, Raders and Thyssen. The former left the mine at Diélette on
August 1st, but was arrested. Hefter, one of his subordinates, received
a telegram that his brother had been run over by a train, and so got
away on July 26th, whilst a third, a so-called Swiss, named Strobel,
stayed in France for a month, and even returned to Diélette in January
to destroy a trunk full of papers in a house which he had occupied.
Rheims, the cathedral city of saddened memories, was another of the
great spy centres of France. More than seventy inhabitants, in every
imaginable disguise, had to be shot, we are told by M. Léon Daudet, who
before and since the war has thrown much light on German espionage.
Every woollen mill in Rheims was known to the enemy, and at the time of
the invasion they sent off to Germany more than a hundred wagon-loads
of models and drawings of machines, and so on, together with
multitudinous bales of merchandise. All account-books were soaked with
paraffin and burnt, and all workmen's dwellings were systematically
destroyed.
There is no doubt that as regards works, factories, and mills of all
kinds, a systematic plan was followed wherever the German system of
espionage operated. Those that could in any way be useful to the
invaders during their occupation were carefully preserved, and those
judged prejudicial to their future commercial prosperity were as
ruthlessly destroyed. It was the same with private residences. Anything
belonging to spies--many of them naturalized Frenchmen--was marked by
advance guards in accordance with a carefully-prepared list, and was
neither burnt nor pillaged when all around was destroyed.
Henkell, of Wiesbaden, had some years ago started a wine business at
Rheims, and his warehouse was built between the barracks, the aviation
ground, the military fodder stores, and other official buildings. From
the windows of his establishment he and his _employés_ could keep an
eye on the movement of all military trains on the three lines leading
from Rheims to Chalons, Charleville, and Laon.
VII--STORY OF HERMANN VON MUMM, "PRINCE OF CHAMPAGNE"
But this man Henkell was a mere underling compared with others.
Hermann von Mumm, of champagne fame, was the high priest of the spies
of Rheims. A multimillionaire, he owned a splendid residence in that
city, another in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne in Paris, and a third
in the Department of the Marne. He was served by a retinue of servants,
most of whom were non-commissioned officers in the German army. Besides
being an enthusiastic motorist, he kept a racing stable. Many German
officers visited and stayed with him. Under cover of his wine business,
the acquiring of vineyards or other land, these spies openly scoured
the country until they knew it in its minutest details. Everything was
thus foreseen and arranged for the German occupation--the position of
trenches, good shelters, cemented platforms for heavy guns, and even
stores of ammunition in disused quarries. It was entirely due to Mumm
and his satellites that the Huns were able to establish themselves in
Champagne so firmly. After the victory he was to have been Prince of
Champagne.
Thanks to Hermann von Mumm's horse-dealings and the sumptuous fétes he
was accustomed to give, he succeeded in establishing relations with
innumerable people willing to uphold and help him in his nefarious
work. At Chantilly, the racing centre, he had quite a little army of
spies under his direction.
His brother, Walter von Mumm, a devotee of shooting, who with his
friends was responsible for about four thousand head of game every
year at Ville-aux-Bois, went to Germany in February, 1914, and on
his return informed his keepers that he should preserve no game that
year, _as he did not intend to shoot next season_. On July 25th, 1914,
he left in one of his motor-cars, with his French chauffeur, for
Frankfort, telling his servants he should be back in three weeks' time,
between August 15th and 25th. Once over the frontier the chauffeur was
astonished to see numbers of soldiers on the march, and was calmly
informed by his master that it was "_la guerre_." On reaching Frankfort
he was dismissed, and told to get back to France as best he could,
which he did after a long and painful journey _viâ_ Belgium.
In the district known as La Woevre, a great plain in the east,
extending between the Meuse and the Moselle, all the large farms
for years past gradually slipped into the hands of the Germans, who
generally bought them much above their value, and then, as often as
not, let them lie fallow. All the labourers were Germans, mostly not
speaking French, whilst many others appeared to be much above their
station--evidently spies who would be most useful to an invading army
as knowing all the strategic points, pathways, bogs, and so on.
VIII--STORY OF A SECRET TELEPHONE SYSTEM
Much the same thing happened around Verdun. Many of these frontier
towns had secret telephones installed in the cellars. A French
ambulance worker, taken prisoner, was conducted into one of these
farms to await the convoy she was to join. By accident she was hustled
into a room full of telephonic apparatus, and was able, before she was
hurriedly taken away again, to read the names of some twenty French
villages inscribed over them. She had encountered by chance the central
exchange of the spy farms.
In this manner did the Huns lay their plans for the hoped-for
occupation of France. When the time came for the declaration of the war
the majority of the spies of Germany made good their escape. But some,
in accordance with the orders of their superiors, remained behind to
continue to assist in the conquest of the country.
When the German army was marching towards Paris signals were noticed at
night on the heights of Meudon-Bellevue, and these were answered by
others along the river. Similar ones were noticed near the Gare du Nord
and the Gare de l'Est, and it is a fact that at no matter what hour a
train of stores left the former station bombs were always dropped upon
it. This continued, I have been told by a person in authority, until
certain spies, who had obtained employment with the railway company in
order to signal the departure of the trains, were discovered and shot.
I have often been asked if I think that much spying still goes on,
even in this third year of the war, and my invariable reply is, "Read
the newspapers." Hardly a day passes without a case of espionage being
recorded in the Press. Here are two typical examples which have come to
my own particular notice quite recently.
The first is that of a certain Marie Liebendall, wife of Gimeno
Sanches, born at Düsseldorf and twenty-eight years of age. Accused of
espionage, she was sentenced to death by the Council of War of the
Fifteenth Region. She gave herself out to be a countess, but in reality
is the daughter of the manager of the Mannesmann works at Munich.
After residing in Germany and the United States, she came to France,
under the cloak of her Spanish husband, and devoted herself to spying.
She was arrested at Cerbère, at the very moment she was escaping into
Spain. Imprisoned at Marseilles, she attempted to poison herself.
The second case is that of Frido J. C. von Meyerem, who was sentenced
to death on September 6th last by the First Court-Martial in Paris
and then tried again in November by the Third Court-Martial, the
first sentence having been quashed owing to a technical fault in the
procedure. Meyerem was accused of concealing his German nationality at
Nice in March, 1916, and also of entering the entrenched camp of Paris
in the same month. While at Nice he corresponded in invisible ink
with an espionage agent, who sent him a cheque for about forty pounds.
He was also charged with having furnished the enemy with information
prejudicial to the operations of the army and compromising the security
of the forts and other military establishments. Meyerem was again
adjudged guilty and sentenced to death.
Thousands of these men and women, ready to risk their lives for the
love of money and the German Fatherland, undoubtedly continue their
dangerous work all over France to-day. The majority of them are women,
either the German wives of French subjects or alleged "neutrals." They
are thus free to go about under the protection of their borrowed or
neutral flag, without let or hindrance. Some who are unmarried play, I
am convinced, a more hazardous game by remaining in hiding until night,
when they come forth like nocturnal birds of prey. This is by no means
so difficult in a large city like Paris as one would think, as witness
the case of an Austrian, Michel Augmeister, aged thirty-eight, a native
of Martensdorf, who remained hidden away by his French wife in his
apartment at 24, Rue Brey, for no less than twenty-six months. It was
not until October 25th last that, as his health was suffering seriously
from seclusion, his spouse considered it the wisest plan to give him up
to the police.
IX--EXPOSURE OF THE "LONELY SOLDIER" TRICK
Among the multitudinous means employed by German female agents in
France is the insertion of small advertisements in the Parisian papers
proposing an exchange of correspondence with British officers at the
Front. Until a stop was recently put to this practice, as the result of
an inquiry at military headquarters, I frequently saw advertisements
of this sort in a daily published in Paris. Here is a specimen of one
announcement:--
"Refined Parisian lady wishes to exchange correspondence with cultured
person at the Front, to improve knowledge."
A few days later the same advertiser varied the wording as follows:--
"Young Parisian widow, having greatly travelled, wants to exchange
correspondence with cultured officer at the Front."
In a series of similar advertisements she became "an artist," "an
actress," and "an independent lady." That a large number of "lonely"
British officers were deceived and entered into correspondence with
her is certain. It is satisfactory to be able to say that, through
the vigilance of the authorities, she did not succeed in her object.
A certain foolish young lieutenant had a narrow escape from falling
into her clutches. He wrote--quite in good faith--that he would be
glad not only to correspond, but also to meet her when he next came to
Paris with his colonel, as he fairly frequently came to the capital,
and put up at the Hôtel Continental. However, very fortunately for
him, the meeting never came off, for before the letter had reached its
destination the lady had received her warning and sailed for the United
States.
X--TALES OF THE SPIES AT THE FRONT
Mr. W. Beach Thomas, the _Daily Mail_ correspondent with the British
Army, recounted on October 19th last a strange incident which occurred
at Armentières, where the old and more regular method of warfare then
prevailed. "Two days ago," he wrote, "a civilian was seen to leap over
the parapet of our front trench and run for the German line, which is
not far distant. He was shot dead before reaching it, _and in the
evening the Germans recovered his body_. How had he reached our trench?
Who was he? Was he spy or madman?" Few readers will hesitate over the
answer.
There must indeed be numerous spies at the Front. I am told that in
certain sectors the country people whose homes are still within the war
area are frequently suspected, and wonder has often been expressed that
the military authorities have not long ago ordered them to retire far
to the rear.
I have heard of a ploughman who, for the guidance of Hun airmen,
ploughed two converging furrows pointing directly to the position
of a concealed battery, which was later severely shelled, and of a
seemingly unsophisticated countrywoman who laid out a white sheet on
the ground, wherein to pack her wares for market, hard by another
important position that German planes were searching for. Both these
people turned out to be disguised Boche agents.
The liberty of the _mercantis_, or itinerant merchants, who infest
the rear and rob the French _poilu_ or British "Tommy" by selling him
wretched goods at an exorbitant price should likewise be curtailed.
Spies are to be divided into innumerable categories. Within the limits
of a magazine article it is impossible to do more than touch on the
fringe of this great topic. One could devote two or three chapters of a
book merely to the subject of those spies who, from time to time, are
carried at night-time within the French and British lines by German
airmen, who pick them up again when dawn is about to break. This is the
most perilous game which the spy is called upon to play. It leads to
the most extraordinary adventures and hairbreadth escapes, and some of
these I hope later on to have the opportunity of relating.
HOW STRONG MEN DIE--TALES OF THE WOUNDED
_Experiences of a Scottish Minister_
_Told by Rev. Lauchlan Maclean Watt, Minister of St. Stephen's,
Edinburgh_
The courage of the Scots is one of the epics of the Great War. An
insight into their strong character may be seen by this minister's
story to _The Scotsman_, revealing the pathos and fortitude of men on
their death-beds.
I--STORY OF THE MINISTER AT THE DEATH-BED
It is truly a great thing to see that the day of willing devotion
to the noblest ideals is not yet gone from the life of our people.
Suffering and death are faced without repining, and men say farewell to
the promise of their youth ungrudgingly, feeling that the investment
for the sake of the future of the world is worth the cost which
they are paying. To the greatest life and death are very simple
alternatives, lying easily to either hand, accepted without complaining.
One day I was going through a tent of suffering men just after a big
"stunt." It was a day of much and great agony for those who were in
actual bodily pain and for those of us who had to try to help them to
endure it. I saw two men carried in and laid on beds side by side with
each other. One was obviously very severely wounded. The other was
swathed in bandages over his head and down over his face, apparently
blinded. For a moment I hesitated, thinking it might be better to come
back when, perhaps, the agonies of the one might be somewhat abated.
But I put my hesitation aside. I found that the two men were brothers
who, fighting in the same trench, had been struck down by the same
shell. Late that evening an ambulance came for me as a man was dying,
and I found it was the soldier I had spoken to earlier in the day.
The camp lay beautifully still, for the clouds were heavy and the stars
were veiled. I stepped into the tent, into the breathing dark. The beds
were swathed in shadow, only one red lamp hanging from a central post.
They had brought the brothers quite closely together, and the man with
the bandaged eyes had a hand of the other in his own. The dying man
took mine in a grip of ice.
"Padre," he whispered, "I am going home. And I wanted you to come again
to me. Write tenderly to my people. This will break their hearts. And
pray that my brother may be spared." There is no ritual for a moment
like that. One could but ask Him who was broken also for others to be
near this broken man whose body was pierced unto dying for the sake
of those he loved. We whispered together there a few lines of "Jesus,
Lover of My Soul," and a verse of the immortally wonderful "Lead,
Kindly Light." And then he put his arm about my neck and drew me closer.
"I tried to do what was right," said he. "O Christ, receive my soul.
Have mercy upon me." I heard a man near me, in the dark, say "Amen."
And I knew the fellows were not sleeping. They were lying there, in
their own pain, thinking of him who was passing that night into the
great beyond. Then I said, very quietly, the last verse of the hymn he
had whispered:
So long Thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since and lost a while.
The silence lay between us for a little, till the dying man asked,
"What o'clock is it?" And I told him.
"I'm so sorry for disturbing you so late," said he.
"Good-bye, padre, till we meet again." And with a sigh he passed away.
I heard a quiet step near me, and I looked around, with the dead man
in my arms. I should not have been astonished if I had seen the very
Christ, with His wounds shining there, behind me, in that quiet tent,
now so terribly, infinitely still. It was only the woman with the red
cross on her breast, the angel of the sick and weary in their pain,
seeming always to us, in such a moment, the nearest we can get to
Christ, for tenderness and help. And so I laid the dead man down upon
his pillow; and had to turn immediately to the living one to comfort
him.
II--LIFT YOUR HAT TO THE RED CROSS
As long as I live I shall lift my hat to the red cross. It is, of
course, the symbol of the highest sacrifice earth's history ever knew;
and it is still the mark of the tenderest devotion and most perfect
self-surrender for the sake of others. Every man in khaki, and every
man that has a soldier boy to love, should salute that symbol which
speaks of love amid the hate and turmoil of war. For it means womanhood
consecrated to gentle service, reckoning neither wage nor worry in
aught it does, and it takes the sting from broken manhood that has
ventured for the sake of honour and of duty, through comradeship in
suffering, to the verge of life, and beyond it.
War takes a man in the splendid vigour of his full manhood and flings
him out of trench and battlefield a bleeding thing. The devoted
women of the hospital tent shrink from no duty when the suffering
and mire-stained man is brought to them. There can be no greater
self-mastery and no more sublime self-forgetfulness than the washing
of the bodies of the stricken and the dressing of the terrible wounds
that have broken their murderous way into the fair flesh of the soul's
house. And how they work! It has to be seen to be understood, and once
seen it can never be forgotten. Faithfulness, tenderness, and loving
devotion are the marks of those ministering angels, "when pain and
anguish wring the brow." There is no question of adherence to hours.
It becomes a question of adherence to duty when a rush is on. There is
no strike for shorter hours, or an increased wage, or a war bonus with
them or the brave men whom they serve. The men, even to the roughest
"grouser," appreciate it fully. "O sister! go to rest now," I have
heard them say, pleadingly, to the tired woman with the red cross on
her breast and the white cross in her heart.
III--THE LADS WHO DRIVE THE AMBULANCE CARS
So, also with the lads who drive the ambulance cars. I have felt
my heart fill as I watched them bringing in the wounded. Gently as
a mother carrying a sick child in her bosom, they creep with their
agonized burdens over the rough roads, calculating every inequality,
thinking through every stage of the journey. I remember, at midnight,
standing by one that had just been brought in. The first to be lifted
out on a stretcher was a fine fellow, an Irishman, with his right arm
blown off. The doctor, with his lantern, leaned over and asked his name.
But the suffering man looked up in his face and said, "Sir, before we
do anything, please thank the driver. He's a Christian and a gentleman."
The common sorrow of the allied nations binds them very tenderly
together. I used to see a fine expression of this in the town where I
was first stationed, where some women who had a garden, on the way to
the cemetery, were wont to do a very beautiful thing. As, almost daily,
the heavy lumbering wagons with the dead came rolling along, those
kindly hearts came out and laid on each coffin, above the Union Jack,
a bouquet of exquisite flowers. Then the wagons rumbled on toward the
graves. It was a sweet tribute to the brave strangers who are fighting
in France, so many of them giving their all in sacrifice for liberty,
love, and home in this hideous uprising of all that was monstrous in
the dark ages that are past.
One perhaps learns most by unlearning. I used to think of the spirit
of pain as intensely, even immensely, vocal. I remember, especially,
when I was young, a great gully in the north, beside the sea, up which
the waves came dashing in perpetually recurrent warfare, the flood
seeking ever higher, only to be drawn away down the sloping shingle
again, shrieking, to the main. Often in the daytime I would listen,
and, in the dark, would linger near, held by the awe of the unsleeping
tragedy of that vast elemental grief which sways about the edges of
the world. I told my heart, "This is the spirit of the world pain
finding voice." But now I know otherwise. I have learned better in
the school of suffering, in the land of war. The spirit of pain is
silent--tholing, at its deepest. It looks at you out of those suffering
eyes. There is no cry in it. For the mystery of duty is within its
depths. The fifty-third chapter of Isaiah is its truest picture. So
it comes to be that the nobility and manliness of the brave combine,
with unforgettable splendour of ineffable beauty, the darkness of our
times. When they do speak there is a majesty of stillness about their
utterance, vast as the mid-deep, far away, out under the stars.
The lads are uplifted by the nearness of the Unseen. I have before me
two genuine documents, letters of two fine boys who went godward up the
highway of the sun--the way of sacrifice. They speak for themselves.
No novelist's imagination could create so fine an utterance. One was
scribbled in the trenches, the other in the hospital ward, to those who
had the best claim on the best the writers had to give. Said one:
"I am in the trenches, and in half an hour we go over the top. Our
artillery is going at it hammer and tongs, the biggest bombardment in
English history. It is just like huge express trains rushing through
the air in hundreds. All of us are happy in the prospect of a clean
fight after so many weary months as passive spectators of anything but
warfare, except on rare occasions. If I get through all right I shall
add a postscript to this. If not, mother dear, I know you will not be
beaten by a Spartan mother who had no heavenly Father revealed to her
to look to for comfort, but yet could say, 'Come back with victory, or
not at all.' With heaps of love. * * *"
The other is suffused with the same straightforward spirit of
fearlessness and faith.
"I was so glad to see your answer this morning, but am sorry I have
not enough strength to write much. A good few died of wounds in this
hospital through weakness, but I am leaving all doubts with God, as He
holds the key of all the Unknown, and I am glad. So if I die before
long, and I cannot see anything more sure, I hope to meet you all in
God's good time. My wound is numb. It is in my thigh, and I have no
pain. * * * I am now at the balance, to live or die. So good day, and
God bless all. * * *"
There was nothing really extraordinary about these boys among their
fellows. But one is struck by the frequency with which the men, after a
deep emotion, touch literature in their letters. Of course the secret
of true style lies in a real experience. Some of them, it is true, tell
absolutely false tales, and their letters are sentimental poses. But
of the letters of dying men there can be no mistake, and these boys
wrote these on the threshold of the eternal mystery. They are types
of a large proportion of the army of to-day, fighting, suffering, and
dying as those who have looked in the face of the Invisible, and are
inheriting the promise, "Be thou faithful unto death and I will give
thee a crown of life." It is surely an incentive to the people at home,
for honour and remembrance.
THROUGH THE JAWS OF DEATH IN A SUNKEN SUBMARINE
_Told by Emile Vedel in L'Illustration, Paris_
Many a novelist and some dramatists have tried to imagine the last
agonies of the crew of a submarine boat that has received a mortal
wound and sunk. Here is a first-hand account of the dreadful reality,
told by men who actually experienced the tragedy. How these men
slipped out from the very jaws of death just as they were closing
on them, even they cannot fully explain; but some strange freak of
the machinery made their submarine bob back to the surface after
the water pouring into it had sent the vessel down 200 feet. Emile
Vedel, who is writing the story of the French naval operations in the
Adriatic and publishing it serially, under governmental authority in
_L'Illustration_, obtained the facts from the signed statements of
two petty officers of the boat. Translated by Arthur Benington in the
_New York World_. Copyright, 1917, Press Publishing Company.
I--STORY OF THE PRISONERS IN BOHEMIA
A composite flotilla of French, British and Italian gunboats and
submarines attacked an Austrian flotilla which had sneaked out from the
Bocche di Cattaro, on the eastern shore of the Adriatic and shelled the
port of Durazzo. The engagement resulted in the sinking of an Austrian
destroyer. The following day the French picked up some sailors from
another Austrian destroyer, the _Llka_, which had struck a mine and
sunk. These sailors told them that in attacking the Austrian fleet the
Allied boats had narrowly escaped killing the survivors of a French
submarine that had been sunk and the crew of which had been rescued by
Austrian gunboats.
What submarine it was they were at a loss to know, but as time passed
and nothing was heard from the _Monge_, they became convinced that it
must have been she. This conviction was strengthened two months later,
when Mme. Roland Morillot, wife of Lieut. Morillot, commander of that
boat, received a letter signed "Crew of the _Monge_," mailed from the
concentration camp for prisoners at Deutsch Gabel, Bohemia, of which
the following is a translation of a part:
"Notwithstanding the distance, we unite our grief with yours in
weeping over the memory of him who in spite of all will ever remain
our captain. Stricken by a blow of fate just when victory smiled
most brightly, Commandant Morillot died like a hero, after having
accomplished the almost impossible to save his vessel and his crew."
More months elapsed; then Chief Master Electrician Joffry and
Quartermaster Mahe, both of the _Monge_, were returned to France from
Austria in an exchange of prisoners. And they told the story.
II--STORY OF A COLLISION AT 30 KNOTS
The _Monge_ belonged to the class of submarines that have to use a
steam engine for recharging their diving accumulators. It had been
scouting ahead of the rest of the flotilla and had crept close to the
Bocche di Cattaro that night when the Austrian fleet came out. At 12.15
A. M. Commandant Morillot sighted the lights of the Austrian vessels.
How many he couldn't tell, nor how far away they were. He submerged
to 20 feet, leaving the night periscope above the surface. Suddenly
he was aware of a rapidly approaching huge black mass, and was giving
orders to fire a torpedo from the port tube when a hitherto unseen
vessel passed at 30 knots right over the _Monge_. Its keel struck the
submarine; the shock was terrific. The little boat rolled almost over.
The conning tower was smashed and the sea poured in through a gaping
hole.
The crew of the _Monge_ tumbled in heaps against the partitions of the
compartments in which they happened to be. The stern dropped, the bows
rose, and the boat began sinking stern foremost at an angle of 30 or 40
degrees. Abominable gases rose as the sea water flooded the tanks of
sulphuric acid.
The electric lights went out. The _Monge_ wabbled downwards in pitch
darkness.
It is such moments as these that test master and men. How both were
equal to the emergency, let Chief Electrician Joffry relate:
III--TWO HUNDRED FEET BENEATH THE SEA
"Clutching the periscope table," he said, "the Commandant faces
this blow. He is a man whom nothing disconcerts. He orders that all
submerging tanks be emptied. Several times he repeats the order to
discharge the water. But the compressed air is not powerful enough
to expel it, and we continue to sink. The hull creaks all over, but
especially astern, for the stern, by reason of the angle at which
we are going down, is sixty feet lower and under a pressure of two
atmospheres greater than the bow. It is the steel heart of the _Monge_
that is groaning. We must have at least 180 or 200 feet of water above
us. Believing that this is the end, we sing the 'Marseillaise.'"
Quartermaster Mahe says the electric batteries were short-circuited by
the crash and the inrush of water. The turbines stopped at the moment
the lights went out.
"But if we see nothing, we can hear," adds the brave Mahe. "We hear
everything, and every noise echoes like a knell: dull murmurs of
surging water, nerve-wracking falls of men and things; questions
anxiously spoken, crash of objects upon each other, sinister creakings
of the hull under the terrible and ever increasing pressure. The
smell of burning, the vile emanations of chlorine--forerunners of
asphyxia--are inhaled everywhere, and grip our throats. Tango, the
bob-tailed Arab dog, is stuck somewhere between the boilers."
IV--THE SONG OF DEATH--FROM DOWN BELOW
All at once in this antechamber of death there rises a song! To the
steel heart of the _Monge_ the even more highly tempered hearts of
the French sailors are replying. They are singing! If the plates are
springing, these hearts do not give way. Like their ancestors, the
ancient Gauls, they fear nothing; and they prove it by intoning a
hymn for France at 200 feet below the surface of the ocean. Yes, in
their half overturned, flooded cage which threatens to crush like an
eggshell, they sing! No audience is theirs and, so far as they know,
none will ever know how they met their end. But no matter, it is for
themselves they sing, possessed by the sublime exaltation that makes
martyrs and heroes.
Groping about, they manage to make a lamp flash for a few seconds. This
reveals the full gravity of the situation, for it shows the pointers of
the manometers standing still at their limit, proving that they are far
below the greatest depth permitted to the _Monge_.
Commandant Morillot's hand is upon the lever that controls the lead
ballast, his last resource, but he hesitates to release it. If the
leads be released the submarine will rise to the surface, but must be
captured at once, for she will then be unable to submerge again. He
looks at the men in the fitful light of the flashing lamp, questioning
them with his eyes, as he thinks: If it is good to live it is also good
to die for one's country. Their silence responding to his immobility
expresses their acquiescence in the sacrifice.
But at last, under the direction of the Commander, the engineers get
the turbines working again. The creaking diminishes, then it ceases.
Ensign Appell strikes a match and holds it to the manometer. The
pointer moves from its maximum (135 feet).
"Courage!" he cries, "we are rising!"
Quick to the periscopes! Alas, one of them has gone, and the other is
blind!
Still they rise. Suddenly a crash above, and then another. Four shells
explode right overhead. They are at the surface, and the Austrians are
firing on them!
There is nothing for it but to submerge again, come what may. Scarcely
has the Commandant given the order than a shell bursts right in the
port periscope chamber, tearing a great hole in the hull. This time
nothing can save the _Monge_. Only now does the captain let go the lead
ballast. Since his vessel is lost, he will profit by the brief respite
this lightening will give to save the crew. After closing the water
valves he orders the forward hatchway opened and leads his men to it.
"Not that way, my boys," he says to those who take the wrong direction,
"this way. As soon as you get out, leap overboard to show that the
_Monge_ is sinking and stop the enemy's fire."
V--GOOD-BY TO THE "MONGE"
Flashes from a lighthouse on shore show the men leaping overboard and
the boat sinking lower and lower. The Austrians have ceased their fire.
"We marched forward singing the 'Marseillaise,'" said Joffry, "and with
a cry of 'Vive la France!' we jumped. Then, nothing under our feet.
Good-by _Monge_!"
We felt the shock of an explosion. The floating debris of the deck
helped us to swim. Twelve of us clung to a floating gangway, swimming
with our feet, for half an hour. Quartermasters Morel and Goulard were
missing.
At last boats from the enemy destroyers came and picked us up.
And Morillot? He went down with the _Monge_. The details of his end are
uncertain, but it is not difficult to reconstruct them. Joffry says:
"He did not come up on deck. He remained at his post. Very calmly he
stood watching the manometer reveal the gradual sinking of the vessel
under him. He was surely saying in his heart 'If only my men can get
away in time!' He told the last of us to hurry, and he helped us to
find our way. What he did when he saw us all safe I do not know, but it
seemed to me that the _Monge_ sank more swiftly. He might have opened
the water ballast valves to make her sink before the hand of the Boches
could touch her. That is undoubtedly what he did, but I did not see
him, nor did any one."
And Mahe, who was in the control chamber, says: "The captain told us:
'Our poor _Monge_ is lost, but you have yet time. Come this way, my
lads.' He opened the door and added: 'Au revoir, and courage, my lads!'
I dared not tell him to come up with us, for I saw he had made up his
mind to die with his ship, as he had already told some of us he would."
VI--THE LAST TORPEDO
The captain of the Austrian gunboat _Balaton_ told the survivors that
he had delayed launching boats to pick them up, because a torpedo had
been fired at his boat from the _Monge_ as she went down. He believed
that Commandant Morillot, having seen all his men safely overboard,
had gone below alone and deliberately fired a last torpedo. That is
possible, or it may be that a torpedo was accidentally discharged from
the sinking boat. Joffry spoke of feeling an explosion after getting
into the water.
In an order of the day published as soon as the facts became known,
Admiral the Duke of the Abruzzi paid tribute to the "heroic sacrifice
in which Lieut. Morillot decided to remain on board his sinking boat,"
and added: "To do honor to this deed of the purest marine valor, his
Majesty the King has deigned to confer upon him, _motu proprio_, the
gold medal for valor." This was the first time this rare distinction
had been conferred since the war began. In transmitting this notice to
the French Admiral, Vice-Admiral Cutinelli-Rendina added:
"His memory will ever remain for us an object of admiration and
worship."
ESCAPE OF THE RUSSIAN LEADER OF THE "TERRIBLE DIVISION"
_True Story of How General Korniloff Escaped Across Hungary_
_Told by Ivan Novikoff_
The story of how the famous Russian general, leader of the "Terrible
Division," was captured by the Austrians, and how he escaped in an
Austrian soldier's uniform, making his way right across Hungary, for
a distance of over three hundred miles, until he regained the Russian
lines. This is the first detailed narrative of the general's feat, as
it is told in the _Wide World Magazine_.
I--STORY OF THE DREADED GENERAL--THE RUSSIAN TIGER
The Forty-eighth Infantry Division of the Russian army had long been
dreaded by the enemy. Their bravery and dash, their grim and almost
desperate courage, had earned for them the name of the "Terrible
Division."
Their leader was the redoubtable General Korniloff, a man of iron will
and heroic courage. He was a worthy descendant of that other great
Korniloff, whose dying words, "Lord, bless Russia and the Czar, save
the fleet and Sebastopol!" are inscribed on his monument near the
Malakhoff Hill, where he fell in the great assault of 1855. A tiger
to his enemies was Korniloff, but very gentle where his own men were
concerned, solicitous for their wants and comforts. Though they were
among the bravest fighters in the Russian army, their leader never
threw their lives away recklessly. As for him, they believed him to
bear a charmed life. "Korniloff" was their war-cry, and they felt safe
in his hands.
In those brave days when the Russians were attacking in the
Carpathians, in the spring of 1915, Korniloff's men were ever foremost
in the fighting. Mowed down repeatedly by the German and Austrian guns,
which defended the ground yard by yard, they came back to the charge
again and again with a furious _élan_.
The way of the Russians was barred by a commanding eminence held by two
divisions of the enemy. From this height the fire had been devastating
and unceasing, and the position seemed impregnable. Formidable defences
of barbed wire guarded all the approaches, and mines and other
murderous devices defied all their efforts to take the stronghold.
But Korniloff determined to accomplish the almost superhuman task.
Deliberately he set about breaking down the defences. Two regiments
were assigned to the task. Night by night they worked in as much
secrecy as the darkness afforded, pressing on under a withering fire
until at last the road was clear. Then they took the height by a
furious assault, and were masters of the position that had galled them
for so many months. Five thousand men had defeated twelve times their
number. The Austrian general, with his staff, was taken prisoner, and
when he learned of the numbers which had opposed his big army he broke
down and wept with rage and grief. "Korniloff is not a man," he said;
"he is an elemental force."
The Russians were now masters of this important strategical position.
The town of Ivla lay in front of them, within reach of their guns,
but it was strongly fortified; while in the neighbouring forests the
enemy was concentrating in great numbers. The fighting continued with
unabated fury.
It was in April, 1915, and the rugged slopes of the Carpathian hills
and mountains were brightened with the new green shoots of the foliage,
with the vivid splashes made by broom and poppy, anemone, and other
variegated blooms.
The Austrian forces were receiving reinforcements rapidly, and
the Russian general and his division, in their new position, were
hard pressed. They were almost isolated, practically surrounded by
sixty thousand fresh enemy troops. The Russians kept up a solid and
heroic defence, but the enemy gave them no rest. Soon Korniloff's
much-weakened force was in a desperate situation. All their bravery and
sacrifice had been unavailing; the enemy was gradually gaining upon
them.
Calm and self-possessed, General Korniloff viewed the situation. "We
are too feeble to resist any longer," he told his officers; "we must
attack." This was Korniloff's method. He called his men together and
explained how things stood. A small force must attack the Austrians
and thus cover the retreat of the main body. He called for volunteers,
and from the serried ranks that presented themselves formed a small
detachment pledged to make the supreme dash. It was a forlorn hope,
this attack, but it might save the rest of the division, which was
otherwise doomed to fall into the hands of the enemy.
II--MARCHING TO DEATH BEFORE THE HOLY IKON
Early on a beautiful spring morning the resolute band mustered, and
were passed in a pathetic little review by their valiant chief, who
knew that he should look upon but few of those faces again. As they
bowed devoutly before the holy ikon raised above them, they cried, "For
God, St. Nicholas, and the Czar!" Then they shouldered their rifles,
and a moment later were on the move, headed by the commander himself.
The manoeuvre surprised the enemy, as it was intended to do, but the
advancing force was violently assailed by a triple fire from artillery,
rifles, and machine-guns. Still, however, they stumbled on, singing a
chant popular with the peasants on the banks of the Volga. Man after
man fell around the intrepid Korniloff, but the survivors pressed on
unheeding; they knew that every yard they advanced meant more chance
for the Forty-eighth Division.
Steadily they ploughed their way onwards till they were close to the
enemy's lines. By this time there was but a handful of them left.
Korniloff himself was wounded, and his strength was fast failing him.
The Austrians looked on with astonishment. Would these madmen never
surrender? The ground was strewn with their dead and wounded. What
could the last few survivors hope to accomplish? At last a bullet
brought down the indomitable general, and the one-sided fight was over.
III--THE GREAT KORNILOFF A PRISONER OF THE AUSTRIANS
When Korniloff came to himself, and was able to take account of his
surroundings, he found himself in a hospital, being treated for his
serious wounds. He was a prisoner of the Austrians, as were the few
of his men who had been left alive when he himself was taken. But he
breathed a sigh of relief, for the gallant Forty-eighth Division had
been saved by his devotion and the sacrifice of his splendid little
band.
Dreary months of illness and convalescence passed by. At last the
general was well enough to be moved from the hospital, and his captors
conveyed him to a safer and more suitable habitation. As a prisoner of
mark, a residence was chosen for him at the château of Esterhazy, at
Eisenstadt, in the Sopron Department in Hungary. This was the famous
castle, built in 1683, where Haydn was _Kapell-meister_ to the Prince
Esterhazy of the time.
Korniloff made up his mind that Eisenstadt should not long have him as
a guest, and with increasing health and strength he set about finding a
means of escape. First of all he made friends with the men who acted as
his guardians, and they were flattered at the notice taken of them by
the redoubtable Russian general, whose fame had spread over the Empire.
He took a great interest in these common soldiers; he talked to them of
their lives, their homes, the fights they had been in; and learned from
them a few words and expressions in Magyar.
Now, one of these Austrian soldiers (as General Korniloff afterwards
related to the delegates of the Czech Brigade, when they welcomed him
in Kiev and congratulated him on his escape) happened to be a Slovack.
What more natural than that he should sympathize with the prisoner
and agree to help him to regain his liberty? In exactly what way he
did this, no one knows save Korniloff himself, and as regards such
points he is naturally discretion itself. Anyway, one morning, as he
was returning to his apartment from the park in which he was allowed
to stroll, he passed a guardroom, the door of which was open. On a
table just inside lay a private soldier's uniform, with forage cap and
everything complete. No one was in sight, though he heard somewhere in
the rear the voices of men at their morning tasks. It was the work of
a second to slip in, snatch up the kit, hide it under his cloak, and
hasten to his own room. Had it been placed there, by arrangement, by
the Slovack? Presumably, considering what followed next.
For two days after that the general kept to his apartment, suffering
from a fictitious cold. He feared that inquiries might be made as to
the missing garments, but to his heartfelt relief he heard nothing
further about the matter. As there was always a considerable coming
and going of soldiers, he trusted that during the two days he remained
invisible there might be some new arrivals who would not be familiar
with his person when the time came for action.
IV--STORY OF KORNILOFF'S DARING ESCAPE
On the second evening Korniloff, who had already experimented with the
borrowed uniform and found that it fitted him fairly well, dressed
himself in it and shaved off his beard. For some time past he had
practised to himself before a mirror his knowledge of the German
language, which was fairly good, and its pronunciation with the soft
Austrian accent.
At nightfall, arrayed in his disguise, he went down into the courtyard
and across into the park, where, at a certain spot and hour, he had
arranged to meet his Slovack friend.
Here he hung about near the gate for some time, talking to soldiers,
smoking a cigar, and cursing in the best military slang. Nobody
suspected him, and at a moment when the sentinel's back was turned he
slipped out. At first he strolled along nonchalantly, hoping that if he
had been observed the others would think he was only one of themselves
going off for a spree without leave. As soon as he was out of sight,
however, the general "put his best leg foremost" and made the utmost
haste he could towards a figure which he recognized to be that of the
man who had promised to guide him towards Russia. They had provided
themselves with a map and compass, and had also accumulated a little
store of money. But Russia was a long way off, and their plans for the
future were somewhat vague.
All that night and most of the next day Korniloff and his unknown
friend (the general confessed that he never knew the name of his
benefactor) walked in an easterly direction. They slept for some hours
in a lonely field, and then got on the move again. Here and there
peasants helped them on their way; they were offered food and drink and
a rest. Though they avoided small towns, they were making their way to
Budapest, thinking that something might happen in that great city to
help them, and that they could easily pass unchallenged where so many
races intermingled.
But before reaching the great city on the banks of the blue Danube an
unexpected and most unhappy incident occurred. The plan of escape was
almost entirely wrecked.
"We had noticed that wherever we went the gendarmes eyed us
suspiciously," said the general to the already mentioned delegation.
"In every village through which we passed, at every farm at which we
called for bite or sup, on every plain which we crossed, there seemed
to be eyes watching us. Soon our provisions became exhausted and we
began to suffer the pangs of hunger. One day, after a long, hungry
march, my Slovack guide--the faithful companion of the early part of
my sufferings--decided, since he was on the point of exhaustion, to
ask for food and water at an isolated farm. I warned him that it was
dangerous, but hardly had the words passed my lips than he was gone. I
saw him enter the farm and waited in vain--waited for ten long hours!
At last I comprehended what had happened. I saw the gendarmes surround
the house and heard the sound of gunshots. Flight, instant flight, was
the only course open to me, and thus, alone for the remainder of my
journey, I continued with all speed towards Budapest."
V--THE RUSSIAN GENERAL DISGUISED AS AN AUSTRIAN
On reaching the Hungarian city, General Korniloff found it, as
he expected, full of troops. Reinforcements were coming in to be
dispatched to the various fronts, while other men were on their way
home on periods of furlough. Amid all these soldiers nobody took
any notice of the disguised Russian in his simple Austrian uniform.
Needless to say, he carefully avoided attracting attention to himself,
always keeping where the crowds were thickest.
Feeling hungry, he went into a small eating-house frequented by
working-class people and ordered beer, bread, and sausage. Most of the
customers in the place spoke Hungarian, but two sitting at a table
near him were talking in German, and he overheard what they said. One
of them was a woman, who, to judge by her appearance, was engaged in
munition-making.
"_Ach, du Guter!_" she exclaimed to her companion. "That Russian
general they captured in the Carpathians last year--Korniloff--has
escaped, and they are offering a reward for his capture."
The fugitive felt for a moment as if all eyes were bent upon him, but
as a matter of fact nobody took any notice of him.
"Ugh!" growled the man addressed. "Why couldn't they keep him when they
had him? How much are they offering?"
"Fifty thousand kronen."
"_Fui tausend!_ Fifty thousand kronen for a _verdammten Russen_! And in
these times, when the war costs so much!"
"_Ja, mein lieber_, but he's a general, you see," explained the woman.
"I wish I could find him. It would be better than making munitions."
So there was a price of fifty thousand kronen on his head, reflected
Korniloff, as he left the restaurant. He felt strangely elated at
the thought that he was calmly passing among the enemy unknown and
unsuspected with such a reward offered for his capture. He bought a
newspaper to obtain confirmation of the woman's announcement, and there
he found the notice in large type, with a curiously inaccurate portrait
of himself.
The darkness was now falling, and he walked on until he found himself
in the Franz Josefplatz. A large number of soldiers were camping in
the square, lying upon the benches or on the ground, and evidently
preparing to spend the night there. Artillery-wagons were lined up all
round. A man he passed--an Austrian artillery man--looked up at him
and smiled. He was fixing his haversack against the trunk of a tree to
serve as a sort of pillow.
"As good here as anywhere else," said the man in German.
"To be sure," Korniloff replied. "Better than the trenches, anyway. Why
is the regiment bivouacking here?"
"No room elsewhere, comrade," said the soldier. "Wounded and soldiers
everywhere--all the barracks full; everything full. Well, it's a nice
night. Have a smoke?"
He offered a cigar, which the disguised general accepted, sitting down
beside his new-found friend.
"Where have you come from, and where are you going?" asked the Austrian.
"Rejoining my regiment after convalescence," replied Korniloff.
They sat and exchanged confidence for some time, the Austrian asking
numerous questions which Korniloff parried as well as he could. The
gunner confessed that he was heartily sick of the war, as were all
his comrades. He heard nothing but complaints from his home, where
conditions were getting harder and food was becoming scarcer.
"It's the same with you, eh, comrade?" he said. "I don't suppose you
come from a part of the world that's any better off?"
The Austrian was a simple soul, and he told Korniloff many things that
interested him. Finally, after he had babbled in this way for some
time, both men fell asleep side by side.
VI--TRAMPING ACROSS HUNGARY WITH THE PEASANTS
Korniloff bade his chance host good-bye and was off on his journey
again before the regiment was stirring. He decided that he must trust
to his feet. He would march right across Hungary; and by means of his
map and compass he hoped to make so straight a line that it would not
take him more than a month. He was now in good health and in excellent
trim generally, and he had no fear of the journey if he could only get
enough food to keep him alive. He must not linger on the way, however,
for every hour was now of importance to him.
Having taken a crust and a cup of coffee at a wayside tavern full of
soldiers, he got out of the city while the day was still young. Then
began a long and dreary tramp, mostly alone, for the peasants in this
region were not communicative, for the simple reason that he could
not speak their language. He tramped for whole days without passing
anything bigger than small hamlets, and his conversation was limited
to asking, most frequently at farmhouses, for _kruh_ (bread) or _viz_
(water).
Sometimes the peasants would look him up and down and ask him,
"_Osztrak?_" ("Austrian?"), and he would nod his head.
Very rarely did he get anything without paying for it, and as he saw
his small stock of heller gradually disappearing, he had to be as
economical as possible with those that remained. He slept mostly in the
open air, since the weather was fine and there was little danger; once
he was given a "shake-down" in a loft, and once he paid a few heller
for a bed at a country inn.
Eventually Korniloff was reduced to almost his last pieces of money,
and he felt that he must husband these in case of a very pressing need.
A day came when he got nothing to eat but some wild strawberries picked
by the roadside. A woman whom he asked for a bit of bread chased him
away from her door with an oath, calling him "_Verdammten Osztrak!_"
The next morning he got some bread, but again a day passed with no food
but wild berries and water from a brook.
Things were getting worse and worse, but Korniloff knew he was near the
end of his journey, and would be safe in another three or four days if
only he could hold out. He had now been walking for nearly twenty days.
VII--"HALT!"--HE SALUTES A GERMAN CAPTAIN
One of his narrowest escapes happened in the little town of
Klausenburg, a quiet place ordinarily, but now the centre of great
military activity. He was walking through the town, as it was the best
way of keeping to the direct route. Suddenly, from behind him, he heard
a harsh voice cry in German, "_Halte!_"
Looking round, he saw that it was he himself who was being addressed.
He halted; there was nothing else to do.
"Why did you not stop and salute me?" asked an offensive-looking young
Austrian officer.
Korniloff clinked his heels together and saluted.
"I did not see you, Herr Hauptmann!"
"Ah! you are blind, then? Who are you, and where are you going?"
"Johann Bach," said the Russian, affecting simplicity, "and I am going
home to my wife."
"You will come with me first, so that we can make a few inquiries about
you."
Disaster stared the fugitive in the face. His first impulse was to
run, but he resisted it. To obey, however, would mean his immediate
discovery.
"I beg your pardon, gracious Herr Captain," he said, as humbly as he
could, though inwardly cursing. "I beg you not to detain me now, when
I am so anxious to get to my dear wife."
"An hour longer from your wife won't hurt you," answered the officer.
"Come with me."
His tone was so utterly offensive that, almost instinctively, Korniloff
made a gesture of defiance. Quickly the officer called two men who were
passing. "Take this man to the Kiraly barracks," he ordered. "I will
meet you there in half an hour."
The two soldiers saluted, placed themselves on either side of
Korniloff, and marched him off. He knew it was no good trying to
escape, so he thought he would try friendliness. "Give me at least a
smoke," he said; and very willing one of the men stopped, gave him a
cigar, and lighted it. They asked him what he had done, or not done,
to bring on himself this disciplinary measure.
"Oh, it's only because I don't know the way," said Korniloff. "Come and
have a drink with me, comrades. There is no harm in that."
VIII--STORY OF A GIRL AND A SHEPHERD'S HUT
One soldier looked at the other, and they nodded--it was not far to
the barracks--and then turned into a small beer-garden, where drinks
were ordered. They were served by a comely young woman, who looked
with interest at the captive, for soldiers are not reticent in talking
to the opposite sex. Korniloff did not know how it came about, but
presently his companions, who took a second glass of beer, began to
feel the effects in a way that he would never have expected. Korniloff
left the table with an excuse to his comrades, who paid little
attention.
The girl, who had been watching him, beckoned to him from the side of
the house, grasped his arm, and led him to the yard.
"Flee," she said, "across those fields. I will keep them in talk. I
have put something in their beer. Flee!" she repeated, and thrust a
piece of bread and meat into his hand.
By way of answer Korniloff seized her hand, kissed her, turned on his
heel, and hastened away as quickly as he could. In a very short while
the town of Klausenburg was miles behind him. He walked almost all
through the night, fearful that a hue and cry might be raised.
The next day the general felt a new sympathy, as it were, in the air.
This was Transylvania, where he would run much less risk of being
discovered. He had seen a newspaper at the inn at Klausenburg which
told him great news--that Roumania was on the point of joining the
Allies.
He stopped two peasants and asked them where he was. They pointed out
the directions of Russia and of Moldavai.
"You're a Russian," said one the peasants, speaking in a dialect known
in the Bukovina.
Korniloff nodded, waiting to see what the result might be, but his
confession evidently evoked sympathy.
"See!" said the man, taking him by the arm. "Follow yonder brook,
cross the hill as straight as you can, and to-night you will find a
shepherd's hut on the right of the road at the bottom of the hill. Go
there and ask for Mathias Meltzer; he will help you."
With a cheery "good day" they left him, and Korniloff trudged on. After
a stiff day's march he reached the hut and found the old shepherd, with
a younger man. Korniloff repeated the message he had been told to give.
"And who are you? An escaped Russian?" asked the old man as he sat
beside his wood fire and shaded his hand to look at the stranger. "The
Russian outposts are half a day's march from here," he continued. "I
often hear the guns. To-morrow the Roumanians come in on the side of
the Allies. Soon the Russians and the Roumanians will join hands and
all this land will be laid waste."
"Will you take me to the Russians?" asked Korniloff. "It will be worth
your while."
The old man pondered for a time. "I don't mind helping a Russian," he
said, at last. "They've always been decent to me. Lie you down now and
get some sleep, for we must start before daybreak."
He handed his guest a little bread, coarse cheese, and some onions.
Korniloff made a meal and was soon asleep.
They started on their journey next morning in wet and mist. Mathias
covered the Russian with a discoloured piece of sackcloth to make him
look like a shepherd, in case they met inquisitive strangers. They kept
close to the bed of a river and a small forest, and, creeping forward
stealthily, were by midday in sight of the Russian outposts.
Here Korniloff was safe with his own people, and great was their joy
when they learned who he was. A few days later the general was able to
send a trusty messenger to the shepherd, Mathias Meltzer, carrying a
sum of money and a letter of thanks to tell him whom he had saved.
IX--SEQUEL: A SLOVACK SOLDIER AND A HANGMAN
The sequel to this stirring story remains to be told. Who was the
noble Slovack soldier--true to his race and his duty towards a Slav in
trouble--who assisted General Korniloff to escape, and what was his
ultimate fate? For three months nothing was known. Only recently was
the author of these lines able to read in the Hungarian papers the
account of a court-martial, held at Presburg, which had condemned to
death by hanging "a Slovack soldier, named Francis Mornyak, proved to
have been guilty of having assisted General Korniloff to escape from
the château of Esterhazy." The execution of this obscure hero took
place immediately after the judgment.
THE AERIAL ATTACK ON RAVENNA
_Told by Paolo Poletti_
In _L'lllustrasione Italiana_ this distinguished Italian author
expresses his indignation at the bombardment of Ravenna by Austrian
aviators, when the ancient Basilica of Sant' Apollinare narrowly
escaped destruction. Translated for _Current History_.
I write with a feeling of relief. My beautiful Sant' Apollinare is
uninjured, or nearly so. A blind bomb may have furrowed the April sky
of my city, in this marvellous foretaste of Spring; but the criminal
attempt has been in vain. And, with me, innumerable citizens of Ravenna
have breathed a sigh almost of content. It is true that there were
human victims. But our pity for them is too deep for any comment to be
adequate; the only way to commemorate them worthily is to avenge them.
But it is not of this wrong we wish to speak to-day. We wish only to
bring together and to distill into a brief comment the living essence
of the spirit of Ravenna, as it has affirmed itself in this historic,
solemn hour.
The people of Ravenna have felt a lightning flash of sudden revolt
because of the outrage perpetrated on their monuments. The citizens of
Ravenna, if they have not, for the antique glories of their city, the
fully conscious veneration which we shall hardly expect to find among
them, nevertheless do breathe in from these monuments a deep impression
of exaltation and well-founded pride. Our readers will remember those
"Monologues" which Gigi Easi wrote with such grace and such penetrating
humour. In one, "The Art of Delivering a Monologue," he introduces as
speakers the inhabitants of the various capital cities of Italy, each
of whom magnifies the beauty of his own city.
So it happens that, along with the Florentine, the Neapolitan, the
Venetian, and the rest, there is not lacking a good citizen of
Ravenna who, with vibrant words and potent adjectives, in intense and
enthusiastic exaltation, energetically affirms the supremacy of his
mosaics and his basilicas. The scene is not only most exhilarating,
but also, from the point of view of psychology, profoundly true. Our
populace lives, and feels that it lives, with its mighty memories and
with its great historic personages, whose moral significance at least
it knows how to estimate, and whose remoter glory it understands by a
kind of natural and traditional intuition, and respects it, I might
almost say, by a distant residuum of atavistic suggestion.
Galla, daughter and sister of Emperors; Theodoric sleeping, sleeping,
according to these humble fancies, a secular sleep under his heavy
monolith; Justinian, up-raiser of precious churches and reviser of the
imperial idea and the laws of Rome; Theodora, the dancing girl become
a Queen, speak a language incomprehensible to the rough minds of our
people, yet a secret fascination emanates to them from the rich vaults,
heavy with gold, of the antique basilicas; from those vaulted roofs
toward which, in their time, rose the thunderous hosannas of triumphal
victories, and the humble supplications of tragical misfortunes; those
vaulted domes, dazzling with emerald and ruby, to which were raised
hands wrung in despair and menace, or joined in the lowly adoration
of prayer; toward which were raised foreheads tormented with gnawing
hatred or consoled by illuminating love....
The basilica of Theodoric, made the target of the iniquitous attempt of
the Barbarians, ever speaks to the people in the mysterious tongue of
days long gone....
Oh, my beautiful Sant' Apollinare! we dreaded to see shattered thy
gleaming mosaics; we dreaded to see cut in two and mutilated thy
ten-centuries-old campanile, which sends forth joyful peals in the
luminous evenings of May; we feared that the voice would be stilled,
which arises from thee, to chant a profound poem of history and of art.
We recall your founder, Theodoric, and his reign in Ravenna; his wise
and successful attempt to bring together in peaceful relations the
conquerors and the conquered, engrafting into the ultimate stem of
Latin civilization the young shoot of fresh barbaric energy; so that
his terrible invasion did not interrupt the continuity of history, but
proceeded to develop harmoniously in the integration of the old Roman
elements with the new, blended in a single composed form of enduring
life.
Of the art which reminds us, through the verses of Gabriel d'Annunzio,
of the millenary of Ravenna, one might also speak of the "Purple night,
gleaming with gold"; of the Virgins of Sant' Apollinare, in Francesca's
passionate speech:
"The Virgins of Sant' Apollinare burn not so bright in their heaven of
gold"; and the prophecy:
"Oh, Prisca, another hero will draw the bow from thy desert toward the
infinite.... Clad in armour, he awaits the new days; thy warrior awaits
the certain dawn, when a voice through the desert paths shall call
forth the ancestral valour!"
We fit the augury to the new times; and, to meet the new Barbarians, we
invoke the sacred vengeance of Italy here, from this furthest bourne of
our Garibaldian land!
Transcriber's Notes
Obvious errors of punctuation and diacritics repaired.
Inconsistent hyphenation fixed.
P. 7: cutlivated this trick -> cultivated this trick.
P. 31: Belguim -> Belgium.
P. 44: d'une vielle mère -> d'une vieille mère.
P. 54: heartiest of appetities -> heartiest of appetites.
P. 66: The lieuenant placed himself -> The lieutenant placed himself.
P. 87: dosing off again -> dozing off again.
P. 91: Edinburg -> Edinburgh.
P. 102: does a swim want to duck -> does a duck want to swim.
P. 113: brings her alway -> brings her always.
P. 122: depest affections -> deepest affections.
P. 130: franc-tieur -> franc-tireur.
P. 135: fresh in my mnd -> fresh in my mind.
Pp. 138, 141: Lufberry -> Lufbery.
P. 141: pieecs of bullet -> pieces of bullet.
P. 161: where the first to leave -> were the first to leave.
P. 161: Brequet -> Breguet.
P. 167: we busied ourseves -> we busied ourselves.
P. 209: Moveover -> Moreover.
P. 214: they were getting scare -> they were getting scarce.
P. 215: a few days earler -> a few days earlier.
P. 216: the little calvacade -> the little cavalcade.
P. 235: After several further attempt -> After several further attempts.
P. 243: daily getting getting scarcer -> daily getting scarcer.
P. 250: feeeling very tired -> feeling very tired.
P. 264: Turkiss coffee -> Turkish coffee.
P. 271: leading a surprise partly -> leading a surprise party.
P. 275: control his excitment -> control his excitement.
P. 289: Madrir -> Madrid.
P. 291: wireless telgraphy -> wireless telegraphy.
P. 306: reecived those mysterious fragments -> received those
mysterious fragments.
P. 310: oceangraphic expeditions -> oceanographic expeditions.
P. 310: suceeded in escaping -> succeeded in escaping.
P. 310: supposition supported -> a supposition supported.
P. 310: his attention was attracked -> his attention was attracted.
P. 311: clevery managed -> cleverly managed.
P. 324: in accordance wth the orders -> in accordance with the orders.
P. 336: Bocche di Cattro -> Bocche di Cattaro.
P. 360: ten-centuries-oil -> ten-centuries-old.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of True Stories of The Great War Volume
III, by Various
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR, VOL 3 ***
***** This file should be named 49099-8.txt or 49099-8.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/4/9/0/9/49099/
Produced by Brian Coe, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive
specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this
eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook
for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports,
performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given
away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks
not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the
trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country outside the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you
are located before using this ebook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
provided that
* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation."
* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
works.
* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The
Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
www.gutenberg.org
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the
mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its
volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous
locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt
Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to
date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and
official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
[email protected]
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works.
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
