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Title: With the German armies in the West
Author: Sven Anders Hedin
Translator: H. G. De Walterstorff
Release date: July 30, 2026 [eBook #79238]
Language: English
Original publication: London: J. Lane, 1915
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79238
Credits: Peter Becker, Neil Mercer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE WEST ***
Transcriber's Note
Italic font is indicated by _underscores_.
Bold text is indicated by +plus signs+.
Superscripted letters are indicated by a preceding ^ sign.
WITH THE GERMAN
ARMIES IN THE WEST
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| _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ |
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| THROUGH ASIA |
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| CENTRAL ASIA AND TIBET TOWARDS THE HOLY CITY OF LHASSA |
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| TRANS-HIMALAYA |
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[Illustration: MILITARY POLICEMAN MAKING NOTES]
WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE WEST
: BY SVEN HEDIN :
AUTHORISED TRANSLATION FROM THE SWEDISH
BY H. G. de WALTERSTORFF
WITH 119 ILLUSTRATIONS AND 4 MAPS
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXV
_SECOND EDITION_
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
TO THE ENGLISH EDITION
Long before my book dealing with my personal recollections from the war
theatres of France and Belgium had been translated into English, it was
made the subject of a criticism in the _Daily Telegraph_ of February
15th.
The author, Mr. William Archer, complained that I have not once
introduced into my narrative any harsh and condemnatory utterances
regarding Germany’s conduct of the war. The fact is that I have had
no occasion for such utterances. My self-imposed task was, as I have
repeatedly made clear, merely to describe what I saw with my own eyes
and as much as possible to refrain from citing the experience of
others. During the two months that I spent on the German western front,
I did not see _a single instance_ of cruelty to prisoners or wounded,
let alone ill-treatment of the civil population and its goods and
chattels. The Germans maintained the same incorruptibly severe and just
discipline that existed, according to the testimony of history, in the
Swedish armies which Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII. led to victory
during the epic period of my own country.
But even in peace time not a day passes but that crime is committed
even in the most civilised countries. How, then, can one expect that it
shall disappear in a war? I therefore by no means deny that there have
been isolated instances of offences and cruelty in an army of several
million men. But I have not _seen_ them and need not therefore embark
upon the subject. I have a shrewd suspicion that criminal statistics
generally will testify in favour of the Germanic peoples--as compared,
for instance, with the Slavs and the Latins.
Mr. William Archer has something to say about my “outspoken contempt
for England.” Here he is mistaken. I have no feeling of hatred towards
England and have never entertained any feelings of ill-will towards its
great and admirable[1] people. It is only the part which England has
played and plays in this world-wide crisis that I abhor and deplore.
The earth is large enough to hold both England and Germany, and England
would have gained more by keeping neutral in this war. The hatred of
England which pervades Germany is new--it began on the 4th August,
1914. Prior to that date it did not exist. Whether England’s policy
has gained the sympathy and approval of the neutral countries is not
for me to judge. One can respect and admire a nation for its splendid
qualities and for its colossal contribution to the advancement of the
world, and yet not admire its policy at a given juncture. This is the
nature of the feelings I now entertain for England, and I deeply regret
that her guiding statesmen were not able to avert a situation which
must inevitably bring misfortune upon their country. Did the English
_people itself_ desire this war? That question will be answered in the
early future.
[1] The more literal translation would be “excellent and admirable,”
or “capital and admirable”; the term is difficult to render to a
nicety.--Translator.
Mr. William Archer is surprised that I do not speak about the Battle
of the Marne. Here I will remind him once more of what I say in the
introduction to the book, to wit, that it was not my intention to write
the history of the war. I have simply described the happenings at which
I myself was present.
In conclusion Mr. William Archer says: “It would be curious to know
whether Dr. Hedin now feels so confident of Germany’s triumph as he
did in the golden prime....” As to that, after the events which have
occurred _since_ “the golden prime,” especially on the eastern front,
my faith in Germany’s victory is more unshakable than ever.
It is very kind of Mr. William Archer to say that German culture is not
in danger. I really think that he is right. The Germans have shown that
they are men, capable of defending their culture against I might almost
say the whole world, and I pity those who thought that by their united
forces they would be able to reduce Germany to a second or third rate
power.
SVEN HEDIN
Stockholm
_25th February, 1915_
For the hospitality, the confidence and the comradeship which have been
shown to me in the German armies at the Western Front, I tender my most
heartfelt thanks.
SVEN HEDIN
Stockholm
_27th January, 1915_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. On the Way to the Front 3
II. The Emperor William 44
III. On the Way to the Fifth Army 55
IV. A Day at Eclisfontaine 80
V. A Day at Dun 104
VI. Back at Main Headquarters 117
VII. To Sedan 125
VIII. In the Rear of the Fourth Army 145
IX. With the Fourth Army 161
X. Quiet Days 182
XI. To Belgium 196
XII. Antwerp the Day After Its Fall 217
XIII. More Days in Antwerp 233
XIV. Still in Antwerp 248
XV. _Via_ Ghent and Bruges to Ostend 263
XVI. Ostend Bombarded 275
XVII. Two More Days on the Channel Coast 284
XVIII. To Bapaume 296
XIX. An Excursion to the Front at Lille 306
XX. Trench Life 316
XXI. Sunday the First of November 332
XXII. English Prisoners from Ypres 348
XXIII. Farewell to Bapaume 362
XXIV. A Final Day on the Western Front 372
XXV. Home to Trelleborg 378
Index 391
ILLUSTRATIONS
Military policeman making notes _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
21-cm. mortars firing at Septsarges 70
A service wagon at Stenay 71
Field-marshal General von Haeseler and General von Mudra at
Eclisfontaine 96
Wrecked houses at Dun on the bank of the Meuse 97
A food column composed of commandeered farmers’ carts 112
Bank clerk from Blois. Prisoner at Dun 113
Road across bridge at Dun 114
Landwehr soldier, gaoler at Dun 115
The Crown Prince’s headquarters at Stenay 116
Street in Longuyon 117
Wooded height between Sedan and Donchery 130
Houses wrecked by shells at Donchery 131
Diagram showing organisation on lines of communication 142
German infantry 143
Infantry reservists on the fringe of a wood at Rouvroy 146
A dressing wagon had halted behind a few dark pines 147
A dressing wagon with hood 148
Four doctors breakfasting under cover of a shelter tent 149
Soldiers under cover of a haystack at Rouvroy 150
Officers’ car at Grandpré }
French prisoners carried wounded Germans to the railway station } 151
A chef de musique of the 11th Infantry Regiment, 17th Army Corps,
taken prisoner on September 26th, south of Vouziers. Slightly
wounded in the head 154
Chambon, thirty years old, French soldier from Perigueux in Dordogne
(17th Army Corps). Slightly wounded south of Vouziers 155
Feeding the wounded (the second from the left is Major von Plato) 156
A seriously wounded man carried from the train to the hospital at
Sedan }
The Uhlans proceed on their way } 157
A squadron of Uhlans halt outside Captain von Behr’s house to await
their baggage train 158
Protracted halt of an infantry ammunition column. Shelter tents have
been pitched 159
Colonel Fischer at his tripod telescope 161
A field kitchen or _Erbsenkanone_ (“pea-shooter”) 162
“A hero’s death” 163
Ammunition column halting beside a barn 164
Camp scene on a farm at Séchault 165
An ammunition column at Cernay 166
A company ready to start out, receiving its marching instructions 167
Bivouacking food column with horses and covered wagons 170
A field hospital at Condé effectively screened from observation }
Kitchen wagons “at work” near Condé } 171
Perot Julien, a 54-year-old peasant charged with plotting, but
released through insufficient evidence 172
Saisac of Toulouse, 11th Infantry Regiment (33rd Inf. Div., 17th
Army Corps). Prisoner at Vouziers 173
Olive, thirty years old. Infanterie Coloniale, 24ème (2nd Colonial
Inf. Div.). Native of Perpignan, Eastern Pyrenees. Prisoner at
Vouziers 174
Five Reservists from Bordeaux and Narbonne who fought in Alsace
and Champagne, and were captured the 26th and 27th September south
of Vouziers. They are busy peeling potatoes. At Vouziers the French
prisoners were allowed to cook their soup themselves in order to get
the proportion of meat and vegetables that they liked best 175
French prisoners at Vouziers waiting for their dinner 176
German airmen: Capt. Chamier, Lieutenants Count Rambaldi and
Bürger, and a fourth. The Iron Cross can be seen on the underside
of the left plane 177
A battery of light field howitzers in position 178
A salvo has just been fired. The guns are now being reloaded 179
Observer masked by twigs and branches 180
Scene on the road in front of the observation post 181
Pater Müller, Professor Zinsser and a Franciscan friar 188
French prisoners at Vouziers 189
French prisoners working at the railway station at Vouziers 196
Arms and knapsacks of dead and wounded--Vouziers 197
A doctor, Prof. Capt. Lepsius and a few _Sœurs de la Providence_
in the Convent grounds 205
A group of fugitives 212
On the way to Ghent and the Channel 213
Malines Cathedral, south aspect 220
A house at Malines “laid open” by shell fire 221
Marché aux Souliers a few days after Antwerp’s fall 224
Belgian prisoners at Malines 225
Food column on the way to the ferry, with the Cathedral tower in the
background, flying the German flag over the cross 228
Food column crossing the Grand’ Place 229
Marines with a “field kitchen” and a couple of calves 230
Fugitives returning to Malines from the south 231
In front of the Town Hall at Antwerp 234
Infantry halting in front of Antwerp Town Hall 235
Horses and vehicles being brought on board one of the pontoon
ferries. The vessels anchored in the fairway were used as pontoons
for the bridge which the Anglo-Belgian army threw across for its
retreat. When the last man had crossed, the bridge was blown up 236
The transport across the Scheldt }
A Belgian gun in the harbour } 237
Louvain Town Hall 240
Some houses only have the walls left standing 241
The interior of Malines Cathedral before the removal of the débris 244
Destruction wrought by “fat Bertha” in Fort St. Catherine 245
The Dutch frontier station at Putten on the way to Bergen-op-Zoom 252
Fugitives returning to Antwerp from Holland 253
Outworks at Dryhoek, blown up by their commandant 260
A German marine on the pontoon ferry at Antwerp 261
A petty officer with a few marines at a street corner in Ostend 274
Military policemen inspecting the damage outside the Majestic Hotel 275
The western end of dining-room at the “Majestic” seen from the }
street; one shell had crashed through the upper part of the window} 282
A Maubeuge gun doing duty at Middelkerke }
A “direct hit” on a house near the Hôtel Littoral 283
Half of Capt.-Lieut. Bess and the whole of the author on the way to
Blankenberghe 286
A self-igniting mine explodes 287
Dr. Schönfelder and the author on the dunes at Ostend 288
A traverse at Dorpfeld 289
Group beside one of the guns of Lieut. Haak’s battery.
(Furthest to the left are Capt.-Lieut. Bess and Lieut. Haak) 292
Gun crew getting ready to fire on a British destroyer 293
Hole made by a 42-cm. shell in Fort Talaert 300
At the entrance to Fort Talaert 301
The interior of Fort Lierre 304
Privy Councillor von Lumm beside the hole made by a 42-cm. shell 305
Streets at the Porte Douai which have suffered through the
bombardment 306
Hereditary Prince Friedrich of Hohenzollern and Duke Adolf Friedrich
of Mecklenburg 307
A 15-cm. howitzer battery 310
Of some houses there is only the skeleton left 311
Well-masked guns 314
Gunners studying the news 315
Soldiers reading the latest number of the _Bapaumer Zeitung
am Mittag_ 318
Two young ladies are the only civilians to be seen 319
Band playing beside Faidherbe’s statue 340
German soldiers beside the French general’s memorial 341
Tommy Atkins at Roubaix 348
The French waitress and her English customers 349
They were clothed in neat and practical field uniforms 352
Here and there was a slightly wounded soldier 353
The last houses of Kruiseik }
A shell crater in the road is being filled in by engineers } 354
Hussar patrol riding through Kruiseik 355
First came a German soldier with an English colonel on his left 358
Then came the convoy 359
The convoy halted just outside the village 362
An English officer on a stretcher placed across a cart 363
Group of officers at Bapaume: The Duke, the Prince, the Chief of
Military Police, Cleving, Baron Fleming and others 368
An enormous ammunition column had come to a stop at Barbas 369
Kitchen wagons 374
On the fore-carriage of a gun sits a soldier fast asleep 375
A group of soldiers with the Divisional Pastor in the centre 378
The last picture from the Western Front 379
MAPS
The country round Eclisfontaine and Varennes _between_ pp. 86 and 87
The country between Somme Py and Rouvroy _between_ pp. 152 and 153
The Belgian coast between Blankenberghe and Neuport _face_ p. 266
The country round Lille and Ypres 312
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
As I have been publicly criticized for undertaking the issue of the
English edition of this book, for the most part by people who have not
read it, I am taking the somewhat unusual course of giving a brief
explanation of my point of view.
In the first place, Dr. Sven Hedin’s book is essentially a record of
facts as he saw them. He is a trained observer, and there can be no
question of his veracity. Hitherto, for facts with regard to the German
Armies and their organisation we have had to rely on such accounts
as the German official communiqués chose to give us, which nobody
believes; or, as an alternative, on the accounts published in our own
press, which, owing to the strictness of the censorship, were mostly
gathered from accounts furnished by prisoners or our own soldiers. The
prisoners were naturally pessimistic and our men optimistic. Hence the
general impression formed has been that the German organisation had
gone to pieces, that their troops were short of food and clothes and
that their ammunition was poor.
How far this is from the truth these pages will show, and it is
surely desirable to publish a book that for the first time gives us
a comprehensive idea of the wonderful organisation against which we
are fighting. To my mind it is one of the things chiefly needed to
stimulate both our workers and our recruiting.
Again, is it not well to let the English nation know, for instance,
that those 600,000 troops which our gallant 120,000 successfully
withstood at Ypres were not ill-clad, ill-fed levies, but
magnificently equipped troops with a machine-like organisation behind
them?
There is also the question of Dr. Sven Hedin’s anti-English opinions,
which are quite distinct from his record of facts. But why should
these not appear in this country where those of Bernhardi, Nietzsche,
Treitschke and Cramb have been universally read and their publication
applauded? His reflections are of course intensely irritating to any
British subject, but they cannot possibly affect the British cause. On
the contrary, their publication will probably do good, for there is
nothing like a little tail-twisting to rouse the British Lion!
They afford only one more example of the truth that Lord Rosebery
enunciated the other day that “foreigners have never understood
Englishmen and Englishmen have never understood foreigners.”
These opinions, however, though evidently accepted from official
Germany without question or examination, do not lessen the value of Dr.
Sven Hedin’s record of personal experiences. For he is so obviously
honest. Indeed, again and again he naively records little facts which
really tell against his case.
Dr. Hedin’s personal position is not for me to discuss, but I give his
book intact, omitting only, at his own request, a few passages dealing
with Swedish politics of purely local interest, and the British public
can form its own judgment both of the author and of his views.
If that judgment is unfavourable I hope it will not prevent them from
taking his facts to heart.
JOHN LANE
WITH THE GERMAN
ARMIES IN THE WEST
CHAPTER I
ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT
The tocsin bell has ceased to ring. Swedish men are no longer being
called to arms. Quiet has once more descended upon Stockholm, and it
is only occasionally that one encounters a detachment of Landsturm
men marching through the streets to join their units or on their way
home. People go about their business in the old familiar way. It would
be hard to believe that the great world war was raging outside, did
not the newspapers with their great black headlines and their fateful
contents form a sinister reminder.
But the individual who under these conditions started out from the
Stockholm Central terminus with Berlin as his immediate objective, was
only too well aware that it was not an ordinary trip on the Continent
on which he was embarking. He travelled from the quiet of the North to
the storm in the South--to the great capital where history was being
made, the heart of the great empire which was at war with seven states,
of which four were great powers. When Stockholm’s thousand lights faded
into the distance, he felt that peace faded away with them, and that
each passing day would bring him nearer to war. He was committed to a
journey the spell of which would each day grow stronger, and he was a
prey to a tension which was only to give way before the excitement and
the thrill of action.
The train clanged through the pitch-black night, and the rain wove its
delicate tracery on the window-panes. On Trelleborg quay only a couple
of baggage and mail wagons were brought on board the ferry, which
bears King Gustaf’s name. No Swedish passenger coaches are allowed on
the German system in war time, and similarly Germany does not permit
hers to enter Sweden.
The sun has broken through the clouds, but the mist has wiped
Trelleborg and the Swedish coast from the horizon. A fresh breeze
is blowing from the south-west, the Baltic is coated with swirling
white-capped waves, and the ferry cuts through the foam on its way
to the German coast. There is not a ship in sight, no cruisers, no
destroyers or torpedo-boats, none of the greyhounds of the sea to track
and hold up doubtful shipping. These are peaceful waters. None of the
hot winds of war are yet blowing over this sea, only the cool autumnal
breezes caress the wave crests. But no doubt grim times are in store
even here, so it is as well to make the most of the fleeting hour.
At Sassnitz we set foot on German soil which formerly belonged to us.
Everything is as usual, the traveller’s excitement has been groundless.
Nothing--unless it be a solitary Landsturm soldier with shouldered
rifle--to remind one of war. On landing, our passports are viséd and
our hand luggage is examined at the Custom House. Everything is done in
a quiet and orderly manner. The German railway and customs officials
are most polite, and look very well in their new ornamental uniforms.
The train swings across Rügen to Altefähr and boards the ferry for the
mainland. Here the time-worn churches rear their spires over our old
possession Stralsund, where we stop a while at the station. Everything
is as it used to be, no hurry or bustle; people go about their business
as in times of piping peace. But just as the train is about to steam
out, a squad of Landwehr soldiers with their kits under their arms rush
on to the platform and take their seats in the last carriage. They
are not bound for the front as yet, for they alight at Greifswald. A
blurred mass of red-tiled roofs framed in the luxuriant foliage of late
summer, and a number of churches pointing their spires aloft--that is
all we see of the old university town. But there is nothing unusual to
be seen, everything runs its normal course. “Papers!” “Beer!” cry the
boys on the platform, and, anxious for news, one buys a paper from one
and, to quench one’s thirst, a glass of good, dark beer of the other.
A light meal is provided by a woman, who at 30 pfg. each sells small
bags of waffles, plums and grapes.
From some belated fields the corn is still being brought in, and black
and brindled cattle, and here and there a flock of sheep, is seen
grazing in the meadows. Summer and prosperity seem to reign everywhere
in Germany, and there is meat and bread in abundance. Is it possible
that it is six weeks since this country has been involved in the
greatest war in history? Everything betokens peace on earth, even the
sky is cloudless and the sun sheds its golden rays over Pomerania.
Among the trees by the roadside some women are walking with little
children in their arms. They are engaged in earnest conversation and
walk with bowed heads. No doubt their menfolk are at the war, and
perhaps one of them knows already that she is a widow. A conscientious
observer might notice that there are fewer adult men than usual. But
the difference is so slight that one would not think of it unless one
knew that there was war. Old men, women and children seem a little more
in evidence than in peace time: that is all.
At Anklam station, not far from where the Peene flows into the Baltic,
another body of soldiers board the train. Their uniforms are dark blue
with very bright red collars. They are Landsturm men in the prime of
life, and have probably been called up for service within Germany;
for at the front hardly anything is seen but field-grey uniforms, a
protective colouring which blends with the appearance of the soil and
is very hard to distinguish.
Prenzlau--so now we are in Brandenburg. Fresh bodies of Landsturm men
clamber into the train, which is to carry them away from their homes
to an unknown fate. They come running and singing across the platform,
as if they long to get away. Their blue tunics with red collars and
shoulder-straps, and the red cap-bands, form a bright contrast to
the dress of the civilians. They are strong and powerful specimens
of the Teutonic type, but too stout for perfect symmetry. One does
not see amongst them any ideal specimens bearing the distinguishing
characteristics of the Caucasian race, no broad-shouldered,
deep-chested, strapping fellows such as one meets with in the mountains
of Georgia; but they are a blonde, sound, calm and yet cheery set of
men, all animated by one single thought--to conquer or to die. Their
women, children and other relations have followed them to the train
to say good-bye. All are cheerful, they chat and laugh. There is
no weeping and complaining, it is the great day of joy, when every
able-bodied man goes to do his duty for the welfare of his country.
My carriage is filled with officers. They are engaged in very animated
conversation; they do not care what is going on around them; they don’t
look out of the window and don’t allow themselves to be disturbed by
the bustle and crush in the corridor. They talk about the affairs of
their units and regiments, about the equipment of the troops and the
departure for foreign parts. They discuss Hindenburg’s victories and
give vent to their admiration for him. The cares and solemnity of war
do not rest heavily on these men; they are animated by a glad longing
and sure feeling of victory, and without knowing them one realises that
they have staked their lives and their existence on one single goal.
About the result they have no doubt. They _must_ win, otherwise their
country is lost.
But the hours speed away, dusk settles down over Brandenburg, and soon
the earth is wrapped in darkness. The carriages are not lighted--I
don’t know why. As we approach Berlin it is dark within, but outside
there are rows of electric lamps lighting up the interior of the
carriage in a fantastic manner.
The train stops at _Stettiner Bahnhof_. On the platform there is
the same busy hum and bustle as in peace time. A whole crowd of
_Gepäckträger_ hurry to the window to receive the passengers’
luggage--one notices no lack of men. A policeman hands out numbered
cab-discs, the heavy luggage is got out in a twinkling, and up one
jumps into one of the numberless taxicabs ranged outside and drives off
to one’s hotel.
I am an old customer at the Kaiserhof, but this time I was told that
I ought to stay in Unter den Linden in order to be able to study at
my leisure from a balcony the endless processions of patriots, who,
especially at night, file down the road with proud bearing, singing
patriotic songs. I therefore chose the Hotel Bristol. Its name has
been removed from the large illuminated sign facing the street.
Bristol--this name reminded one too much of England’s faithlessness
towards her Teutonic kinsmen! Only the first letter remained, to be
interpreted as one might wish.
The hotel was only half-full. Most of the visitors were Scandinavians
and Americans. It was just as well that there were not too many, as
the staff had also been reduced by half--the other half was at the
front. The quiet which reigned in the big building was reflected by
the atmosphere of the famous avenue outside. To-day there were no
closely packed crowds, no singing processions. Only those people who
had business to attend to or who wanted to glean the latest news were
seen on the pavements--the others kept indoors. The traffic was, if
anything, less lively than in peace time, and an amazing calm had
descended upon the great city.
I went out in the evening to see the people and listen to their
conversation. The talk was almost entirely about the war. I walked
through Friedrichstrasse, Leipzigerstrasse and the other familiar
streets. Everything is just as usual. Berlin is wrapped in absolute
peace. Innumerable shop windows still shed their light upon the
pavements. In some of them large maps are shown, small flags indicating
the positions of the armies. On one such map the flags were waving and
fluttering, as if a storm were ravaging the plains of Europe. Outside,
in the street, little groups formed to talk about the war and to
express the hope that the German flags would soon be shifted further
into the steppes in the east and towards the sea in the west.
“Why are the streets so silent?” I ask somebody. “I understood that
Berlin was in such high spirits.”
“It is so long since we heard of any great victories,” is the answer.
“Patience,” I retort, “you must not expect a Tannenberg every week.”
Here comes a woman hurrying along with a bundle of newspapers. It is
the latest edition with fresh telegrams from the front. She is hustling
as much as possible in order to impress on the public that they must
look sharp and get the news as fresh as possible. On the opposite
pavement runs a boy with the same newspaper, calling out his ware in
a loud voice. At a street corner stands an old man with his bundle of
papers. He is too tired to run, and his cracked voice cannot even be
heard above the subdued hubbub of street-life and the quick flow of
talk of the people. It is all the same news, and it deals chiefly with
the gigantic battle of Lemberg.
The restaurants are well filled, in fact they are all overcrowded with
customers. Through the big windows one can see the honest bourgeois
seated at his little table, where sausage and _wienerschnitzel_,
_dunkles_ or _helles_ may be had in abundance. I entered and sat down
at a table, overhearing scraps of talk from all sides--all about the
war, about brothers and sons who are fighting, one hardly knows where,
as the field post has brought no news for a long time. But perhaps
the next day will bring a greeting from the front. Maybe a son who
has been reported in the papers as missing, has turned up again.
But nevertheless the personal sorrow and anxiety is thrust into the
background. Every sacrifice must be gladly made, and the loved ones
may lie dead on the field of battle so long as Germany wins her fight
against almost the whole of Europe.
On the 13th September the lingering summer came to an end, and autumn
suddenly asserted itself. It poured with rain, it was dark, windy, cold
and raw. Shallow puddles covered the asphalt in Unter den Linden, which
resembled an enormous river-bed still drenched with the flow, and from
which the tide had just ebbed. The great avenue now looks desolate with
a vengeance. From my balcony I can only see a few solitary individuals
sheltered under more or less elegant umbrellas. Berlin’s inhabitants
prefer to keep in their comfortable homes, and not even the longing for
war news can tempt them out in such weather.
The rain falls thick and heavy and patters down on the dripping limes
outside my balcony. Berlin is dull and miserable in the autumn when the
rain sweeps its long, monotonously straight streets with their heavy,
dark houses. Not even the trooping of the colours and the march-past
at midday raise the drooping spirits, and only a few pedestrians with
open umbrellas join the band and march in step with the soldiers. The
motor-cars buzz past over the asphalt, flinging up a spray of water
as they rush along. They are plainly far less numerous than usual. No
calls are made, no visits paid, for the whole of the aristocracy is in
mourning for lost relatives and everybody’s thoughts are centred on the
war. Nobody feels inclined for the futile pleasures of ordinary times
when the newspapers speak of a father who has lost four sons at the
front, or of a mother whose three sons have each died a hero’s death
for Emperor and country. But no complaints are heard, no tears seen. In
the streets one seldom sees signs of mourning. There is perhaps a tacit
convention not to express in black and white the sorrow which is felt
at the bottom of the heart, but to make the grief subservient to the
proud consciousness that the beloved one has fallen for his country,
never to return!
Already in Berlin I was greatly impressed by the world-wide influence
of German thought. Here is a nation which for long years back has
known how to read the inexorable message of time, which has not rested
on the laurels gained in its last war, which has needed no warnings,
and whose watchmen never closed their eyes and never dallied with an
inevitable fate. Here is a nation which during the decades of peace
has armed itself to the teeth and which now, when the hour has struck,
stands ready to meet four great powers in fierce combat and to contend
with one of them for the mastery of the seas. It is true that the
German people have been divided into parties, as the democratic spirit
of our age demands, but the political factions have nevertheless
realised the necessity of a strong defence of their common country.
And now that the war is raging in all directions, the parties have
disappeared completely. Germany at the present time is inhabited by a
people which is at one with itself. Here we have but one party--that of
the soldiers. Here everyone has but one goal, and there is no one who
does not realise that this is a fight of life and death for Germany;
all have the same thoughts, all hold the same hopes and offer up the
same prayers, from the Emperor who stands first and foremost in war as
in peace, to the street urchin who flattens his nose against the shop
window and studies the positions of the tiny flags.
But the rain keeps on falling and beats against the window-panes.
I hurry downstairs, jump into a taxi and in a few minutes I am
sitting in an elegant drawing-room at the dainty new residence of
the Swedish Minister, at the corner of Friedrich Wilhelmstrasse and
Tiergartenstrasse, chatting with old friends--needless to say, about
the war. When I last met Count Taube in Berlin, I had just returned
from a long journey in the Far East. Now I stood on the threshold of a
new journey, which might be infinitely longer than the last! Later in
the day I visited another nobleman, Prince von Wedel, whom I had met
in Vienna when he was ambassador there, and in Strassburg when he was
Governor. We had much to talk about, but what is there to discuss in
these days but the great and bloody drama which occupies everyone’s
thoughts--the War!
My most important visit in Berlin was to the Foreign Office. But
before narrating what took place there I must say a few words about the
reasons which led up to my journey. It was desirable that no one in a
responsible position in Sweden should have an inkling of my journey
to the front. Our country belonged to the neutral states, and thus no
authority must entertain the slightest shadow of a suspicion that I was
travelling on any sort of secret mission. No,--the reason was a very
simple one. Only a few days’ journey away the greatest war of all time
was being waged. It was clear that the outcome of this struggle would
decide the political development for the next fifty or hundred years,
or perhaps longer. In any case its shadows must envelop the remainder
of the lives of the present generation.
The war of 1870-71 became the starting-point of a new era in Germany’s
development. Now Germany is once again at war, and the new political
problems which may be expected to come up for discussion in the
immediate future will doubtless be rooted in the great Germanic war. If
the two contending groups of powers were to come out of the struggle
only with depleted forces, the war of 1914 would, in its dying embers,
carry the seed of a new world conflagration, even more devastating
perhaps than the last. But if Germany were to win at all points, the
map of the world would undergo sweeping changes, and Germany would
then, in the great triumph of her power, discountenance and forbid
fresh wars. If Russia were to win, the fate of Sweden and Norway would
be sealed. Whatever happens, great and memorable events will arise out
of this struggle. How instructive would it be, then, to study the War
on the very scene of the momentous conflict, and to visit the ravaged
regions where the German soldiers carried the fate of Germany and of
the whole Germanic world on the point of their bayonets! No one who has
not seen with his own eyes how the Germans fight, can fully and clearly
grasp what the struggle means to Germany. But his presence there will
enable him to comprehend more plainly what the future holds in store
for us, and the happenings which in due course will be unfolded before
our vision.
Thus I look upon my journey to the front first and foremost as a
political study.
But there were also other reasons and other thoughts that made me long
to get out to the theatre of war. I wanted to see with my own eyes and
become familiar with war as it really is, and I wanted to gain the
personal experience which would enable me to describe to others the
dark as well as the bright sides of war. Its dark sides are the hate,
the desire for vengeance, the destruction, the gutted homesteads,
the ruined crops, the wounded, the maimed, the graves, the grief and
privation, but war is bright when it is fought by a united nation,
determined to live and to retain its independence.
The unity, self-sacrifice and confidence in victory of the German
nation is one of the bright sides of this war, which otherwise reveals
an abyss of human misery. I thought it would be instructive to see for
myself how far civilisation, Christianity and pacificism had advanced
nineteen hundred and fourteen years after the birth of Christ.
During the first phase of the war the British press accused the Germans
of barbaric cruelty to their prisoners and to wounded opponents. Not
for one moment did I believe these reports, but for the sake of the
Teutonic race I wanted to uproot this calumny and to bring to light
the truth. If one cannot ask anything else of a people which stands
on the pinnacle of culture, one may at least expect it not to accuse
its opponents of crimes which were never committed. German protests
against the accusations of foreign newspapers were of course of no
avail. Perhaps I shall be believed if I protest before God that I will
not write a single line which is not true and will describe nothing but
what I have seen with my own eyes.
Finally, it was my wish to study the psychology of war, I mean the
_Geist_ and the fighting spirit with which armies went into battle, the
mood in which they returned therefrom, the thoughts and feelings of
the wounded, the spirit with which the soldiers entered the fray for
the second time after having been slightly wounded, tended and healed.
In the last phase of the Manchurian campaign there was a noticeable
weakening of purpose which led to slackened efforts on both sides and
caused the war to die, so to speak, of inanition. Was a like form of
mental fatigue, an exhaustion of soul and body under the stupendous
hardships in the field to leave its mark on the Germans too? Or would
their conviction, that the war meant to them the life or death of
Germany, endow them with a buoyancy and tenacity enabling them to
fight through to victory? It might be of interest to us, Teutons of
the north, to gain some insight into this problem. Such knowledge
might be useful, should we at some future time be confronted with a
situation comparable with that of Germany at the present moment. The
outcome of a campaign does not merely depend upon preparations, war
material and training. The fighting spirit and general mental attitude
of the soldier also plays a most important part. The soldier must know
_why_ he is fighting and _what_ he is fighting for. The psychological
factor is therefore of the utmost importance. The officer leading his
men to the front and into the firing line has neither the attitude of
mind nor the time for such studies. His whole attention is and must be
concentrated on the fighting itself; he only thinks of utilising the
striking power of his men with the utmost effect at the right moment
and in the right place. He is therefore--and quite rightly--blind
to everything else. A layman on the other hand, whose attention
is not distracted by considerations of conduct of war, has better
opportunities of studying the psychology of the soldiers.
Once this war is over, whole libraries of books will be written about
it. I do not think it an exaggeration to say that on the western front
alone upwards of a million and a half diaries are being kept at the
present moment. In all directions, in all fighting units down to the
company, the platoon and the battery, official war journals are being
kept and accounts of the fighting are being prepared from the bedrock
furnished on the one hand by the draft of outgoing reports and on the
other by incoming papers, orders, reports and communications. The
soldiers record their own personal experiences, the officers their
military observations. Many a note-book has no doubt protected a heart
or checked the death-dealing bullet. Thus the sections of the German
General Staff, whose task it will be in due course to prepare the
materials, will be occupied for many years to come with this monumental
labour.
When I went out to the front, it was clearly established in my mind
that my narrative would be quite different from the military accounts.
I was not going to devote any attention to matters of purely military
science, which could only be dealt with by experts. Even Sweden has
from the very beginning had its military attaché, Major Adlercreutz,
of the Scanian Dragoons, and later on Lieut.-Col. Bouveng received
permission to accompany the German forces. Strategical and tactical
observations would thus be absent from my narrative. It would no
doubt have been interesting and instructive to familiarise myself in
some measure with these subjects. But it was evident to me from the
beginning that I should always have to observe the utmost tact and
discretion, and even avoid obtaining knowledge of military matters
which ought to remain secret until the end of the campaign. This veto
comprised the distribution of German forces, army corps, divisions,
regiments and other units, as well as any regrouping of forces which
might be effected during my presence at the front. I was destined often
to hear of such details, but made up my mind to take no notes in that
connection.
Neither did I propose to embody in my narrative any account of the
events that led up to the war or of the Notes despatched hither and
thither across Europe during the days preceding its outbreak. All this
had been fully dealt with before. My book was only to constitute a
conscientious account of what I myself had seen and experienced whilst
I was the guest of the German Army in the field. Towards this army and
towards the German people I thus incurred a certain responsibility--my
sketch, in order to possess any value, must therefore be a true and
faithful one. Towards Germany’s enemies I also had a duty, not to be
unfair to them. I further felt a certain responsibility towards Swedish
officers as a body, for although it might have been my wish that my
observations should be of use to them, it was more than doubtful
whether I should succeed in my object. As regards the public, whatever
I might witness, I had to guard against the temptation to satisfy its
craving after sensation. Besides, it was evident to me that in a modern
war there was very little to be left to the imagination, and that the
reality would in most cases render it unnecessary to strive after
effect. I wanted to describe life and death on the battlefield, that
was all.
Such were my thoughts and plans at the beginning of September. They had
arisen and matured in my own mind without the shadow of any incentive
from German or Swedish quarters. When I had made up my mind, all that
remained for me to do was to obtain permission to go to the front and
to spend some time with the German Army. With this object I applied to
the German Minister in Stockholm, His Excellency von Reichenau, who
with the greatest kindness undertook to transmit my request to the
competent authority in Germany. After waiting a week I received a very
courteous reply saying that I was very welcome to visit the front. The
following day, September 11th, I set out on my fateful journey, and
at the present moment--when I broke the thread of my narrative--I am
standing on the doorstep and ringing the bell at the Foreign Office at
76 Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin.
The Under Secretary of State, Herr von Zimmermann, who is acting
Foreign Minister in Berlin whilst His Excellency von Jagow is at the
Main Headquarters, received me with open arms and said that all he knew
was that I was to proceed straightway to the said Headquarters.
“But where are the Main Headquarters?” I asked.
“That is a secret,” Herr von Zimmermann answered, with a smile.
“Good, but how am I to get there?”
“Oh, the Chief of the Great General Staff, Colonel-General von Moltke,
has given instructions that a car is to be kept at your disposal. You
may decide yourself when you would like to start. An officer and an
orderly will accompany you, and if you like you can travel to the Main
Headquarters day and night without stopping, or you can choose your own
road and time. In fact, you are at liberty to do as you like.”
“And afterwards?”
“After that your fate will rest in the hands of His Excellency von
Moltke. No doubt he will map out a plan for your journey. The only
thing you have to think about now is to get to him.”
“And where shall I find the car?”
“This paper will tell you.”
Herr von Zimmermann handed me a permit from the Great General Staff
which read as follows: “The bearer of this permit is entitled to use
the relays of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps to the Main
Headquarters. Everything that can in any way expedite his journey is to
be placed at his disposal.”
In conclusion I was told that the offices of the Volunteer Automobile
Corps were at 243 Friedrichstrasse, and that the Acting Chief was a Dr.
Arnoldi.
After heartily thanking Herr von Zimmermann and receiving his good
wishes for the impending journey, I went off to look for Arnoldi and
his office. I found him in a large room full of maps, piles of papers,
telegrams, officers and orderlies, and my reception was as usual most
cordial--in future I shall not have to repeat this pleasing fact, for
everyone has been equally courteous and friendly. To begin with, I was
shown a map of the great relay road, but for obvious reasons I must not
tell anything about it.
Then came the question:
“Do you wish to travel independently of all regulations or by relays,
that is to say, 700 kilometres in 16 hours--44 kilometres an hour on
end?”
I thought a moment, then chose to be independent, for if I had done the
journey in sixteen hours, I should have been obliged to travel over
the most interesting part of the road by night when there is nothing
to be seen, and, after all, I had come to see as much as possible. The
trip from Berlin to Headquarters ought to mean a continuous crescendo.
I ought to know what it felt like to leave peace behind and gradually
to approach the scorching firing lines. I thought in my innocence that
the roads in Western Germany would be more or less encumbered with
soldiers and vehicles. Not a bit of it! It was a long time before we
had to drive slowly on account of the congestion, for within Germany
all transports were effected by rail.
“Who is going to be my chauffeur?”
“An officer, accompanied by an orderly. Both are on duty with the
Volunteer Automobile Corps.”
“Who appoints the officer?”
“I do; and I am just thinking that Rittmeister von Krum, of
Württemberg, will be the right man.”
Dr. Arnoldi touched a button. An orderly entered and was asked whether
Captain von Krum was at hand.
“Yes, the Rittmeister is here.” “Ask him to come in.” And an officer
in field-grey uniform, of the most attractive appearance and charming
manners, enters the room. Dr. Arnoldi tells him what his duties are,
namely, to take me to the mysterious region in the west, and I wonder
in my own mind whether it will bore him to jog along with me on the
road through more than half of Germany. I even ask him how he feels
about it, and he replies that it will be a great pleasure to him to
take _me_, of all people, to the theatre of war. I assure Captain von
Krum that it pleases me greatly to have _him_, of all people, as my
travelling companion, chauffeur and guide.
My Rittmeister had retired from active service, but on the outbreak of
war he had rallied to the colours and placed his car at the disposal
of the Crown in accordance with the mobilisation decree. He drives it
himself in the service of the Army and the orderly who is to accompany
us is, in peace time, his own chauffeur. I was told that the Volunteer
Automobile Corps now mustered 350 cars. The owner of a car reports
himself and is paid for his vehicle, and he may at the end of the war
buy back his car from the Crown. It is reckoned that the serviceable
life of a car is five years. If the owner paid ten thousand marks for
his car and has used it for four years, he only gets paid at the last
year’s valuation, i.e. two thousand marks, whilst if the car is quite
new he receives the full amount.
Three hundred and fifty cars--it doesn’t sound much, but these cars
merely form the Volunteer Corps, and I suppose you will feel more
at ease when I tell you that at the western front alone there are
altogether fifty thousand cars in use, whilst forty thousand are left
in Germany. That means fifty thousand chauffeurs. When one considers
that each car usually has a crew of two, it will be seen that the
equivalent of over two army corps are attached to the Automobile
Service. There are plenty of men in Germany, plenty for every purpose.
On the eastern front I was told that cars are useless outside the
German boundaries, owing to the shocking state of Russian and Polish
roads. There one has to ride or requisition ordinary vehicles. But in
the west the cars play a part the importance of which had only remotely
been guessed at, as may be gathered from the course of this narrative.
Finally, von Krum was told to collect all maps (scale 1 : 100,000) that
we should require from Berlin to Main Headquarters. I myself received
the pleasing news that I need only give ten minutes’ notice before
starting, as car, Rittmeister and orderly were always ready, likewise
Dr. Arnoldi’s wolf-skin coat, which he advised me to take with me.
I had thus every reason to be satisfied with my day’s work. The trip
to Main Headquarters was evidently only the first step. What was to
follow? Probably a trip along the line of German lines of communication
to the fighting zone, and possibly to the firing line itself. Perhaps
it would be my good fortune to catch at least a glimpse of a modern
fight. After such a beginning the rest was sure to go well. My
excitement on starting had now changed to longing, and I felt that I
was about to be carried with lightning speed along magnificent roads
towards a spectacle which I would never forget: the German Army in
all its overpowering strength drawn up for the greatest contest in
the world’s history. The German Army! These words convey nowadays far
more than formerly, and the same may be said of the French Army. In
these days it is not armies of mercenaries that meet one another in the
field, it is entire nations that range up for battle. The difference
is only that the German Army is one homogeneous whole and pure in
race, whilst the French Army is reinforced with Englishmen and a whole
colour-scheme of imported heathens.
The next day I was out with my friend the Rittmeister and got fitted
out from head to foot with motor cap, boots and puttees, a sporting
suit of suitable warmth, leather coat and vest, rain-coat, a warm
muffler and a pair of motor goggles, which I never used.
I ended my day at a reception at the house of the Countess Wilamovitz,
née Fock, whose husband, Captain of one of the Reserve Regiments of
the Uhlans of the Guard, is fighting at the front. The sole topic of
conversation among the guests was the War and the final victory.
The 15th of September we started out. I turned up in good time at the
offices of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps, where the car was
waiting. But as usual it takes a long time to get away; von Krum has
several papers to sign and maps to arrange and Dr. Arnoldi conveys to
me very hearty greetings from Lieut.-Colonel Gross, the great airship
expert and inventor, who is commanding the Field Telegraph Battalion.
Before I left he insisted on my going out to inspect his magnificent
establishment. So we drove out to see him and were received at the
gate by the Colonel himself, an energetic, virile, distinguished
little man surrounded by several officers. The establishment is
truly imposing, a whole row of barracks, workshops, depots, stores
and stables surrounding an enormous yard, where masts for wireless
telegraphy tower aloft. The station is thus in communication with
the whole of Germany, and the aerial news operator was just engaged
in reading out for the general edification some atrocity stories
received that moment from English sources. The telegraph battalion with
equipment, men and horses, is, of course, in the field with its Army
Corps. But, nevertheless, depots, barracks and stables are replete
with a completely new set of everything. In the stables every stall
was occupied by recently requisitioned farm horses, fat and sleek and
contented in their new unaccustomed surroundings. As regards the men,
they were all volunteers, who had offered themselves in far greater
numbers than were needed. Just as we were walking across the yard a
detachment drove in at full speed with its loads of masts and wire.
It had been out practising, and the precision and resolution which
distinguished the work of the men was astonishing, seeing that they had
only had four weeks’ training. One of them, by the scars on his cheeks,
showed himself to be an old University student, and was now headmaster
in a school. When addressed by the Colonel he came to attention and
saluted with a smartness which made us suspect that he preferred the
driver’s seat on a field telegraph lorry to the schoolmaster’s desk.
We also visited the immense sheds containing the wagons with their
substantial provision for batteries, telegraph and telephone apparatus,
insulators, tools, wires and the innumerable objects required for field
telegraph lines. The wagons, which are motor-driven, resemble enormous
but well-built and graceful boxes. They are of immense weight and
can only be used on paved or macadamised roads. On the Polish roads,
soaked by the autumn rains, they would not get far. But on the western
front it is sufficient if they keep to the main roads, where they are
stationed at suitable points as depots from which supplies are conveyed
in lighter vehicles to the spot where they are wanted. One store shed
contained perfect mountains of gigantic wire coils. The wire seemed to
me somewhat thin, but I was told that it fully answers its purpose. The
Colonel showed me the lances by means of which experienced and expert
riders throw up the telegraph and telephone wires among the branches of
an avenue of trees. When I saw all these heavy lumbering vehicles and
appliances and all these thousands of miles of wire, the idea crossed
my mind that it was all very well when it was all ranged up before one
as at an exhibition in Berlin, but how would it all work out in war?
Was it possible that everything would turn out as calculated? Would
the wagons arrive in time and would there not be endless bother with
all these wires in trees and on the ground? I was soon to learn how
wonderfully everything panned out and with what meticulous care every
detail was superintended by trained soldiers.
But time flies, we rush back to Berlin, cross Unter den Linden and pass
out through the Brandenburger Tor. The war cars always create a good
deal of interest. The Rittmeister sits at the wheel himself and steers
his car with wonderful assurance. He threads his way with the most
daring turns and twists in between and past other cars and carriages in
the Tiergartenstrasse, and by pressing a little bulb on the wheel he
produces a piercing, twittering noise which during the day caused an
officer to shout after us: “That’s a nice little canary you’ve got hold
of!”
By the side of von Krum sits the chauffeur, the excellent Deffner, also
from Württemberg, an enormous chap. His rifle is lashed to the front
of the car. I myself occupy the back seat, where I have the map of the
General Staff at hand, making hasty notes now and again. At the bottom
of the car is my luggage, two bags no larger than can be carried by
myself if necessary. In the field one should not carry more baggage
than one can cope with personally. Our first halt is at Potsdam, 28.9
kilometres. We fly along at a rattling pace on the magnificent road
lined by avenues of trees, parks and long rows of large new houses.
Here we have the Wannsee with its innumerable sailing boats at anchor,
its leafy nooks, its villas and inns. There are very few people about
and we seldom meet another vehicle. But when we sight one down the
road, the shrill sound of the canary rends the atmosphere, and Deffner
conjures forth a melodious note out of his hooter.
We are not far from Beelitz when a report is heard under the car--it is
not a shell, merely a burst tyre which compels us to stop and change
it. A horseshoe nail has worked its way through the cover, but Deffner
is a handy man and it is put right in no time. There is a fresh breeze
blowing, and it murmurs through the pines by the roadside--it is the
last breath of summer complaining that autumn is so near. One finds it
rather windy travelling in an open car at sixty kilometres an hour with
a head wind, but it is delightful and exhilarating to travel fast, to
fly along the road regardless of everything and to approach the scene
of events which are now daily filling the pages of the world’s history.
All unpleasant thoughts are blown away, all fuss and pettiness which
one otherwise has to endure are left behind, one simply runs away from
it all and is filled with a feeling of buoyant joy and freedom as one
rushes past the fields, the homely villages, the farms, the copses,
the endless, straight avenues of ash, oak, maple and elm--everything
flits past and disappears, whilst the hand of the indicator marks
seventy kilometres an hour. There is nothing to indicate that Germany
is in the throes of her greatest war. Huge cartloads of scented hay are
being brought in from the meadows--not all Germany’s horses are busy
pulling guns and ammunition. The sails of the windmills travel round
busily with several reefs taken in, grinding the corn which is to be
made into bread for millions of soldiers and their families at home. At
Treuenbrietzen we encounter groups of merry school children who shout
and wave, and in the fields outside women, young and old, are busy
gathering potatoes and beet. They greet us with a flutter of aprons and
handkerchiefs. Why on earth are they waving to us, I say to myself, but
the answer is obvious--the uniforms and the streamer denote a war car,
and they realise that we are on the way to the front; whether they know
us or not does not matter, but perhaps they think we shall meet their
own dear ones who are fighting out there for hearth and home!
Now the country opens up more and stretches out in undulating vistas
before us. Presently we reach the top of a rise and see the tower and
roof of Wittenberg church in a hollow before us--the Elbe valley. Here
is the Schlosskirche, and I see in my mind’s eye the wonder-struck
crowds gathering before the portals where the monk Luther nailed up
his ninety-five theses. But disturb not the peace which reigns within
the church, where the great reformer rests before the pulpit! Outside
in the street a body of volunteers are marching; they look cheerful,
they march well with a rhythmical firm step and sing a lively and
inspiriting war song. At the next street corner we meet another
detachment on the way to or from its drill ground. They are strapping
young fellows of martial bearing, and one can see how they are longing
to get out to fight. They do not sing, they whistle a pleasing tune
which sounds quaint among the venerable houses of Wittenberg. They are
Teutons, they were not born to be conquered by Slavs and Latins. Their
forefathers were described by Tacitus, and they fought and conquered in
the Teutoburger Wald. Now it is the descendants of the old Teutons who
are gathered under the German eagles to struggle for freedom between
the Rhine and the Vistula, and far beyond the valleys of the great
rivers. It is a dangerous game to trifle with the eagle, for he may
leave his nest and spread his wings for flight. But Germany’s fateful
hour has now struck, and the moment has come for the Teutons to assert
themselves and to lay the foundation for an assured future. Listen to
the echo of their ringing stride in the streets of Wittenberg--the
same echo is heard in all German cities where the volunteers rally
round the flag! It is a migration the like of which the world has never
seen, and the country is filled with the spirit of resolution and
enthusiasm which does not know what fear is or doubt, an understanding
which asks no questions. They march off to unknown fates, glorious and
horrible alike. Very soon they will say their evening prayers to the
accompaniment of the thunder of guns and the shrieking of shells. It
is not for German liberty alone that they are fighting, it is for the
independent existence of the other Germanic nations as well that they
fearlessly face death on the battlefield. So no wonder that my eye
follows them until they disappear round the next street corner--the
sound of their music still ringing in my soul.
_Zum König von Preussen_, _Zum Goldenen Anker_--they show wonderful
fertility of mind in hitting upon attractive names to lure the
customers into their inns! Many a _Bierkneipe_ in these parts has
venerable associations, and inns are still to be found where it is
known that Luther sat and quaffed his good old beer.
But Wittenberg also has Swedish memories. Many a Swedish soldier
has marched over the Elbe bridge since the memorable 3rd September,
1631, when Gustavus Adolphus came over for the first time to rescue
Protestantism and the liberty of thought on earth--up to the October
day, 1813, when our old regiments for the last time trod the road to
Leipzig to take part in the struggle against Napoleon. How different
was the conduct of war on these two occasions, but how alike were the
will and spirit of the people!
It was with a mixture of pride and melancholy that I sat thinking of
those good old times, as we skimmed the surface with lightning speed.
With the car as a pair of compasses we measure out the distances on
the full-scale map of Germany itself. The Elbe valley has disappeared
behind us, and we now pick up and leave one village after the other.
Sometimes the village streets are paved with cobbles, and our speed
slackens considerably. In other places rattling carts drawn by powerful
dogs in complete harness come jogging along at a brisk pace. It is a
pleasure to look at them. Truly they are examples of faithfulness and
conscientiousness. With panting mouths and dripping tongues, and with
all muscles and sinews of their bodies strained to the utmost, they
tug so fiercely that their paws and chests might be expected to be a
mass of sores. The man at the cart does not urge them and has no whip
in his hand. He seems, on the contrary, to wish to hold them back when
they struggle along too fast. If anyone seems to approach too close to
their master’s barrow, they set up a ferocious bark. They long to be
in harness as soon as the sun gets up, just like Jack London’s pals in
Alaska. It is touching to see their sense of duty and honour. And yet
they are but dogs. I felt I would like to follow them on the road and
study them. But the car goes on inexorably, and in a twinkling they are
far, far behind.
Gräfenhainischen--what a delightful little monosyllable! One must never
be in a hurry when one lives at Gräfenhainischen. As long, nay, longer
than the name is the narrow street that leads through the village and
finally loses itself in the flat country beyond.
Mulde with its bridge and Bitterfeld, where the market is in full
swing, are the next landmarks in our journey. The stalls with the busy
market life around them look very picturesque. Full of colour, but at
the same time so old-fashioned and tranquil--nobody could imagine here
that Germany is at war. On the road outside the town we see plenty of
women driving or walking back to their rustic farmsteads after their
marketing.
At the lignite mines outside Bitterfeld the little baskets on the
cable-ways are busy carrying the coal to the factories, where it is
made into briquettes.
Next we roll into Halle and are now on the most classic ground of our
national history, for it was at Halle that Gustavus Adolphus rested
from the 10th to the 17th September, 1631, with the army which had
conquered at Breitenfeld on the 7th of the same month. In passing over
the bridges we cross a seemingly inextricable maze of railway lines.
The bridge-heads here, as everywhere in the German Empire, are guarded
by Landsturm sentries with loaded rifles. All railways and high roads,
all arteries of communication on land and water, in fact everything
that can pass by the name of road is of the utmost importance in war
time, as they are the means of carrying the troops to the parts where
the fighting is going on. But most important of all are the bridges,
especially those spanning the great rivers. Any accident to one of
these bridges means the severing of an artery for some time ahead.
It may mean the loss of a battle. Everything must run as if it were
greased, in war there must be no miscalculations, no sundering of the
points which join the front with the interior. The cutting of his lines
of communication is a distinct reverse to the enemy. The profession
of the spy and plotter carries with it little honour and much danger.
But had the allies been able to do so, they would certainly with the
aid of enterprising emissaries have attempted to destroy the bridges,
say across the Rhine, and thus stop or delay the German advance.
Hence every important bridge throughout Germany has been guarded with
sentries since the beginning of the war, and no bridge and viaduct is
ever without one or two Landsturm men of middle-age, wearing dark-blue
uniforms, and in the evenings and at night grey overcoats; they pace
faithfully up and down at their posts on the bridges or under arches
with arms crossed and the rifle held vertically inside the left arm,
until they are relieved by their comrades. As the car dashes past with
its fluttering war streamer, they come briskly to attention with the
rifle to the order.
Well, we are now at my dear old Halle on the Saale, where I once
studied geography with the charming and humorous, one-eyed but yet
keenly wide-awake Professor Kirchhoff. Halle is exactly as it used
to be. In its main street there are plenty of people about, mainly
children and young people, for this is the great highway to Merseburg
and to the fighting West, and many military cars dashed past during the
hour we halted in the town. Here also large war maps are exhibited in
the booksellers’ windows, and outside them interested groups of Halle
folk are gathered, mostly schoolboys, who talk importantly in loud
voices of the silent, significant evidence of the little flags. At
Halle another horseshoe nail or maybe a bit of glass caused tyre Number
2 to burst, and as the accident happened exactly opposite Schultheiss’s
door, von Krum and I saw in this a direct hint from fate that we
wanted a glass of beer. There we sat and chatted at the table with its
many-coloured cloth and round discs of felt under the beer mugs, and
wondered how far we should get before nightfall. But as we sat and
talked, dusk quietly descended upon Halle and when we got outside the
street lamps were being lit. Further away in the west on the horizon
the sky was a flaming red--a symbol of the bloody battlefield.
After lighting our lamps, off we went from Halle southward past
Merseburg on the way to Naumburg, still hugging the Saale valley.
We are still on classic Swedish soil. November memories of
1632--Pappenheim’s cuirassiers, Isolani’s Croatians, holding sway at
Halle and Merseburg whilst Gustavus Adolphus is lying at Naumburg. Two
hours before daybreak the King left this very town for Lützen. One
can almost hear the Swedish cavalry bugle-calls. It was at this same
Merseburg that the proud dragoons of the bodyguard under Field-Marshal
Count Rehnsköld were installed in 1706-7.
The bright light from our lamps shows up the road for some distance
ahead. We have now slackened to 40 kilometres an hour. The leafy trees
by the roadside are lit up from beneath, and we seem to travel through
an endless fantastic tunnel of foliage. Far away on both sides of
the road are strings of glistening lights--the windows of farms and
villages where fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, maids and
children are sitting round the lamp to read for the twentieth time
the letters and cards received from their soldiers at the French and
Belgian front. What do these letters say? I have read several. There
are millions of them. The soldier tells his people how he likes his
billet, what food tastes like after the heat and stress of the day,
what it feels like when the shells burst close by and comrades fall at
one’s side. They tell also that the enemy is done for, that he will be
thrown back as soon as the commander deems fit to order them to charge.
They speak with good-nature of the Frenchmen as courteous and honest
soldiers, but of the English with glowing hatred. And, as often as
not, the soldier finishes up by saying that there can be no question
of any return to the village until he is wounded or useless--which God
forbid--and until victory has been gained over Germany’s enemies. For
the soldiers know, from the oldest veteran to the youngest drummer
boy, that Germany was armed to the teeth to be ready for the war, but
that Germany’s Emperor and statesmen did all in their power to avert a
disaster which would surely affect the whole world and cause rivers
of blood and tears to flow, bring nameless misery to ravaged homes and
ruined countrysides, untold nights of anguish and expectation and long
years of inconsolable grief and sorrow.
But the evening is wearing on. We have left Naumburg behind us. The
good people in the town have gone to bed, for the lights are mostly
out and the windows dark. Tucked into their snug beds they listen to
the whir of the motor-cars and the warning tooting of horns, and their
thoughts no doubt run on to the fateful west whither the cars are
speeding. But they will soon get left behind, the buzz dies away in the
distance, and sleep carries them into the peaceful realm of dreams. I
too begin to get a little sleepy. My eyelids begin to droop and my head
feels heavy; it sinks down and recovers with a jerk as the car quickly
takes a corner. The excellent Rittmeister seems to suspect something,
for he slackens speed and says it is only a few minutes to Kösen; he
asks what I think of this little watering-place as a spot for putting
up for the night. Yes, I think Kösen is an ideal spot and quite agree
that we ought to stop there. So we drive quietly into the little town,
the two halves of which are separated from one another by the Saale,
but reunited by a stone bridge. We stop at the hotel _Zum mutigen
Ritter_ and are soon wide-awake again in its parlour, with a warming
cup of steaming tea before us. The host keeps us company and tells us
that all the visitors disappeared like magic when the war broke out,
and that his own hotel business has dwindled to nothing at all. “But
what does that matter as long as we win,” he adds.
The 16th September was heralded by a cloudy sky and heavy, sleepy
raindrops, which, however, soon stopped falling after obligingly
laying the dust. From Kösen there was a steady rise across and along
the heights which line the Saale and Ilm valleys in the north. Pretty
vistas open up at the sides, where the valleys sink between the hills
and where the forest, dark and heavy, silently mounts guard over its
secrets. A little further on the country becomes more broken and the
road winds along in big curves. On the left we leave the Apolda and its
valley. On a commanding height we catch sight of a so-called Bismarck
tower of granite, with the great chancellor’s name hewn into the stone
at the top and his portrait medallion at the bottom. These towers are
often to be met with in Germany, and on certain days of national
rejoicing huge bonfires are lit on their summits.
We cannot drive through Weimar without visiting the house where Goethe
lived for forty years, and which stands in the square now bearing his
great name. It is with a feeling of reverence that one sets foot on the
steps and thresholds and in apartments where Germany’s, perhaps the
world’s, greatest poet and thinker lived his life. As far as possible
the furniture has been reinstated and restored to its former state.
One admires Goethe’s discrimination as a collector and the quick
intelligence he brought to bear on all departments of the natural
sciences. These traits are evidenced by his large and magnificent
geological and mineralogical collections, his zoological and botanical
finds, and his physical laboratory. I stop, however, longest before
the cabinets containing in large portfolios his pen-and-ink and
water-colour sketches. I am touched as I look at them. Every stroke
of the brush in these landscapes, portraits and groups has been made
by his own hand. Their execution is masterly, and the perspective
and general effect superb. Yet this was but a trifling detail in his
wonderful endowment. Equally fascinating almost are the busts which
render his glorious head and the oil paintings for which he sat. What
wonderful eyes, full of life and energy and geniality! They reveal an
intellect to which everything is as clear as crystal. With a feeling of
awe and without daring to speak to the courteous Dr. Hans Kroeber, who
showed us over one of the greatest national treasures of Germany, we
entered Goethe’s study on the ground floor with its windows looking out
on to the little garden. How simple and modest everything is; it occurs
to one that one of the lighter rooms upstairs would have been a good
deal pleasanter to work in. Behind the study we see his little bedroom,
rigidly simple, where, with the words “More light,” he ended the saga
of his wonderful life.
When the mind has tarried for a little while in this world of great
and precious memories, and is suddenly confronted on issuing into the
square with a detachment of Landsturm soldiers marching off to their
shooting range, when one leaves Goethe’s home behind and is once
more surrounded by the modern world and thinks of Germany’s gigantic
struggle against half the world--then, indeed, one has to rub one’s
eyes and steady oneself mentally so as not to lose one’s balance. And
this people, which has produced Goethe, and which now with honour
and splendid courage fights on half a dozen fronts, has by the press
of many countries and in fact entire nations been called a people of
barbarians!
But let us continue our trip along the great highway; it is now lined
for a long distance with plum trees where women and girls on ladders
are seen picking the great violet fruit and collecting it in baskets
drawn on small barrows by dogs. On the whole we do not see many people,
apart from the handful of peasants driving hay home in their carts
drawn by cows, and a few women mowing the grass on banks and meadows.
Next we come to Erfurt, a town which like so many others in these
parts is memorable to us Swedes. At “The Tall Lily” Gustavus Adolphus
spent one night of his great life. It was the night between the 28th
and 29th October, 1632, after the assembling of the Swedish Army which
a few days later was to fight and conquer at Lützen. At Erfurt one
also thrills with pride at the memory of Field-Marshal Johan Banér.
Here, as everywhere, the Landsturm soldiers sing as they march along.
We lose ourselves in the labyrinth of old-world streets, and not even
my experienced guide von Krum is able to find his way. “Which way to
Gotha?” we cry at every street corner, and the answer comes quickly,
_rechts_, _links_ or _gerade aus_. At last we work our way out of the
tangle and fly along towards Gotha, the city of Justus Perthes and the
Almanach de Gotha. Here it is easy to find the way, and before we know
where we are we find ourselves once again dashing along through avenues
of tall, graceful poplars towards Eisenach.
On our left the ground rises towards the rain-shrouded, misty ridges of
the Thüringer Wald, but the road itself runs through smiling villages
with their picturesque houses of the timber framework type, where
cackling geese and clucking turkeys sometimes do their best to get
run over or at all events to hamper our progress. At every bridge we
come to, we receive a smart military salute from the sentries. We spin
along at a lightning pace to Eisenach, and are as quickly out of it.
The road now turns sharp to the south-west and by a series of gentle
curves ascends the heights of the Thüringer Wald. On both sides of
the road is a fine wood of lofty pines. I could almost fancy that I
had been transplanted to certain parts of my own land where the eye
is accustomed to dwell on these dark green, solemn firs standing like
sentinels by the roadside. It is a beautiful piece of country. The
smell of damp earth and juicy pine-needles rises in the air and reminds
one vividly of the country on the road from Rawalpindi to Kashmir.
From the top of the hills a vast perspective opens up towards the
south-west. Once again the road runs in serpentine curves down from
the Thüringer Wald. The forest here consists largely of foliaged
trees rather than conifers. Marksuhl is situated in a broken piece
of country, where the higher-lying parts are occupied by clusters of
trees whilst the rest of the land is cultivated. At Vacha we cross the
important River Werra. From this point we progress again at lightning
pace. Villages, fields, meadows, farms, gardens and leafy coppices,
everything seems to fly past us.
Here we have Hünfeld in Hesse. Let us stop a moment and drink a cup of
tea. There is a cosy dining-room in the restaurant. At a table sits a
nurse with the Red Cross badge on her arm talking to two gentlemen,
evidently doctors, for they speak of the care of the wounded soldiers.
A few sportsmen enter with their bags full of partridges and hares.
They are dressed in brown and green, with sporting-looking felt hats
with plumes, and carry their guns on the shoulder.
We jump into the car once more and proceed to the old bishopric of
Fulda, which does not long engage our attention, then across bridges
and streams through a series of villages, one of which with its sinuous
main street is called Schlüchtern. We continue to be delayed by
poultry, geese and dogs, but the children seem to have learnt to leave
the roadway clear. The boys give us a military salute and shoulder
their little wooden guns, whilst the little children play on steps
and benches, the mothers waving to us almost affectionately as if to
say, “Give him my love and God bless him and you and the whole of our
country!”
_Via_ Gelnhausen we travel on to Hanau, in which neighbourhood we come
across swarms of civilian cyclists. “Who on earth are these people,
are they recruits on the way to join the army?” I ask. “Bless you, no;
they are workmen from the factories and workshops at Hanau returning
to their villages at the end of their day.” Big and majestic the Main
sends its muddy waters towards the sea. It is raining a little, the
roads are soaked but just as good. We can see that we are approaching
a big town, the traffic on the road increases, people live closer
together, and the telegraph wires combine into mighty clusters--those
silent wires which yet talk and know far more than we. When I come to
the Valley of the Main I seem once more to hear the good old Swedish
music and to see Stålhandske’s cavalry before me, and into the moaning
of the tree-tops I seem to read the words of Adler Salvius: “Our
Finnish lads who are getting used to those wine-lands are not likely to
come back to Savolaks in a hurry. In the Livland wars they often had
to put up with water and coarse mouldy bread with their beer-broth;
now the Finn quaffs his wine out of his helmet.” Such wealth and such
abundance our poor old horsemen and their retainers had never even
dreamt of.
Before us through the mist and gloaming twinkled the thousand lights
and electric lamps of Frankfurt. When Gustavus Adolphus first came
to Frankfurt the good burghers did not want to let him in, but made
excuses and put the blame on the Elector of Mayence. But the King
answered that he knew of no Elector of Mayence but himself. “I do not
want to be delayed. If you refuse to open the gates, I dare say I can
find some keys as I have done before in places which have fallen into
my hands.” The city surrendered at once. During the winter of 1631-32,
when Sweden’s King held his court at Frankfurt, this city was the
centre of Europe. It was from here that Gustavus Adolphus said to the
French who asked him not to direct his armies against Alsace, which
country they pretended to have claimed ever since the death of the
remote Dagobert: “I have come not as a traitor to Germany, but as its
protector. I will restore it, not rend it asunder.”
We drive on and on. The clusters of houses in the outskirts and suburbs
close up into the streets of a large town. The traffic grows, the tram
bells ring, the motors hoot, vast crowds of people walk about busily
under umbrellas, and after a short while we stop before the entrance of
the Hotel which before the war was called _Englischer Hof_, but which
has now been re-baptised the _Hessischer Hof_, owing to the feelings of
the Germans towards their Germanic kinsmen of the island kingdom.
It is wonderful how attached one gets to one’s car on a long journey!
It is with a feeling of boredom that one stops at the hotel where the
night is to be spent, and with a sensation of delight that one rises
from the breakfast table the next morning to enter the car once more.
This is how we felt on the 17th of September, a fine and pleasant
day, though heavy clouds raced across the sky. But we could not start
at once, we had first to go to a garage to get petrol and then to an
_Immobiles Kraftwagen Depot_, where absolutely everything that may be
wanted for repairing war cars is to be had. Here we took five spare
tyres, which we lashed to the right side and to the back of our car.
Of course, we do not pay a single _pfennig_--for we are travelling on
Government service.
At last we are off again and follow the long streets of Frankfurt,
leaving the city by the western outskirts with their large
working-class population. Perhaps it might be thought that these
workmen are opposed to the war which Germany is now conducting for the
sake of her future? It certainly does not look like it. The social
democratic workmen have equipped their little sons with helmets and
wooden swords to fight out real battles in the backyards, and you hear
them call each other Kluck and Hindenburg.
Once more we get out into the open country, and follow the great road
which runs in a direct line to Wiesbaden. The avenue skirting it
consists chiefly of apple and pear trees, weighed down with fruit.
Farther on we meet with poplars, standing like sentries along the
roadside. We do not stop at all in the graceful and elegant Wiesbaden,
but fly past its parks and gardens, which are quieter and emptier than
usual.
Soon we begin to ascend the Taunus heights via the Eiserne Hand. The
rise is gradual and the curves numerous. A trim and straight-stemmed
pine wood skirts the road on both sides. One seldom meets a vehicle or
a pedestrian. From an eminence a vast panorama is suddenly spread out
before us, but the weather has got foggy again and one cannot see far.
At Langen Schwalbach the elegant hotels form a striking contrast to the
solemn Red Cross flags and the wounded soldiers, now convalescent, who
are sitting on balconies and in gardens, taking the air. The road now
winds upwards once more, and we breathe a crisper atmosphere, but the
view across to smiling dells and wooded hills is limited through fog.
Up we go and down again over the gentle undulations of the country,
where the ploughed fields merge together in a colour scheme of green,
yellow and brown.
Next the road descends steeply to Nassau on the River Lahn. The
country is gloriously pretty, its roads magnificent, its forests regal
in their dark, silent splendour. On the brow of a hill stands an old
ruined castle. The people in Nassau are friendly and greet and wave
to us, and a stylish-looking young girl throws a red rose into our
car--not for us, forsooth, but as a greeting to her lover, who no doubt
is fighting in the war.
A moment later we skim the pretty riverside road to Ems along the
Lahn, line up the car in a side street and walk back to the pavement
to greet with bared head and a salute a funeral procession which is
going through. The dead man was a major who had succumbed to his
wounds. First comes a band playing a slow and melancholy march, then
two banners which precede the black-craped coffin on its carriage, and
behind it the _Kampfgenossen_, members of the Ems _Kriegerverein_, all
in tall hats, frock-coats and black ties; the procession is closed by
a number of wounded convalescent soldiers housed in the Kursaal. The
solemn cortège moves slowly up the street to the railway station, for
the dead major’s body is to be sent to his own home. After a while the
band returns accompanied by the convalescent soldiers. But now it plays
a spirited and lively march. I was told that this was customary after
military funerals--first the grief and the sorrow at the parting, the
duty towards the honoured dead, then the joy of the survivors returning
to the things of life.
The Kurhaus, a fine and roomy building, now contains eighty patients,
and more are expected. Most of the badly wounded are in bed, but those
who can get up are sitting about on balconies and enjoying the fresh
air, and from what they said to me they all long to be back at the
front.
I was told here that a young French lieutenant who had been badly
wounded in the war had found an asylum in the Kurhaus, and recollecting
the reports of the horrible cruelty with which the Germans, according
to the English press, treat their French prisoners, I could not resist
the temptation to enquire what the French lieutenant had to say about
it. His room, which he occupied alone, was certainly not a matter for
complaint; it was immediately above one of the six small rooms in which
King William I. spent a short time each year from 1867 to 1887, and the
view over Ems and the Lahn valley was the same as the King had enjoyed
all those years. The wounded man was tended by a German doctor, who
entertained good hopes of his recovery, and by two sisters of mercy,
one of whom spoke French. But I hasten to add that Lieutenant Verrier,
on my asking whether he was satisfied with the treatment he received
in Germany, at once answered “yes” with warmth and conviction, and I
suppose that wherever his fate will direct his steps he will always
remember with gratitude the time he spent over William I.’s apartments
in Ems, where the doctor did all in his power to save his leg and the
sisters all they could to alleviate his suffering and dispel in a
measure his loneliness and homesickness. I am sure that he will be the
first to acknowledge that I am right.
I went up to his room and was at once admitted. He lay in a large bed
with clean white sheets. His face was little less pale than these, but
he looked very handsome with his hair brushed from his forehead, his
finely shaped nose and well-kept moustache over a firm mouth, and his
black French eyes bespoke a _joie de vivre_ and a bright intelligence.
He told me that he had come home from New Guinea in June and that he
was just about to be married when the war came and took him away from
his bride and parents. He received his wound in the scrap at Rossignol
in Belgium. It was a terrible day, spent in the midst of bursting
shells and fire from rifles and machine guns. His bullet had struck him
obliquely through the knee and calf. He fell and remained lying all
night on the field of battle. The following morning he was picked up
and taken to a German Field Hospital and subsequently by easy stages
to Ems. At the end of August Emperor William visited the town and when
he heard that there was a wounded Frenchman there he went to see him.
Lieutenant Verrier told me that the Emperor had enquired in excellent
French about his adventures in the war and how he felt. I said that I
should in all probability soon be meeting the Emperor, and would then
tell his Majesty of the impression the gracious visit had made on the
invalid. When later I carried out my self-imposed task, the Emperor
remembered the French lieutenant very well and was gratified to hear of
the hopes entertained for his recovery.
In conclusion I asked Lieutenant Verrier whether there was anything I
could do for him within the limits permitted by the German regulations.
He seemed almost to have longed for this question, for he had the
answer quite ready. Day and night he had been tormented by one single
thought: “How are my parents and my fiancée to learn that I am still
alive and doing well? I am now in enemy country and have no means
of writing.” I asked him for his address, and he wrote in my diary,
“Monsieur Verrier-Cachet, Horticulteur, 52, rue du Quinconce, Angers,
Marne et Loire.” A minute later I was seated at a desk and wrote on
postcards in German the adventures of the young Frenchman and sent
them to my family in Stockholm, who, with the assistance of the French
Minister, would forward the news to the above address. I know that it
reached its destination and caused great joy, for later on I received
very hearty greetings and thanks from Verrier’s home.
I have often since wandered with a heavy and lingering step through
the “field” and war hospitals, especially the wards containing wounded
Frenchmen, British and Belgians who lay there counting the slowly
passing hours. How easy would it not have been for me, who had both
liberty and health, to send off a postcard here and there which would
have reached distant homes with a message of release from the wearing
anguish of anxiety! There is nothing so trying and so difficult to
bear as the uncertainty of the fate of those we love. When the name of
a son, a brother, or a husband appears in the list of missing after
a battle, the sickening anguish is almost greater to those at home
than if they knew that he had fallen. Their mental vision pictures him
as wounded, bleeding to death, alone and abandoned to the horrors of
darkness, cold and thirst. But I had really no grounds for such qualms
of conscience, for in the first place I had no business to interfere
with the regulations of the German military authorities regarding the
communication between wounded prisoners and their homes, and in the
second place there were far too many of them, and by the evening I
realised that the task of acting as a good Samaritan was an altogether
hopeless one.[2]
[2] After the beginning of October all prisoners, even wounded
Frenchmen in German hospitals, had permission to correspond with their
homes. This was given after the French Government had granted the same
privilege to German prisoners and wounded.
Meanwhile I took a hearty farewell of Verrier and wished him a speedy
recovery and a happy reunion with his people at home at Angers.
Before leaving, we looked at the memorial stone commemorating the
fateful and firm reply given “on the 13th of July, 1870, at 9.30 a.m.”
by King William to the French Ambassador Benedetti, which gave the
signal for the Franco-German war. And now, after a lapse of forty-four
years, we were back again at the same point. Now it seemed that the
thought of revenge for Alsace-Lorraine had ripened into action--unless
it be indeed that other evil powers had exploited France’s longing
for revenge, or revived it when, as some say, it was dead, to benefit
themselves thereby and stop the advance of German prosperity. The near
future will be the judge.
After dinner we mounted our car once more and the canary began to sing
so that the good people of Ems might get out of our way. We proceeded
along the right bank of the Lahn, following its bends in noble curves.
The country round here is exceedingly pretty. It is almost a pity that
we have to travel so fast; one hardly has time to visualise the beauty
of a perspective before the picture disappears and is replaced by
another, if possible even finer. Suddenly, beyond a steep spur jutting
from the mountain on our right, the majestic Rhine is revealed to our
vision, whilst on the crest of a hill on our left towers a romantic
old castle. We dash under another railway bridge faithfully guarded by
the worthy Landsturm men. Suddenly we enter a street so narrow that
its entire width is taken up by a Red Cross flag of more than ample
dimensions. Following this street as far as it goes, we suddenly come
to the bank of the enormous river whose German waters silently flow
between its prosperous and well-populated banks to deliver their burden
through neutral Holland into the mighty bosom of the sea.
Once more the river is hidden by narrow streets, but soon it greets us
again in all its wonderful splendour as we cross its dancing wavelets
by a long pontoon bridge guarded more zealously than any we have yet
passed. Next we are in Coblenz, where, at the point where the Moselle
empties itself into the Rhine, stands a gigantic statue of old Emperor
William on a charger. The plinth of this monument bears the following
memorable inscription: _Nimmer wird das Reich zerstöret wenn Ihr einig
seid und treu_.[3] The truth of these significant words is now indeed
brought home to Germany and to the world.
[3] “Never shall the Empire be destroyed if ye united are and faithful.”
The road next takes us up along the right bank of the Moselle, where a
stone bridge with beautiful arches takes us across and past a couple of
Moselle steamers which are lying moored, carrying the Red Cross flag.
The narrow, winding streets are filled with tramcars, cabs, vans, men
and women, and last but not least soldiers in German army uniforms.
We breathe more freely as we come out again on to the open road and
speed along the bank of the great Rhine tributary. There is plenty for
the eye to feast on. Now and again we catch sight of a little steamer
or tug gliding on the river; on the steep left bank stone buttresses
support the vineyards. The landscape itself is indescribably beautiful
round these endless bends, as one village after another comes into
view, the grey houses with their black slate roofs and the beautiful
churches showing up strikingly against the luxuriant background of
foliage. Still bowling along at lightning speed, we soon reach Treis,
where a curious-looking ferry, reminding me of those of the Siberian
rivers, is ready to take us and our car across to the left bank. We
drive down on to the other end of its deck so that another car which
has just arrived can be taken on board. The principle upon which the
ferry is worked is as follows: A stout cable is stretched across the
river and made fast on the left bank to the rock and on the right bank
to a securely imbedded pile. From a ring on this cable runs a line, the
other end of which is made fast to the bows of the punt-shaped ferry. A
long steering-oar projects into the water astern. The rest is done by
the current. By reversing the action and the steering-oar, the ferry
runs back to the opposite bank.
On the left bank we continue our swift, winding journey. Here and there
we pass a military convoy or meet an ambulance train, the first two
carriages of which contain wounded Frenchmen, the others Germans. The
Frenchmen are no better or worse off than the Germans; all lie on straw
and are covered with blankets. The sliding doors of these goods wagons,
fitted up specially for the transport of wounded, stood open in order
to admit fresh air to the wounded.
At the village of Eller we stop for a moment at an inn, where the host,
Herr Meinze, entertains us with what he knows about the war. His young
daughter runs off to fetch a letter just received from the son of the
family, twenty-two years old, an Uhlan of the Guard from Potsdam. The
letter bears the somewhat vague postal address of La Ferté, and the
writer complains that he has not had a word from home for a month.
He mentions that he was present on an occasion when a French airman
dropped a bomb over a gun team, killing three men and wounding twenty.
Of his British opponents he speaks very disrespectfully. But he forgets
that the English mercenaries, whatever their faults, show great
personal courage and fight with bravery and contempt of death. He ends
his letter with the hope that Germany will soon have made mincemeat
of all her enemies. The chief trait which pervades all these field
postcards is the bright and cheery spirit of the soldiers and their
blind faith in the unconquerable might of the German Army and final
victory. That _I_ may fall is of no account. That _I_ may not be one of
the triumphant army which will march in through the Brandenburger Tor
cannot be helped, but Germany must win, if not before, then after the
spring flowers have begun to sprout and blossom round my grave.
At Alf, where a white paddle-steamer flying the Red Cross flag lies
at her moorings, we leave the Moselle and follow the laconic advice
of a signpost pointing up towards the hills which mark the nearest
way to Treves. It pours with rain. We put up the awning and the rain
patters loudly on the taut canvas. Owing to the great speed we get one
drenching after another. The water in the puddles spurts up around
the wheels as before the bows of a swift steamer. The road is only
half as wide as the great main road eastward. But on the other hand
the traffic is insignificant. “Way to Wittlich?” von Krum asks in a
village, when uncertain of the road. “To Paris!” comes the retort of
a couple of joyous maidens who point in the direction we are to go.
In due course we get to Wittlich and struggle through its horribly
narrow streets, which, to make matters worse, are encumbered with
all sorts of vehicles. The houses both of villages and towns in this
part of the country are almost entirely of stone, and the streets are
very narrow--sometimes one almost gets the impression that they were
originally built with a view to protection against foreign invasion.
Off we go again down to the banks of the Moselle and to its beautifully
situated villages, and when at length we stop at the _Trierischer Hof_
at Treves, it is pitch-dark and raining pitilessly. We were drenched
to the skin, and had intended to proceed to Luxemburg after a moment’s
rest to dry our clothes. But as the deluge grew worse instead of
better, and as we were told that there were no rooms to be had at
Luxemburg for love or money, we decided to stop where we were. Soon
we were sitting in the restaurant at our belated dinner. The place
teemed with officers, and in the streets the soldiers splashed about
in the wet in their grey overcoats. We asked everybody where the
Main Headquarters were, but nobody knew anything about it. Some said
that the General Staff was at Luxemburg, others that it had moved to
Belgium. “Well, we shall get there in time,” we said to ourselves.
The _Trierischer Hof_ actually had a couple of modest rooms, where
we made ourselves at home. My excellent friend von Krum told me
that officers were entitled in war time to billet where they liked.
Room with breakfast must always be placed at their disposal free of
charge. Dinner and other meals they have to pay for. The officer
has only to fill in a printed receipt which he hands to the host on
leaving in place of currency. On producing this receipt before the
competent military authority, the host receives his money, but not at
the same rate as in peace time, for values are set at a lower figure
than under normal conditions. The same applies to horses, carts,
motor-cars and much else that is needed in war. Everything is valued by
special committees and then paid for with a receipt. At Treves it was
impossible to get a car or even a horse-cab, as there were no horses
left. When therefore our host received a telegram saying that his son,
who had probably been slightly wounded at the front, was expected at
3 a.m., there was no means whatever of getting a conveyance to meet
him and take him home in. He asked if he might borrow our car, but
unfortunately we were not allowed to leave it in civilian hands. In the
end he managed to borrow a doctor’s car and found his son in pretty
good condition.
Luckily the trams were running, and in the evening we took one to
the Horn Barracks, usually occupied by Infantry Regiment No. 29 _von
Horn_ (3rd Rhenish). But now the entire regiment is in the field and
the barracks have been turned into a hospital. They hold in peace
time three battalions, but at the present time only 500 wounded, as
the latter need more room with special accommodation for doctors and
nursing staff. Premises have, in addition, been requisitioned for
operating theatres, bath-rooms, store-rooms, etc. Just now there
is plenty of room, as only 220 beds are occupied, of which 150 by
Frenchmen. Six doctors and one head surgeon, assisted by a great number
of Red Cross sisters, were in charge of the wounded soldiers. In due
course we arrived at the barracks, were passed by the sentry at the
gate, entered a corridor and knocked at a door which was duly opened,
and a moment later we had become the bosom friends of a couple of young
doctors sitting at supper before a steaming bowl of soup which had just
been brought in. I asked them, whatever they did, not to interrupt
their meal, as we could sit and chat with them in the meantime. But no,
that would not do at all, the soup could wait, and guided by a little
oil lamp we marched out through the long corridor and began at once by
inspecting a couple of the operating theatres, which had been rigged
up hurriedly on the outbreak of war and equipped as far as possible on
thoroughly modern lines. The operating tables were in the middle of
the room. Water-pipes, vessels, appliances and a number of surgical
instruments--everything was in superb condition. The walls and floor
of these rooms had been painted over in oil and an average of fifteen
operations took place in them daily. Several other barracks at Treves
have been fitted up as hospitals in a like manner.
Thereupon we went into a large ward filled with wounded German
soldiers, and chatted with several of them. All were very satisfied and
cheerful, they all felt thoroughly at home and could not conceive it
possible to receive better and kindlier treatment than they got at the
hospital. Nevertheless time hung heavily on their hands, and they could
not help thinking of their comrades in the field. They longed to be
back at the war and hoped soon to be about again--that is to say, those
who knew that they would not be crippled for life.
We left them with a “_Gute Nacht, gute Besserung_,” and proceeded
to a ward higher up, where French soldiers were being tended. Here
we also spoke with some of the patients. They were all polite and
communicative, but lacked the cheery disposition of the Germans, which
was really not to be wondered at, as they were in enemy country and
cut off from all communication with their own people. One of them had
been wounded at Rossignol like Lieutenant Verrier, but did not know
him. He had been shot through the left hand and the left leg, which the
surgeon had been obliged to amputate. When he got his bullet wounds,
he had strength and presence of mind enough to creep into a ditch for
protection against the weather and the firing. He had torn off strips
of cloth from his greatcoat and wound them round his wounds. Next day
the German ambulance men had found him, applied a proper “first field
dressing” and carried him to the nearest field hospital, from which not
long ago he had been conveyed by rail to Treves.
Another soldier had been left lying on the field for two nights and
had suffered maddening torture from thirst. The thirst had if possible
caused him greater suffering than his wounds. Twice the Germans had in
passing given him water and chocolate. Finally the ambulance people
had found him and taken him to a field hospital. Like his comrade,
he expressed his gratitude for the treatment he had met with here at
Treves, and several assenting voices were heard from the neighbouring
beds. The two German doctors who took us round told us that the French
wounded usually did not want to leave the hospital, as they knew that
as soon as they recovered they would be treated as ordinary prisoners.
This view of the matter is quite natural and is most certainly shared
by all wounded, no matter to what nation they belong. For it is
pleasanter to lie in one’s comfortable bed and be coddled in every way,
than to live in a barracks or a concentration camp with crowds of other
prisoners, including Senegalese negroes, Moroccans and Indians.
Finally our guide took us to the door of a room containing three French
officers. One of them, who had been shot through the lung, slept well
and did not permit himself to be disturbed by our talk. Another had a
more dangerous lung wound and was continually troubled by a nasty cough
which, whenever it attacked him, threw his head backwards and forwards
with great violence. His condition was considered very critical, and
even if one had known the address of his people it would have been no
relief to them to learn his condition.
The third, a big and somewhat stout Captain, had served for several
years in southernmost Morocco and was accustomed to little scraps with
the Tuaregs in the Sahara. But _this_ was something very different.
It was terrible, _terrible_! He had been called home from his African
station to take part in this horrible struggle. His right foot had
been smashed in a fight in Belgium by a rifle bullet, whilst another
had carried away a couple of his fingers. He said he had a sort of
recollection of having the wound dressed on the battlefield by German
Red Cross men or doctors who had done all they could to check the flow
of blood. Afterwards he had been taken to a dressing station, where
his wounds had received further treatment. As he was classed amongst
the comparatively slightly wounded, he had been taken to Luxemburg and
now at length to Treves. He was probably aware that when discharged
as convalescent he would remain a prisoner with all the privileges to
which his rank entitled him, receiving, besides, half the pay he had
been getting at home. There he lay, the poor Captain, with his jovial
face, aquiline nose and heavy beard. He was cheerful and good-tempered,
and assured us that he had absolutely nothing to grumble about--apart
from the fate which denied him the honour to continue fighting for his
country. But it was evident that he was a bit of a philosopher and
he bore his unkind fate like a man. He lay there with a smile on his
lips and was grateful for anything that was done for him and for the
interest taken in him by the unknown visitors. During the long lonely
hours of the night he often heard his comrades struggling and wrestling
with death, whilst his own thoughts wandered to the palm trees on the
desert fringe, and he seemed to hear the dromedaries’ swishing steps
over the sand and the desert winds calling “come home, come home!”
The young doctors who accompanied us told us that the German soldiers
always and without exception longed to be back at the front, unless
their condition was such that they had not strength enough to desire
anything. Among the French the feeling was different: “Whatever
you like, anything but the fire at the front.” But this is, on
psychological grounds, quite natural and cannot well be otherwise.
There is nothing that depresses and demoralises the soldier as much as
being a prisoner. He feels that he is playing the part of the weaker,
that he is entirely at the mercy of others, that his strength is
gone, his initiative taken from him and his fighting spirit rendered
unavailing. In such a situation, to gain personal advantages and to
make the best of a bad job, he will say much that he would never
have dreamt of uttering on his own side of the fighting line. It is
therefore unfair to judge the fighting value of an army by the remarks
of prisoners detached from it.
Herein we have perhaps the explanation of the fact observed at the
Treves hospitals, or, at all events, at the Horn barracks, that the
mortality amongst the Frenchmen was incomparably greater than amongst
the Germans. It would be futile to try to explain it by the suggestion
that the doctors and nurses involuntarily felt greater compassion for
their own countrymen, for when it is considered that 35,000 wounded
have been transported through Treves _Westbahnhof_--latterly 1500
a day--it will be realised that the doctors available must be so
overwhelmed with work as to have no time for sentiment. To them the
case is everything, and it is a point of honour with them to save as
many as possible. The whole care of the wounded becomes a professional,
almost mechanical, matter, and one cannot wonder at it when one sees
the stream of wounded passing through. I was told that the wounds
of the Germans heal better and quicker than those of the Frenchmen,
whatever the reason may be. But plainly the psychological factor has
something to do with this also.
To this must be added another point of view--the wounds of the
Frenchmen are usually more malignant than those of the Germans.
Whilst the former are all too frequently hit in the lungs, stomach or
abdomen, the Germans in the great majority of cases are wounded in the
shoulders, arms and legs. It becomes obvious that the Germans must keep
closer to the ground and are more skilled in using cover. It would be
interesting to know exactly in what measure this point is affected
by the French army uniform, the dark-blue tunic and the bright red
trousers, exactly the same as worn in 1870-71. This dress obviously
presents a most excellent target, whilst the Germans with their grey
field uniforms and grey headgear merge into their environment.
We were talking in this strain as we were leaving the hospital, and
the young doctors were inexhaustible in their stories of what they had
experienced during their work at Treves. It was not only the barracks
that had been converted into hospitals--churches and schools had
also been requisitioned. “But how do the children get on with their
schooling if the schools are turned into hospitals?” “Well, it is
this way. Since the younger professors and masters were called to the
war, older teachers, both men and women, have turned up from almost
everywhere and carry on the work to the best of their ability. Thus
they earn a little money which they badly need in these hard war times.”
We also spoke, of course, about the unceasing stream of wounded who
are being brought into Germany. The seriously wounded and those not
expected to recover are kept near the front, as they cannot stand being
moved. But the lightly wounded, or at all events those who can stand
the journey, are sent home. Soldiers who have had a bullet through the
hand or a flesh wound in the arm, may, if they wish it, go straight
home to their people. In such cases, on leaving the army, they are
provided with the receipt which entitles them to free medical care at
home. They must then attend daily at a certain hour at the doctor’s for
examination; when fully recovered they return to their own regiment.
Soon I suppose there will not be a single village in Germany without
its war hero and its Iron Cross. One can imagine the pride and joy with
which a son is received on returning home after his deeds of valour,
and the heartfelt good wishes which accompany him when for the second
time he leaves for the front!
I was told that a fresh train-load of wounded was expected at Treves at
half-past twelve the same night. The doctors were holding themselves in
readiness to receive another avalanche of exhausted and maimed heroes.
Our doctors told us that when the train stopped they used to go through
all the carriages to examine the patients. Those who were too bad to go
any further were carried on hammock-stretchers to the hospitals. The
others were allowed to go on after having their wounds redressed. This
is another phase of the struggle between life and death--the doctor on
the side of life struggling to snatch back those whom death has vainly
sought to capture on the battlefield.
To wind up our visit, we had a peep into a store-room, the floor of
which was encumbered with entire bales of cotton, gauze dressings,
oil cloth, sticking-plaster and bandages of all kinds. Entire railway
trains full of dressings and bandages, surgical instruments and drugs,
are constantly running east and west from the heart of Germany. Our
hospital at Treves was also permeated with a strong scent of carbolic,
ether and chloroform. When one sees the pale faces and red scars of
the wounded and the mountains of dressings, and when one inhales this
penetrating hospital odour, one almost seems to hear the ping of the
rifle bullets and the fierce shrieking of the shells. At such moments
the deep and horrible solemnity of war seems to draw closer, and one
realises indeed its sinister reality. Late in the evening, as we
wandered back in the wet to the _Trierischer Hof_, I felt that we were,
indeed, not far away from those parts of Europe where entire nations
are grappling in a life-and-death struggle.
CHAPTER II
THE EMPEROR WILLIAM
Still as ignorant regarding the whereabouts of the Main Headquarters as
when we left Berlin, we set out from Treves in the morning of the 18th
September, recrossed the Moselle, and cast a glance up at the heights
from which on August 4th Frenchmen in mufti were heliographing to the
airships, who wanted to know how the German mobilisation was getting
on. At the flying station we stopped a moment to have a look at the
_Taubes_ in their canvas sheds.
The gentle undulations of the country give it a picturesque aspect.
At Igel stands the sandstone tower, 2000 years old and twenty-three
metres in height, called the _Igeler Säule_, and considered to be the
finest relic left by the Romans north of the Alps. To this very day
an inscription can be seen, testifying that this monument was raised
by Secundinius Aventinus and Secundinius Securus in memory of their
parents and kinsmen. How different from the frail wooden crosses we
were to see by the roadside, and which will disappear when the spring
sun draws the frost out of the ground and the plough cuts fresh furrows
in the soil!
But we must now take leave of the Moselle. On the left we have already
behind us the roads to Metz and Saarbrücken, and not far to the south
is the boundary of Lorraine. Along a road passing through an orchard we
reach Wasserbillig, cross the Sauer stream and enter the Grand Duchy
of Luxemburg, the entire population of which does not nearly approach
that of Stockholm. On the way to Grevenmacher we passed by numberless
nurseries and gardens given up to the cultivation of roses. But there
are also woods in Luxemburg, and our road takes us by frequent copses
of larch and beech, and further on of pine and beech.
At a railway crossing we are stopped by an empty train of enormous
length, going to Germany to bring out fresh soldiers. The natives
of Luxemburg regard us with indifference. The greetings and friendly
wavings of handkerchiefs are a thing of the past, here no one greets
and no one betrays his thoughts, which is as well perhaps, as they
cannot be particularly friendly. The apple trees are succeeded by an
avenue of chestnut, ash and plane trees. The bedrock consists of the
same variety of limestone of which the houses in the villages are
usually built.
At length our road winds down into a pleasant valley, and at its bottom
lies a part of the pretty and trim little town of Luxemburg, where
the equally pretty and trim Grand Duchess has her residence. But the
more fashionable part of the town lies on the height above the valley,
reached by a very steep street presenting somewhat peculiar views, as,
for instance, when one suddenly finds oneself on a level with a church
spire.
Now we begin to look about. Yes, it is obvious that the Main
Headquarters are still at Luxemburg. Sentries at the entrances to all
hotels, soldiers everywhere, officers rushing past in motor-cars. In a
market-place large tents have been put up for horses, and round them
walk the sentries smoking their pipes; in another open space there are
rows of motor-cars laden with petrol and oil in cylinders.
We must observe becoming military precision in our search and
consequently make at once for the house where the great General Staff
has taken up its quarters, and which in ordinary times is a Luxemburg
school. Von Krum gets down and soon returns with the intimation that
we must report ourselves to a Lieutenant-Colonel Hahnke. He sent us
off to the Chief of the General Staff, His Excellency von Moltke, who
with his charming Swedish Countess has just sat down to dinner at the
_Kölnischer Hof_, where they reside. The Countess was on a short visit
to Luxemburg in the service of the Red Cross. Here I felt almost as if
I were at home, for I had many times been a guest in their hospitable
home in Berlin. As calm as if he had been on manœuvres, the Chief lit
his cigar and made detailed enquiries about my plans and wishes. I said
I wanted to go to the front and see as much as I might be allowed to,
mentioning that it was my intention subsequently to describe what I
had seen of the war with my own eyes. If possible I wanted to get an
impression of a modern battle, and hoped also to get an opportunity of
visiting the occupied parts of Belgium.
The Chief thought for a moment. Permission to visit the front had
already been granted to me by the Emperor, and it only remained to
decide which would be the best place for me to begin my observations.
The army of the German Crown Prince was the nearest, only a couple of
hours away. The Chief would arrange everything for my journey, and I
was shortly to receive details of the programme. “Of course, there can
be no question of safety in the fighting zone,” he said, “it is not far
away. If you listen you can hear the thunder of guns from Verdun.”
Later in the day I was the possessor of a so-called _Ausweis_ or permit
signed by the Chief of the General Staff, and intimating that I had
“permission to witness the course of events at the different sections
of the army” and requesting “all authorities in command to meet my
wishes as far as they possibly could,” and to assist me with word and
deed. This document was to me an “open sesame.” It gave me almost
unlimited liberty of movement. Once I had begun I could go practically
where I liked. But it did not take me long to realise that I had been
wrong in thinking that a couple of weeks would suffice for a layman to
get an insight into the complicated apparatus of a field army; a couple
of months would be nearer the mark. I hasten to add that the time I
spent at the front was far from sufficient. For every step one takes,
for every hour that passes, one is overwhelmed with fresh impressions
which there is no time to assimilate, and when the first month is
gone one retains but a very superficial conception of this enormously
complicated piece of machinery, which nevertheless under the firm hand
of the master runs as smoothly and noiselessly as clockwork.
Then we spoke of other things. I learnt that a troop train passes
through Luxemburg station every half-hour, and that the only pause is
at midday to prevent congestion. It is the pulse which beats in the
arteries of the German railway system. One wave of human energy after
another thus sweeps out towards the battlefields and flings itself
against the enemy’s fire; the spirit of gaiety resounds from the
overfilled wagons, accompanied by the glorious songs of _Deutschland,
Deutschland über Alles_ and _Die Wacht am Rhein_. There is no trace of
fear, not a sign of despondency anywhere. All are willing and cheerful.
What would life be worth as long as the dear fatherland was not free
and great and powerful! One wonders if these soldiers have any
conception of the dangers and struggles that await them. Of course they
read about it daily in the newspapers, but the more difficult it looks
the more eager they become. The Bavarians are the most warlike. They
are in their element with bayonets lowered for the charge. Superhuman
power is required to withstand them, once they have decided to “go
ahead.” Here at Headquarters everyone also speaks with the greatest
respect of the Frenchmen as opponents, and no one denies the bravery
of the British soldiers. “They go straight into perdition without
flinching and fall, but do not yield, before the fire of machine guns.”
Of the prisoners, it was said that there was a great difference between
the British and the French. The former would stand with their hands in
their pockets and a pipe in their mouth when spoken to by an officer,
and a salute was only elicited by a reprimand. The Frenchmen, on the
other hand, always salute the German officers without being told, and
this is probably due to their inherited military spirit and to the
trait of inborn courtesy which pervades the whole nation.
When speaking of the troop trains, the Countess Moltke suggested a
visit to the railway station, and we accordingly proceeded there,
accompanied by von Krum. We were just in time to see an ambulance
train--that is to say, not a properly equipped hospital train--roll
into the station. Immediately some doctors began their round of the
carriages, where the wounded lay on a thick layer of straw and were
covered with blankets. A goods wagon in a troop train holds forty
men or eight horses, but only thirty-six wounded at the most. The
seriously wounded are sorted out and carried out on stretchers to large
ambulance motor-cars, which take them to the hospitals in the town.
The remainder, who are to be taken into Germany, receive new dressings
if necessary. All are fed whilst the train is standing in the station
with soup, sausages, bread and coffee in ample quantities. The Red
Cross sisters have installed a kitchen at the station, in which cooking
is in full swing day and night. Temporary nurses and servants do the
waiting and go from carriage to carriage with large buckets filled
with steaming and fragrant soup or coffee. A kindly old gentleman
accompanied by a porter slowly goes the round of the carriages and
distributes newspapers and entire armfuls of cigars. Two carriages were
occupied by Frenchmen only. They were treated otherwise in exactly the
same way as the Germans, but the old gentleman devoted himself only to
his countrymen. The latter, who were clearly on the road to recovery,
were singing cheery soldiers’ ditties and delighted in recounting their
experiences to anyone who would listen. One of them had had three
horses shot under him on a critical occasion, but at last got hold of
a mule which enabled him to carry on his duties. “You need not believe
him if you don’t want to,” said one of his comrades laughingly, but he
went on nevertheless with his tales and declared that he slept like a
child whilst the shells were falling thick around him.
From the railway we drove to a private hospital, of which there are
several, supported by private contributions. This small house had over
sixty beds, of which fifty-three were now occupied by soldiers. Forty
Catholic sisters tended them. A sister of refined and distinguished
appearance took us round from bed to bed, and Countess Moltke spoke
in a friendly and interested manner with all the wounded. Here lay
men with bullets through arms and legs, through a foot or a hand, or
through the lung. One had lost his right hand. Another felt his lung
wound only at the point where the bullet had passed out through the
back. A couple of French officers were lodged in a separate room. All,
and not least the Frenchmen, were very satisfied with the treatment
they received. Most of them had been wounded at the battles of Vitry
and Longwy.
It would take too long to describe all the interesting acquaintances I
made in Luxemburg and to introduce to the reader all the eminent men
with whom I spoke during the two days I spent in this little town.
Suffice it to mention the Imperial Chancellor von Bethmann Hollweg, the
Foreign Minister von Jagow, the War Minister Lieutenant-General von
Falkenhayn, and the Chief of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps
the young Prince Waldemar, son of Prince Henry.
The Main Headquarters are the head or rather the brain of the army
in the field, where all plans are made and from which all orders are
issued. It is an incredibly complicated apparatus with an organisation
of which every detail has been prepared in advance. When an apparatus
of this kind is installed in a small town like Luxemburg, all hotels,
schools, barracks, Government offices, as well as a number of private
houses, have to be requisitioned for billets. The invaded country
has no alternative but to resign itself to its fate. But nothing is
taken promiscuously, everything will be made good after the war. The
War Ministry is housed in an hotel, the General Staff--as already
mentioned--in a school, the offices of the Automobile Corps in a
private house, and so on. The Commander-in-Chief, von Moltke, resided
at the _Kölnischer Hof_, the Imperial Chancellor and the Foreign
Minister in an exceptionally elegant private house, whilst the
Emperor’s personal staff and suite were stopping at the _Hotel Staar_,
where a room was also placed at my disposal.
But although for several obvious reasons I could not remain long at the
Main Headquarters, I must nevertheless say a few words about a man whom
I met there and whom I regard as one of the most remarkable figures of
the world’s history, the most powerful and most impressive ruler of our
time, and, moreover, one of the most genial and most fascinating men
one could wish to meet.
When in June, 1913, William II. celebrated his twenty-five years’
jubilee as German Emperor, I wrote about him in the _Magdeburgische
Zeitung_ the following words, which in a large measure have already
been borne out by events: “By his strong and powerful personality
William II. stamps his impress on the era to which he belongs. Hitherto
this has only been in the sphere of peace. What the future carries
with it no one knows. But this much we know, that no foreign State
will unchastised dare to challenge Germany’s honour and security. Even
if an unkind fate should sometime draw letters of blood across his
firmament, the Emperor, with the same energy and impulsive force which
distinguished him in times of peace, will lead his legions into the
fire, and the golden eagle on his helmet will point the way to fresh
victories.”
History will bear out as an indisputable fact that Emperor William
throughout a quarter of a century has done all in his power to keep
the thunders of war from the confines of the German Empire and from
Europe. On more than one occasion peace hung by a hair. All who know
the facts agree that it has been the Emperor’s personal intervention
which averted a catastrophe. Once, not long ago, the war was nearer
than people thought, and here again it was the Emperor’s love of peace
that became the deciding factor. Many blamed him for this, and called
his attitude irresolute and yielding. But here also the judgment of
history will be in his favour. In the meantime Germany armed herself
for the sanguinary conflict as to the coming of which no far-sighted
man could doubt. In the end the struggle for the maintenance of peace
became hopeless. This was realised by no one better than by the Emperor
himself, and for this reason he has throughout his reign striven to
strengthen the Empire’s fighting resources on land and water. At the
present moment the fleet is riding on the seas like a gigantic monument
to the wise and clear-eyed foresight of its creator. For it is the
Emperor himself who, in co-operation with his peerless Grand Admiral
von Tirpitz, created the floating fortresses without which Germany’s
position would have been precarious when England came along with her
declaration of war.
When the spark of war was kindled, Emperor William was spending
his usual summer vacation off the coast of Norway. He went home
at once--with the same haste that brought President Poincaré from
Stockholm, where he was spending a day after his doubtless very
important visit to Petrograd. Since then events have succeeded
one another rapidly. The little spark at Serajevo has become a
conflagration which has spread over the entire earth like a devastating
prairie fire. It was a fortunate thing for Germany and her Germanic
neighbours that she was armed to the teeth and possessed a ruler who
knew what he wanted, who wanted what was right and beneficial to his
country, and who fully realised the grave responsibility which rested
on his shoulders.
But let us return to the Great Headquarters.
Directly I arrived in Luxemburg, I was honoured with an invitation
to dine with the Emperor William the following day at one o’clock.
Most of the guests were stopping at the _Hotel Staar_, and the cars
were to leave there in good time. I went with Adjutant-General,
Lieutenant-General von Gontard, Acting General à la suite. The street
close to the Imperial residence was railed off, the barriers being
withdrawn by the soldiers to let our car pass. The Emperor lived in
the house of the German Minister and had his private apartments on the
first floor. On the ground floor was the chancellerie, where enormous
maps of the theatres of war were mounted on easels, and next to it was
the dining-room, quite a small apartment.
The guests, all in field uniform, without any display, forgathered in
the chancellerie. I myself was dressed in the most flagrant everyday
clothes--in the field nothing is carried for show. Among the Emperor’s
suite I recognised a couple of old acquaintances, the Headquarters
Commandant, Adjutant-General, Colonel-General von Plessen, and the
President of the Navy Council, Admiral von Müller, of Swedish descent,
who spoke Swedish as fluently as German. The others were his Excellency
von Treutler and Lieutenant-General Baron Marschall, Colonel von
Mutius, acting aide-de-camp, the Princes Pless and Arnim and the
Emperor’s body-physician, Dr. Ilberg. We were thus ten all told.
At the stroke of one the door from the vestibule was opened and Emperor
William entered with a firm, quiet step. All glances were fixed on
the strongly built, well-knit figure. The room became as quiet as
the grave. One realised that one was in the presence of a great
personality. The little room, otherwise so humble, now had a deeper
significance. Here was the axis, the pivot round which the world’s
happenings turned. Here was the centre from which the war was directed.
Germany is to be crushed, so say its enemies. “_Magst ruhig sein_,”[4]
says the German army to its Fatherland. And here in our midst stands
its supreme war-lord, a picture of manliness, resolution and honourable
frankness. Around him flit the thoughts and passions of the whole
world. He is the object of love, blind confidence and admiration, but
also of fear, hate and calumny. Round him, who loves peace, rages the
greatest war of all times, and his name is ringed with strife. A man
who, in a nation sprung from the same race, can arouse such fierce
hatred and call forth such outrageous indictments, must indeed possess
a very remarkable personality. For otherwise his detractors would leave
him in peace and empty the vials of their wrath on someone else, more
formidable still. But all that calumny, meanness and craven fear can
inspire has been poured on his head. His intentions are distorted, his
words are misconstrued and his actions are turned into crimes. But
in the whole of Germany, throughout the German army, his praises are
sung. In the field services, in all the churches of Germany, everywhere
fervent prayers for his safety are offered up. “_Magst ruhig sein_,”
the soldiers may well say to their Emperor, and they on their part know
that he will never fail in his duty and that he will never withdraw a
single soldier from the fighting line until Germany’s future is assured.
[4] From the line “_Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein_” (“Be undismayed,
dear Fatherland”), in _Die Wacht am Rhein_.
It is not a Charlemagne or an Imperator who enters the chancellerie. It
is merely an officer in the simplest uniform imaginable, a greyish-blue
tunic with a double row of buttons, dark-coloured breeches and brown
top-boots. Not even the little black and white ribbon of the Iron
Cross adorns his breast. But it is nevertheless a fascinating and
compelling personality, an urbane and courteous man of the world, that
we see entering the room. It is a man whose quick intuition and superb
powers of description reveal the observer and the artist, whose wise
speech betrays the statesman, whose kindly manner betokens humility
and sympathy and whose military, commanding voice indicates the
master, accustomed to be obeyed. Happy is the people which especially
in troubled times possesses such a leader, a chieftain round whom all
gather in confidence and whose ability no one doubts.
But it is also his eyes that possess a singular magnetic power, and
which fascinate all when the Emperor enters. It is as if the whole room
suddenly became lighter, when one meets the glance of the Emperor’s
calm, blue eyes. They are wonderfully expressive. They bespeak first
and foremost an iron will and unconquerable energy. They betray a
certain melancholy at the thought that all may not understand that
he is actuated absolutely by the will to do what is pleasing unto
God and beneficial to his people. They also betray a sparkling wit,
an intellect to which nothing human is foreign and a spirit of
humour which is irresistible. They betoken honour, love of truth and
a steadfast sincerity, firm and indomitable, the spirit of which
penetrates to one’s very marrow as one meets his glance.
Any feeling of timidity one may have had whilst waiting for the most
powerful and most remarkable man in the world vanished completely
once the Emperor, after a more than hearty handshake and a cheery
welcome, began to speak. His voice is manly and military, he speaks
extraordinarily plainly without slurring over a single syllable, he
is never at a loss for a word, but always strikes the nail on the
head--often in exceedingly forceful terms. He punctuates his sentences
with quick and expressive gestures. His speech flows smoothly, is
always terse and interesting and is often suddenly interrupted by
questions delivered with lightning precision, which one must endeavour
to answer equally quickly and clearly. A good answer never fails to
elicit the Emperor’s approval. He is exceedingly impulsive and his
conversation is a mixture of earnest and jest. A ready repartee or an
amusing tale causes him to laugh so heartily that his shoulders shake
with it.
At the Emperor’s bidding we passed into the dining-room. Admiral von
Müller sat on the left, I on the right of our august host, and opposite
him was Adjutant-General von Gontard. The table was simply laid. The
only luxury that could be discovered was a bell of gold placed in front
of the Emperor’s cover, and which he rang when a new course was to be
brought in. The dinner was equally plain, consisting of soup, meat with
vegetables, a sweet dish and fruit with claret. I have seldom been as
hungry as when I rose from this table: not on account of the dishes,
but because there had not been a moment’s silence up to the time
when the bell rang for the last time and bade the uniformed servants
withdraw our chairs as we rose. The Emperor talked to me all the time.
He began by reminding me of my last lecture in Berlin, at which he was
present, and he conjectured that Tibet, where I had passed through such
stirring times, would probably soon be the only country in the world
where peace reigned. Then we spoke of the political position and of
the storms that are sweeping over Europe. It pleased me especially to
hear with what respect and sympathy the Emperor referred to France.
He regretted the necessity which, contrary to his wish, compelled him
to lead his army against the French, and he hoped that the time would
come when Germans and Frenchmen might live on amicable and neighbourly
terms with one another. For this goal he had striven for twenty-five
years and he hoped that quite a new order of things would arise out of
the present war. An understanding between Germany and France would of
necessity lay the solid foundation for future peace. But first there
must be victory over the innumerable legions which four great powers
had hurled against Germany’s frontiers and the German possessions
in other continents, then an honourable and assured peace in all
directions, and finally the great and abiding world-peace. First and
foremost the Emperor placed his faith in God, but he also relied
implicitly on the German people, on this great and noble army which had
now for six weeks asserted itself so gloriously, and on his powerful
fleet, longing to fight out its battle on the waves of the Atlantic.
He relied on his soldiers’ superb bravery and contempt of death and on
the officers who led them on land and water.
If the French had any idea of the Emperor’s real feelings towards them,
they would judge him very differently. Surely no one thinks that I
would take the responsibility of attributing to the Emperor opinions
other than those which had fallen from his lips and which I myself had
heard! It would be an ill reward for the hospitality I met with in the
German Army.
The conversation turned besides on many other topics. The Emperor said
many strong and manly things. He spoke like Gustavus Adolphus, when he
first landed in Germany with his Swedish Army to bring succour to the
Protestant princes and to fight for the liberty of thought and religion
on this earth. When the German Emperor talks thus--then I have truly no
time to eat beef and vegetables--then I prefer to listen and to order
sandwiches afterwards, when back in my room at the hotel.
On a table in the chancellerie were cigars and cigarettes round a
lighted candle. Here the conversation was continued with zest and
vigour, and jest and earnest, horrors of war and funny stories were
all jumbled together; finally the Emperor took his leave, wishing me a
successful and instructive trip, and went up to his apartments, where
no doubt piles of papers and letters, reports and telegrams awaited him.
The talk of the Emperor having aged during the war, and of the war with
all its labours and anxieties having sapped his strength and health, is
all nonsense. His hair is no more pronouncedly iron grey than before
the war, his face has colour, and far from being worn and thin, he
is plump and strong, bursting with energy and rude health. A man of
Emperor William’s stamp is in his element when, through the force of
circumstances, he is compelled to stake all he possesses and above all
himself for the good and glory of his country. But his greatest quality
is that he is a human being and that with all his fulminant force he is
humble before God.
CHAPTER III
ON THE WAY TO THE FIFTH ARMY
I had hardly returned to the hotel when my excellent friend and
travelling companion Captain von Krum came and knocked at my door to
give me the bad news that he had received orders from the office of
the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps to proceed to the twelfth
Army Corps on a special mission. He comforted me with the assurance
that I should get another car and another officer for the trip to the
German Crown Prince’s Army, probably one whose duties took him in that
direction. There was nothing to be done in the matter--we took a hearty
farewell of one another and arranged to meet again, if not before, then
after the end of the war.
When I had lost von Krum, the cold, rainy, windy weather seemed worse
than ever. It needed an hour in the friendly and delightful company
of His Excellency and Countess von Moltke to dissipate the gloom. We
talked about the German soldiers, their good-nature, their humane
conduct and kindly camaraderie towards prisoners and wounded opponents.
It is probably to lessen neutral countries’ sympathy towards Germany
and to egg on their own troops that the newspapers of the Entente
Powers have on repeated occasions accused the German soldiers of
inhuman cruelty. Such tales are entirely without foundation and are in
themselves highly improbable, for it is not and never has been part
of the Teutonic character to show cruelty to vanquished, defenceless
enemies. In this respect the Latins and the Slavs have much to learn
from the Teutons. The wave of vandalism which passed over a part of
Louvain was let loose by the inhabitants themselves. The anger felt
by the German soldiers at the treachery of the civil population is
justified. The treacherous firing of _franctireurs_ from behind bushes
and windows, in the dusk and dark, is bound in the end to bring about
reprisals, for the soldier reasons something like this: “The war must
be conducted between _soldiers_, and when either party is defeated and
the conqueror marches into the vanquished town, the civilians must not
fire from windows on the troops entering. And if the nuisance cannot
be checked in any other way, then the town must be punished.” Such was
the case with Louvain, which is an unfortified town and where not a
single window-pane would have been broken, had not the _franctireurs_
themselves brought about the destruction. Things actually went to such
lengths that German soldiers who tried to extinguish the fire in the
burning houses next to the Townhall, in order to save this valuable
building, were shot down during their work by _franctireurs_. The
German conduct of the war is severe, but it is not cruel.
During the first stage of the war, when the troops had entered a
town and burnt or demolished those houses from which civilians had
been shooting, solitary houses were often to be seen which remained
untouched in the midst of the desolation. The doors of such remaining
houses often bore, written in chalk and in a soldier’s hand, some such
inscription as: “Here lives an aged couple,” or: “Here lives an invalid
who must be spared,” or: “There has been no firing from this house”;
or again: “The inhabitants of this house are friendly people.” Such
houses are then spared by the troops who come after. In the course
of my narrative I shall have frequent occasion to mention traits
of kindliness on the part of the German soldiers towards the local
population. On the other hand, I have never either seen or heard of a
single act of cruelty.
After one more visit to the railway station and taking a look at troops
from Lunéville on the way to Belgium, likewise several infantry trains
from Metz, I returned to the _Hotel Staar_ just in time to meet the
young lieutenant who had been instructed by General Moltke to take
me to the Headquarters of the Crown Prince’s Army. His name was Hans
von Gwinner and he is the son of the great banker and Bagdad Railway
magnate in Berlin. He was a wide-awake and capable young fellow and
drove his car himself. I sat down beside him, whilst the orderly
accompanying us took his seat inside.
It poured with rain as we left the town. The road was slippery, but we
had studded tyres and the lieutenant drove at terrific speed. We had
started off rather late and we wanted to get in before dark. It is
better thus, otherwise one is not entirely safe from the attentions of
_franctireurs_. A whole lot of them had recently been caught by the
Fifth Army and shot without hesitation.
Our road took us westward. In the south we left behind an area of
rich ore deposits, and at Rodingen we passed the frontier of French
Lorraine. “Load carbine!” came quickly from the lieutenant to the
orderly, and I looked round involuntarily, but without noticing
anything out of the common. It was just a precaution apparently, but
the order sounded strange when heard for the first time. Longlaville
is the first place we come to in France. Here we find numerous traces
of German shells, but the factories and their lofty chimneys have been
spared. In the middle of the road and at its sides are numerous pits
where shells have burst, and here and there a tree has been cut clean
off by a “bull’s-eye.” Of some houses there is hardly anything left but
the walls, whilst others have only had the roof carried away, evidently
by projectiles striking them at a tangent. The tramway laid at the
edge of the road has been roughly dealt with. Here and there its rails
have been twisted as if made of wire. High up in the church towers one
notices that the slates have been removed to make room for machine
guns and to provide posts of observation for the officers watching the
German artillery positions and the effect of the French fire.
“_Où est la route pour Longwy?_” enquires von Gwinner, and the answer
comes, “_Tout droit, monsieur._” The people always answer politely,
whatever they may feel at heart. We leave one of Longwy’s two detached
forts on the right and presently we enter the busy little manufacturing
town, which is situated in a hollow, surrounded on all sides by hills.
On one of them stands Longwy fortress, which was easily taken by the
Germans right at the beginning of the war after an exceedingly violent
bombardment. A couple of thousand prisoners then fell into the hands
of the conquerors. In the previous war--January, 1871--Longwy also
capitulated. We had no time to visit the fortress on this occasion,
and drove straight through the town. It certainly looks anything
but cheerful. But what can one expect of a town which has quite
recently been ravaged by war and has been cut off from its country,
its Government and administration? Nor did the rain and mud help to
lessen the gloom. Nevertheless, the town looked by no means dead and
deserted, for a large proportion of its inhabitants had returned after
the heavy hand of war had moved further westward, and life had begun to
settle down again in its old groove.
Outside the town stand the naked walls of a house ravaged by fire. The
German troops had been fired upon from its windows and in accordance
with the custom of war it had been set fire to. We are travelling a
little too fast to gather more than a hasty impression, but wherever I
look I see the devastating effects of battle. I think to myself as we
go along that the sooner I get accustomed to such sights the better. On
both sides of the roads, in fields and ditches, French knapsacks and
tattered fragments of uniforms are lying about. An upturned motor-car
lies by the roadside, evidently flung aside so as not to be in the way
of the traffic, and a little further on is a motor-lorry in the same
position. Here we see broken bits of rifles and ammunition wagons,
or the crescent-shaped shield of a field-gun. A grave with a wooden
cross strikes the eye, then another and yet another, a whole row of
graves--here is the resting-place of soldiers who have fallen in the
fighting. In the middle of the road are a couple of shell holes filled
with rain-water--these are dangerous, for one is apt in the hurry to
take them for shallow puddles. But von Gwinner has travelled this way
several times and knows the road.
To the right and left of the road are deep, narrow trenches with
shallow parapets; but the soldiers have gone away by now and the plain
is silent--silent where not a month ago 300,000 soldiers were fighting
for their lives. In many fields the harvest has been brought in by
German troops to supply their own needs. By the side of ditches, in
woods and copses, small, low huts are still standing, built of branches
and boughs, in which the French soldiers had sought protection from
rain and cold. The German infantry, on the other hand, is equipped with
shelter-tents. Each man carries with his equipment a part of the brown
tarpaulin, which, joined together, forms a temporary shelter for a
certain number of soldiers.
We now pass through a stretch of wooded country. The French are very
clever in maintaining their positions on wooded ground. They often
succeed in contriving concealed positions for machine guns in the
leafy tops of trees. Ravines with streams at the bottom or woods are
considered by the Germans to present greater obstacles to attack than
the more open ground met with in central and southern France.
Our road takes us through Longuyon and follows its main street. It
has a desolate appearance. Over a long stretch there is not a single
house standing. Everything is in ruins, the road is lined with piles
of wreckage, swept aside so as not to impede the traffic, and naked
walls with yawning window gaps meet the eye. The bridges are guarded
by German sentries; otherwise no human beings are to be seen. How
miserable the inhabitants must feel when they return and vainly look
for their homes and belongings!
We emerge into the open country where armies have been marching
through. Small blackened holes in the earth are all that is left of the
bivouac fires and cooking-pits. Here the transport columns have rested
for the night. The village of Noërs is burned and its church steeple
has been shot away, the music of a maxim gun having been traced to
the spot from which at other times the church bells call to evensong.
No dead bodies are seen, no fallen soldiers, no carcases of horses.
All remains of men and horses have for sanitary reasons been interred
by the Germans. They would otherwise poison the air and give rise to
epidemics. Still there is quite enough left to recall the ravages
of war. Here we have a row of straw shelters backed on to a hedge,
there some upturned carts with which the French had endeavoured to
bar the way. This is the most magnificent high road imaginable, lined
everywhere with avenues of trees. Along the roadside runs a telegraph
line, which had been destroyed by the defenders but repaired by the
German Telegraph Corps, not by the field telegraph troops, whose sphere
of activity is nearer the front.
We have now reached Marville, and the road becomes livelier. At
one side a supply column has turned off into a field and lined up
its wagons, which with their canvas awnings give the impression
of an open-air barrack-yard. The column is resting, and the men
have commenced cooking. Round the encampment sentries are posted.
Precautions must be taken. Yesterday in this very neighbourhood
nineteen French civilians, who had fired on an ammunition column,
were arrested. They were to be tried by court-martial and shot if the
offence could be brought home to them. A little further on another
supply column, consisting of more primitive wagons, had halted by the
roadside, for it is the rule that a transport column must not pause
for any length of time on the road itself, which for the sake of the
traffic must always be kept as clear as possible. It is, moreover,
considered easier to supervise, and, if necessary, protect a column of
wagons drawn up several deep and thus shortened in length.
We now drive past a motor-lorry with field post for the 5th Army. It
makes a terrific noise as it rattles past on the hard road surface.
Presently the road is encumbered by another supply column, but unlike
the others, this one is on the move. We must drive more slowly in order
that the horses of the mounted escort may not take fright and come
into collision with the car. In passing I catch sight of the words,
“_Reserve Park Kolonn 15_” on one of these wagons, each of which is
marked with a number.
We next drive through Montmédy, whose little fort surrendered without
bombardment. But before the garrison withdrew, they blew up the railway
tunnel through the mountain. Thereupon the Germans immediately began
building a new railway round the rock on which the fort was built; as
we drove past, French prisoners were still engaged on this work. It was
a curious sight to see these toiling soldiers in blue and red uniforms
supervised by grey-clad German privates with shouldered rifles.
Chauvency is a little place on the River La Chiers, whose bridge had
been destroyed by the French. One of the arches had been blown up.
German engineers had forthwith built a wooden bridge below the old one.
The weather cleared up towards evening, and the sun went down like a
big red ball. Its last rays fell upon a convoy of French prisoners,
who, under German escort, bent and footsore, made their way to
Montmédy. The Frenchmen had nothing to carry, but the Germans had their
rifles with fixed bayonets. In front of us lies the valley of the Meuse
and the little town of Stenay. The faint outlines of heights and hills
disappear in the dim blue distance. On the left bank of the river the
French had at this point occupied a fortified position, which, however,
was taken by storm at the beginning of the campaign. So this is the
Meuse, or in German Maas, on which are situated so many towns rendered
famous by this and previous wars, such as Sedan, Givet, Dinant, Namur,
and Liège! To the left is the great main road which on the right river
bank runs via Dun to Verdun.
[Illustration: A SERVICE WAGON AT STENAY]
We descend gradually until the Meuse is reached, meeting fresh
ammunition and food columns on the way. In the latter I notice huge
motor-lorries loaded with flour, bread and other foodstuffs. Now and
again we come across horsemen, always in pairs. They are mounted police
and are out to maintain order on the roads.
We stop outside the house in which the General in Command of the 5th
Army has taken up his quarters. I was able to speak there without
difficulty to one of my friends from the Main Headquarters, Landrat
Baron von Maltzahn, Member of the Reichstag and a personal friend of
the Crown Prince. He was able to give me the welcome news that I was
expected and that I must hurry in order to be in time for supper, which
was served at eight o’clock. So we drove at once up to the little
French château, where His I. & R. Highness had elected to stay. Here I
said good-bye to my excellent friend Lieutenant von Gwinner and thanked
him for his companionship. Thus he, too, disappears from my horizon,
and I stand before a new association of acquaintances and friendships.
Footmen in military uniforms at once took charge of my baggage and
conducted me to my room on the first floor, next door to the Crown
Prince’s private apartments. A few minutes before eight the acting
Lord-in-Waiting, Court-Marshal von Behr, knocked at my door. He was
a pleasant young man of distinguished and attractive appearance, and
he had come to bring me in to supper. We went out through the upper
vestibule and down the stairs, from the landing of which we were
fortunate enough to witness a pleasing ceremony. In the lower hall
stood a number of officers in line, and opposite them some twenty
soldiers formed up in the same way. Then came the Crown Prince William,
tall, slim and royally straight, dressed in a dazzling white tunic
and wearing the Iron Cross of the first and second class; he walked
with a firm step between the lines of soldiers. An adjutant followed
him, carrying in a casket a number of Iron Crosses. The Crown Prince
took one and handed it to the nearest officer, whom he thanked for the
services which he had rendered to his Emperor and country, and then
with a hearty handshake he congratulated the hero whom he had thus
honoured.
When all the officers had received their decorations, the reward for
their bravery, the turn came of the soldiers, the ceremony being
precisely the same as with the officers; but I found it hard to
distinguish what the soldiers said in their loud, rough and nervous
voices. At last I distinguished the words: _Danke untertänigst
Kaiserliche Hoheit_ (I humbly thank your Imperial Highness).
When the knights of the Iron Cross had taken their departure, we went
down into the hall, where the Crown Prince stepped up to me and bade me
heartily welcome to his Headquarters and to the seat of war. The meal,
which might as well have been called dinner as supper, was attended by
the following gentlemen: Lieutenant-General Schmidt von Knobelsdorff,
Chief of Staff of the 5th Army, Court-Marshal von Behr, Chief of the
Medical Corps, Body-Physician Professor Widenmann, Majors von der
Planitz, von Müller, personal Adjutant to H.I. & R.H., and Heymann,
Lieutenant von Zobeltitz and a few members of the Staff, who arrived
later after the day’s work in the field and took their seats at the
lower end of the table.
Would you like to know what the German Crown Prince, the Crown Prince
of Prussia, eats for supper? Here is the menu: cabbage soup, boiled
beef with horse-radish and potatoes, wild duck with salad, fruit,
wine, and coffee with cigars. And what would you say the conversation
was about? It is hard to say exactly, but we travelled over almost
the whole world with the ease bred by familiarity. The Crown Prince,
like the Emperor, began with Tibet, and from there it was but a step
across the Himalayas to the palms of the Hugli Delta, the pagodas
of Benares, the silver moonlight over Taj Mahal, the tigers of the
jungle and the music of the crystal waves of India beating against the
rocks of Malabar point. We also spoke of old unforgettable memories
and of common friends who now love us no longer--of the brave and
famous Kitchener, the conqueror of Omdurman and South Africa, of the
Mararajahs and their fairy-like splendour at Bikanir, Kutch Behar,
Gwalior, Kashmir and Idar.
We also talked about the war and its horrors, and the terrible
sacrifices it demands. “But it cannot be helped,” said the Crown
Prince, “our Fatherland asks us to give all we have, and _we will, we
must_ win, even if the whole world takes up arms against us.”
“Is not the calm here wonderful! We seem to be living to-night in the
most absolute peace, and yet it is but a couple of hours’ drive to the
firing line,” observes my Imperial host after listening to a short,
concise and satisfactory report made in a ringing voice by an officer
who has just entered. “Yes, your Imperial Highness, I had imagined
the Staff Headquarters of an army to resemble a buzzing beehive, but
now that I have the reality before me, I find no trace of anxiety or
nervousness, nothing but calm and assurance everywhere. But what I
should like to see most of all would be a battle, for I suspect that in
common with most other civilians I have formed an erroneous opinion on
this subject.”
The Crown Prince smiles and answers: “Yes, battle painters like
Neuville and Détaille would have little use for their art in these
days. Of the fighting men one sees practically nothing, for they are
concealed by the ground and in the trenches, and it is rather dangerous
to get too close to a bayonet charge--unless one’s duty takes one
there. Generally speaking, the distance between the fighting forces
increases with the improvement in fire-arms. Those who have the best
artillery have the best prospects of winning. To us the field-grey
uniform is a great advantage, as we merge into the colouring of the
ground, whilst the brilliant uniforms of the French are visible from
afar. _To see_ a battle is practically impossible--not even the
Commander directing it sees much of it, his direction is effected by
telephone and is dependent on information and reports received, which
in turn are carefully sifted and weighed. For a spectator to post
himself on a height in the neighbourhood is not advisable, for then
he may be sure of being taken for an observer directing the artillery
fire, and becomes at once the target of the enemy’s shells. You shall,
however, during your visit here be allowed to witness all that it is
possible to see.”
What life and spirit at the Crown Prince’s Headquarters! Everything was
gay with the freshness of youth, and devoid of restraint. No trace of
the stiffness of court ceremonial. Even General Schmidt, who usually
maintained the strictest discipline, was infected by the prevailing
spirit of camaraderie. But owing to the terrible burden of work which
rested on the shoulders of the Chief of Staff, it was not unusual for
him to come in for his meals after the others. The supper, or rather
the talk after it, went on till about eleven--these were the only
hours when one could meet in quiet, for during the day everyone was
busy with his duties, and the Crown Prince then occupied his post as
commanding officer at suitable points at the front.
The château where we were staying belonged to an aristocratic French
lady--if I remember rightly her name was du Vernier. When the war
broke out she moved to Bordeaux. On her return after the contest she
will find her château, her estates and the beautiful park in the same
condition as when she went away. There was a certain aristocratic
grandeur about the château, though signs of decay were already making
themselves apparent. On the mantelpiece in my room stood a pendulum
clock of gilt bronze of an antique mythological design, and on each
side stood a couple of gorgeous candelabra. The walls were decorated
with a few unassuming pictures, amongst them a portrait of an old
French warrior.
I open my window, it is pitch-dark outside, and the rain falls close
and heavy upon the trees and lawns outside. Tired after a somewhat
ambitious day’s work, I hurry to bed, the more so as I suspect the next
day’s programme to be no less exacting.
September 21st. I was called early to be ready for breakfast at seven,
when all his entourage gathers round the Crown Prince. After breakfast
H.I. & R.H. asked me to accompany him to the Staff quarters, where
a “plan of campaign” for my day was to be drawn up. General Schmidt
quickly made up his mind. He thought it might be of interest to me to
begin by watching the artillery fire at Septsarges, and instructed
three officers to take charge of me. Major Matthiasz was the leader of
the party, and a soldier came as chauffeur. The two other officers were
Liebrecht of a battalion of Chasseurs, and Schmidt of the Volunteer
Automobile Corps.
Whilst the car was got ready I was being coached on a large map in
the grouping of the 5th Army and of the artillery positions which we
were to visit. The General Staff of the Chief Command of the Army was
housed in an _École de Garçons_, which still contained relics of its
former state, such as natural history pictures and maps, and a couple
of school benches with the master’s desk, above which could still be
seen in black and white the golden rules: _Ne vous vantez pas_, and
_Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité_. How hollow and foolish did they not
seem before the brutal reality now presiding over the world!
The car is ready. We step in. I am dressed in furs and have a
mackintosh. I also bring a pair of field-glasses and a sketch-book. It
is no longer raining, but the sky is overcast and the weather chilly
and autumnal after all the suffocating heat which the soldiers had to
endure during the first phase of the campaign. We drive southward at
break-neck speed. I cannot deny that I had to struggle against the
feeling of growing excitement. It was not mere manœuvres; it was war
itself, a part of the greatest struggle that had ever been fought on
earth. It was, moreover, the struggle on the western front, the fight
against the French, rightly considered to be the sturdiest and best
soldiers among Germany’s opponents. When one approaches such a spot,
and when for the first time in one’s life one enters the zone of fire,
it is difficult not to feel, whether one admits it or not, a certain
tension, even if one has been through some wild adventures in Asia.
Every minute we get nearer the firing line, and as the car slows down
at the corners we hear the cannonade more plainly. The booming of the
guns sounds dull and heavy, the ground quivers.
But events move all too fast. Observations and impressions follow so
quickly upon one another that it is difficult to assimilate them all.
I make my notes as usual, even when the car is racing along at its
fastest, and my writing is far from copper-plate. We still have 32
kilometres to Septsarges, a village 21 kilometres north-west of Verdun.
How often did I not wish to stop--to impress more strongly on my mind
some vivid and warlike picture, but as I am stopping for two days with
the 5th Army, I shall, no doubt, have an opportunity of revisiting this
section. The whole road is full of supply columns moving southward,
and we meet innumerable empty transport lorries on the way north, to
be reloaded at some railway station. Here we also see fresh young
troops, all strapping fellows, who have come direct from Germany to go
straight to victory or death. All are jolly and eager; truly, they look
as if the whole affair were to them but an autumn manœuvre, and as if
they felt no trace of excitement. They march along with easy bearing
and sing merry soldiers’ ditties under the leaden skies now darkening
this unhappy bleeding France. They light their pipes and their eternal
cigarettes, laugh and chat--as if they were going to a picnic in the
country. In reality they are going out to fill the gaps made by the
French fire in the ranks of their comrades. They are _Ersatztruppen_,
i.e. reinforcements, but I do not see a single face which betrays the
slightest feeling that death is near. They hear the thunder of the guns
better than we do, for the humming of the car drowns all other sounds.
But they seem to delight in the dull music, and yet their place is far
in advance of the artillery positions. _Ersatztruppen_! it means that
their duty is to _replace_ the fallen, and that the same fate awaits
themselves. Yet they are gay and happy. “_Dulce et decorum est pro
patria mori._”
The soldiers’ helmets are provided with covers of the same shade of
grey as the uniforms. On their backs they carry knapsacks containing
their most indispensable kit, their share of the tent, and a couple
of bowls with spoon, knife and fork. At the side they carry the
bayonet and the “portable tool,” spade or axe. To the waist-belt are
fastened the filled cartridge pouches, the whole outfit weighing
about 56 English lbs. It is a fairly substantial weight and, although
figuratively speaking the soldiers march into battle with a light step,
their steps are in reality pretty heavy, especially on country roads
softened by rain. Anyhow, their marching capacity is nothing short of
wonderful--I for my part should not get far with such a load. Practice
makes perfect, as the whole German nation knows. That is why the
Germans do not refuse to spend enormous sums on their defence. And that
is why they conquer, even though attacked by four great powers whose
soldiers have not received the same thorough scientific training in
times of peace.
We fly through Dun. One can hardly speak of more than one street in
this prettily situated little village on the banks of the Meuse. Yet
this street has indeed been hardly dealt with. It is a melancholy
comfort to know that its comely houses have been destroyed by the
French Army’s own artillery, so as to make the stay at Dun as
disagreeable as possible for the Germans. It is now a “line of
communication” base depot with Depot _Kommandantur_, a “line of
communication” hospital and store depot, and also has large supplies
of arms and ammunition. The railway, now under Prussian management, is
being worked up to this point, where the transfer takes place from the
supply trains to the great columns of the Army Service Corps.
The population, which fled on the approach of the Germans, has already
begun to return. The two bridges over the Meuse have been blown up,
but one of them, the one of stone, over which the main road passes,
has been repaired by the Engineers. The little village of Liny, on our
right, has been more fortunate. Here the pretty little white houses
with their red-tiled roofs are almost untouched.
We now begin to notice that we are approaching the firing line. The
whole road is encumbered with troops. Here comes a detachment of
wounded on foot, with bandages round heads and hands, or with the arm
in a sling. We meet an empty ammunition column, an endless string of
rattling wagons. We always keep to the right of course. Woe to him who
breaks this rule and causes a stoppage on the road.[5] If it is not
broad enough, it becomes rather awkward at times to get along. And
how often does it not happen that two transport columns meet on the
same bit of road, one empty going northward and the other fully laden
travelling south! Suddenly we find ourselves in the narrow passage
between two such moving walls. If into the bargain another car with
field post comes along--every corps has its own post--a temporary
congestion is not infrequently the result, but thanks to the smartness
of the drivers and chauffeurs the trouble is soon overcome.
[5] In Sweden (as in England) one always keeps to the left.
The artillery ammunition column which we are just now passing is an
impressive sight. The noise of these vehicles, dull and heavy, is
quite different from that of the empty wagons on our left, but then
they are loaded to the top with heavy ammunition, shells for 21-cm.
mortars at Septsarges and neighbouring villages. Every ammunition
wagon--consisting of limber and wagon body--with its team of six horses
requires the services of six men. Three of them--drivers--ride on the
off-side[6] horses, two are seated on the limber, and one facing the
rear on the wagon body. They are armed with Mauser pistols fastened on
the left side of the belt, but the swords of the drivers are securely
strapped on to the left side of the saddle.
[6] i.e. the left-hand horse. As Germans drive to the right this is
their “off” side.
The horses are fat and sleek, and pull without exerting themselves
unduly. They move at a walking pace--anything else would be impossible
on this road. It is a far finer sight to see one of these columns
trundling along at full speed with the horses moving at a sharp trot
or gallop. Even at the pace at which they are now travelling these
endless columns are an impressive and attractive sight. What does it
matter if the helmets, in order not to glitter and attract attention,
are concealed by a cover which even hides the spike surmounting them;
what does it matter if the men’s uniforms are of the same dirty grey as
the clay and mud of the soil? The whole team looks picturesque enough
with its massive, solid wagon, its pole, its leather fittings and its
harness.
Tramp, tramp go the horses’ hoofs, and behind them comes the rattling
of the heavy wagons. One rider sings, another whistles and a third is
shouting at a refractory horse. Behind sit a couple of men rolling
cigarettes, which by the way is more difficult than it sounds when a
wagon is jolting up and down. This column also has a mounted escort.
The train is wound up by a field kitchen with a couple of store wagons
on which a few bundles of firewood are also lying. Without ceasing,
this eternal tramp, tramp, keeps dinning into our ears as the columns
slowly travel southward, a never-ending stream of warriors, horses,
ammunition and provisions. “Germany must have inexhaustible supplies of
everything,” I remark to Major Matthiasz.
He smiles and replies: “Here on the western front we must have quite
fifty roads such as this, all equally crowded with men, horses and
materials.”
“It must cost a tidy bit of money.”
“Yes, it is best not to think of it, but then it means everything to
us.”
We have now reached the front of the great column. At its head ride a
couple of officers, the commander and his adjutant. They salute us. We
have hardly left them behind before we drive past the tail-end of an
infantry ammunition column, the wagons of which are manned by three
men and drawn by four horses with only one driver, mounted on the off
leader.
By the side of the road are numberless great pits where shells have
struck. Here the fire has been heavy with a vengeance. This fact is
brought home to us still more as we redescend to the Meuse at the point
where the village of Vilosnes received such a pounding, and where a
permanent bridge was blown up, only to be replaced in a twinkling
by a temporary structure by the German Engineers. The ground round
the village reminds one almost of a cake of Swedish rye-bread pitted
all over with holes. The blankness of desolation is most curiously
contrasted by the busy military life around. Almost every inch of
ground is occupied by the transport columns with their endless streams
of wagons, drafts of reinforcements who had elected to halt here--the
men resting on the wet ground round their piled rifles--military police
in their green uniforms and crescent-shaped metal badges, and countless
horses to replace those which have fallen, for Vilosnes has now been
made into a horse depot.
The thunder of the guns has now become louder and we have not far
to go to reach the German batteries. As yet there is no danger. The
countless shell-pits have not been formed in the present fighting.
Since these shells fell, the Germans have made an advance. But we are,
nevertheless, immediately behind the firing line, and that is why all
these supplies are required to feed men, horses, guns and rifles. A
little way from the village an ammunition column has halted; its wheels
look awful, coated with thick layers of mud and clay up to the axles.
The men are like moving clay statues. In the midst of the mire, in
fields and meadows, are ammunition parks and field hospitals, although
it would be impossible to find a single dry patch on which to rest
one’s tired body for the night. Presumably the men sleep in the wagons
as far as space allows. They are hardy and brave, these men, always
singing, never complaining.
We come a step nearer the fire when we drive up to the village of
Dannevoux, which is crowded with _Ersatztruppen_. Here we can study
the reinforcement organisation more closely still. Here fresh soldiers
stand ready to move up into the firing line to replace the killed
and wounded, whilst the work of provisioning and bringing up fresh
ammunition is in full swing, so that no fatal break need occur in the
firing. Dannevoux church has been turned into a field hospital, where
Germans and Frenchmen are tended without discrimination.
In a modest little house in Dannevoux a Divisional Commander has
taken up his quarters, and here we pay a short visit to General von
Gossler, who is in the act of examining some fifty French prisoners
drawn up in two files, who had just been captured. They reply calmly
and politely to all questions and say that their regiment has been
almost wiped out. They are from the south of France, most of them from
Marseilles--that is to say they belong to the 15th Army Corps. Here we
also meet Colonel von Rath, whose acquaintance I had made in Breslau.
Dannevoux had been horribly knocked about by shells, and was still
far from safe. The next day we heard that General von Gossler had
miraculously escaped being hit by a shell which had dropped hardly
twenty metres from the spot where he was standing.
We mount the car once more to travel the six kilometres which separate
us from the little village of Septsarges, in a south-westerly
direction. On our left, hardly a kilometre distant, was a little
coppice which had been bombarded that very morning. The day before
yesterday the French had learnt from spies amongst the civil
population or through one of their aviators that this was an important
_Beobachtungsstand_, or observation station, and yesterday a thousand
shells were rained upon it, but by that time the observers had already
withdrawn and only left a picket behind, who found the necessary
shelter in a bomb-proof cave.
The road we take is within the range of the French batteries, and now
and again a shell drops by the roadside. The ground is pitted with
the marks of shell fire, but we manage to steer clear. We are as yet
concealed by a slight rise in the ground south of the road. It was
lucky that a little accident that happened to the car compelled us to
stop just at this point. A little further on we should have been in
sight of the French observation posts, and should no doubt have drawn
their fire. The French artillery is exceedingly vigilant and considers
it can afford to waste ammunition even on single individuals.
I am worried by an inquisitive wasp buzzing round me and contrast it
vaguely in my mind with the somewhat larger winged creatures issuing
from the muzzles of the guns. Once more the car is ready to start.
“Drive quickly over the high ground,” orders Major Matthiasz, but it is
easier said than done; this by-road is narrow and has been converted
into a perfect quagmire with enormous ruts by all the heavy traffic
it has had to bear. We have to be content with such speed as we can
manage, and trust that the French observers will not notice us or that
their directions will not be obeyed until we are over the hill. On
the left, towards the south, are two French captive balloons. It is a
little unpleasant to know that they are in telephonic communication
with the batteries beneath. Neither is it very encouraging to see a
row of wooden crosses surmounting fresh graves by the roadside. In the
ditch lies a dead horse which had not been able to struggle on any
further. The shell craters are now so frequent that we do not pay them
the slightest attention.
Here by the roadside stands a transport convoy which has brought oats
for the horses of a mortar section. We have not far to go to the first
batteries, each consisting of four of these gigantic “growlers.” We
drive up between two battery positions whilst they are firing. “Load!”
calls the head of the battery, a Captain. “_Fertig zum Feuer!_”[7]--and
directly after, “_Feuer!_”[8] and all four guns are discharged
simultaneously. Immediately a spout of fire issues from the gun-muzzle,
accompanied by a report which rends the air and causes the ground to
shake for some distance around. Then is heard that peculiar, horrible
whistle through the air, as the projectile sweeps the space which
separates us from the French positions. Each mortar has a shield, and
by the side of the guns the gunners have dug a trench for “_Deckung_”
or protection in case the French fire should press the battery too hard.
[7] Ready to fire!
[8] Fire!
Presently we reach Septsarges, where all alleys, yards and open
spaces are filled with soldiers. The village is situated in a shallow
hollow, and the men here are fairly safe from the French fire. But a
flat-topped rise in the ground immediately south of the village is
struck now and again by a shell.
[Illustration: 21 CM. MORTARS FIRING AT SEPTSARGES]
Septsarges also accommodates a few field kitchens, which stand ready
with their smoking chimneys. The food is prepared during the day, and
as dusk sets in the vehicles are driven up in proximity to the infantry
positions, hugging the dips in the ground as much as possible and
sheltering behind any cover there may be. The men in the trenches know
where the canteen is set up, and betake themselves thither under the
shelter of the darkness to get their tin bowls filled with boiling hot
broth.
We did not remain in the village longer than was necessary to get
information from a couple of officers. Thereupon we continued on our
way, leaving the car at a point beyond the range of artillery. Then we
went up the hill towards the south, with the nearest mortar battery on
the left and a field artillery position on the right. Even the field
artillery gunners had dug trenches by the side of the guns, covered
over with boughs, straw and leaves, thus carefully masking themselves
from the French aviators.
From the car, which we left in line with the artillery positions, we
walked some 800 metres in the direction of the French fire. One has to
imagine the infantry positions in two approximately parallel lines,
only a few hundred metres distant from one another. Behind them come
the artillery positions, also generally speaking in parallel lines.
Thus we were now moving within the space situated between the German
artillery positions and the German infantry lines, that is to say,
the zone bombarded by the French artillery. The risk was, therefore,
fairly great, and we took such precautions as the ground allowed. Our
objective was an observation post located on the crest of the rise,
where a couple of non-commissioned artillery officers stood immovable
as if nailed to the ground, by the side of their telescope mounted on
a tripod. They were observing the fire of the mortar batteries and
telephoned where the shells had struck and the position of the hit in
relation to the object aimed at. It is from the reports of aviators and
of advanced observation posts and patrols of officers that the range is
obtained and the fire is directed.
On the lowest part of the slope we were fairly safe, as at this point
we were not visible from the French side. “Look out for telephone
wires,” warned Matthiasz, who was leading the way, as we passed the
lines resting on the grass. When we had reached the middle of the
slope, where we were exposed to view from several points on the French
line, we descended into a long communication trench, which led to the
vicinity of the post of observation. The trench was hardly more than
a metre deep and we had to walk almost double in order not to be seen
over its edge. The bottom was very unpleasant. Owing to the sloping
ground nearly all the water had been drained off, but there was still
enough to convert the trench into a greyish-blue bath of slime and
mire, through which we laboriously made our way with our boots sticking
in the mess, and now and again sinking down to the calves, and this was
not made pleasanter by some delightful relics which the soldiers had
left behind.
Dressed in their greatcoats, the observation officers stand on the
crest of the hill, with a very low, short parapet in front of them. As
a rule one is anything but welcome when successful in sneaking up to
one of these points, for one may easily attract the enemy’s attention
and thus place the observers in great danger. No wonder, therefore,
that they saluted us rather curtly and continued, immovable as statues,
to observe the French fire. We walked the last bit of the way in single
file, so as to make it appear to the opposite batteries as if there
were only one man, and not, by open order, to create more movement
than necessary on the hill crest. Sitting on our heels, we observed
the country southward in the direction of Malancourt, and took our
bearings as best we could. The Major was just explaining what heights,
copses, villages and roads were occupied by the Germans and where the
French positions began, when a shrapnel shell exploded close by us, a
little to our left. “_Deckung!_” cried Matthiasz, and threw himself
down at full length behind the parapet. We had hardly time to follow
his example when three other of these infernal machines spat out their
contents, a little further away, however, than the first. It was now
obvious that we had been seen by the French observers, and that the
fire from a battery had been concentrated on us. We, therefore, thought
it wise to move on to a safer place--when one has been discovered there
is nothing else to do if one wishes to get away with a whole skin. To
begin with we moved down to the nearest mortar battery, where we passed
a few moments. Whilst they were loading for the next salvo I drew the
accompanying very rough sketch. But one can hardly be expected to show
the requisite presence of mind and coolness to accomplish a detailed
drawing, when at any moment one may be smothered in shell fragments. In
the picture the mortar barrel is lowered for loading; on the right is a
projectile on a _Trage_, or little iron barrow.
By a more westerly road, and still passing endless transport columns,
we next proceed northward, and ascend a height which seems to be
outside the firing line, and from which with greater tranquillity we
can observe the martial spectacle southward. There is really little to
be seen. The only thing that we see and hear is the German batteries,
and, if the weather is clear, the impact and bursting of the shells.
The French batteries are, of course, equally well hidden behind mounds
and masked by bushes and young trees, and one sees and hears nothing of
their fire but the impact of their shells and the report. The French
fire on this particular day consisted mainly of shrapnel, and it made
itself known chiefly by a shrill whistling sound and by the little
puffs of white smoke which denoted the bursting of the shells overhead.
The streets of the village of Cunel are full of Württemberg Landwehr
and their steaming field kitchens and long trains of supply columns.
The roads are swarming with infantry and Uhlans. Here also are large
bodies of _Ersatztruppen_ or reinforcements, ready to move up and fill
the gaps. We have brought with us a whole bundle of fresh newspapers to
distribute amongst the men. Nothing gives them greater pleasure than
this kind of news from home. Out here the soldiers get, of course, no
particulars of the war but what they can see with their own eyes. Of
course, they can draw certain conclusions from the orders given out
day by day. But about the general situation on the various fronts they
know nothing. Their hunger and thirst are stilled at field kitchens,
which are run so smartly and so thoroughly that the question of hunger
or thirst really never arises. Cigars and cigarettes are also heartily
welcome, and are sent to the front as _Liebesgaben_ (love gifts) in
entire wagon-loads, perhaps mainly to the 5th Army, thanks to the
Crown Prince’s spirited appeals to the generosity of the public. But
on the whole the longing for news is the greatest, and I think that
the soldiers would often gladly go hungry and thirsty for a while and
forfeit their beloved smokes, if they could only learn how Germany’s
great war was going on and how their people were at home. _Lieb
Vaterland, magst ruhig sein_ they sing with tremendous gusto, when the
news of fresh victories reaches them.
In the village of Romagne we were on the territory of a new Army Corps.
The house at which we stopped is owned by a French Major who has
retired from the Army and lives there with his wife in the midst of
the confusion. As a consequence his house and he are quite unmolested.
He is on the billet register, and sees to it that his German guests
are properly looked after. At Romagne there is also a field hospital,
occupying several houses. Every Army Corps has twelve such hospitals,
each of which has six wagons, all flying the Red Cross flag.
The next village we pass is Bantheville, from which the population
fired on the Germans from the windows when they entered. The guilty
persons were seized and hanged, and a couple of houses which were fired
from were burnt down. Now the village was full of troops and transport
columns. Horrible-looking water-filled holes in the road and by the
roadside betokened the effect of the German guns during the advance. In
a field stands a whole row of wagons filled with sacks of oats. Near
by is a flying station and a field-bakery detachment with its engines,
which look like baking ovens, and its big yellow tents where the dough
is kneaded and moulded in gigantic troughs.
At length we drive back to Dun, where the traffic is if possible still
livelier than in the morning. It took some time to make our way between
the trains of vehicles on the bridges and in the narrow village street.
_Proviant Kolonn 1 Wagen 23_ with its team of four and drivers seemed
to wish to bar our way, but the officer in charge got a terrific
scolding from the Major. The noise--the shouting, the creaking of
wagons, the cracking of whips, the jolting and the neighing--in this
village road is indescribable. The 5th Army seems to be in need of
nothing, least of all of soldiers. As we pass through, fresh regiments
come marching along, singing and smoking. When at last we get clear of
the village we find no diminution of traffic, but we are at least no
longer helplessly blocked in the narrow streets.
A sharp shower patters down once more on the arched canvas roofs of
the service wagons, and this poor land, so saturated with blood and
water, receives another drenching. We ourselves come to no harm, but we
cannot help thinking of the soldiers lying frozen in the firing line.
The trenches are not a pleasant place to live in during these autumn
rains. A German officer once told me that the water was a foot deep in
many trenches, and that the men had no alternative but to stand up in
it. Sometimes they were able to dig “dug-outs” above the water level so
as at least to have somewhere to sit or lie, but any attempt at drying
is futile. Even if it were possible to make up a fire, this is strictly
forbidden, as the enemy’s gun-fire would be guided by the light.
Here comes a string of vehicles with long, rough tree trunks for some
bridge construction, there lies an upturned motor-car which has come
to grief. If a little stretch of road is moderately clear or only
encumbered by a single file of wagons, the chauffeur immediately puts
on a terrific speed to gain ground.
It was still daylight when we returned to our domicile, where the Crown
Prince, just back from his day’s work, was resting in the doorway. A
moment later I went out for a walk in the town. At the bridges over
the Meuse I was stopped by the sentries, who in authoritative but
invariably polite tones asked to see my _Ausweis_. That they found me
suspicious-looking, ambling along as I did with a sketch-book under my
arm, was not to be wondered at. Only one of them, an honest Landwehr
man, declared categorically that my pass was not sufficient. “Oh,” I
said. “The name of the Chief of the General Staff of the Field Army,
General Moltke, does not impress you?” “No, the permit must be viséd by
the 5th Army,” he replied. A couple of his comrades saved the situation
after reading the permit, and declared that General Moltke was good
enough for them.
After a short visit to a field base hospital, accommodated in a French
artillery barracks, I turned my steps homeward and stopped, in an
inquisitive mood, at the entrance to a shop which was open and where
soldier customers came and went. As I overheard a couple of privates
doing their level best to make themselves understood by the women in
the shop, I stepped up to offer my services as interpreter. It turned
out to be a modest sort of place for women’s clothing, linen, stays,
lace, handkerchiefs, stockings, scent and soap and other useful toilet
articles. The proprietress, Madame Desserrey, had been a widow for
three years and now lived there with her three daughters and a sister
and subsisted on the profits of her little business. The soldiers who
were engaged in discussion inside, wanted to buy shirts and pants,
and Mme. Desserrey was trying to explain that if they would come back
with the material, she would sew the garments they wanted. With this
information they seemed satisfied, bought a couple of boxes of soap and
went away.
I asked Mme. Desserrey if she had not been ruined by the war, but she
replied that she had not suffered any want so far. She hoped that she
would get through the autumn and winter, and that the war would soon be
at an end.
“Well, and what do you think of the German soldiers?” I asked.
“They haven’t done me or my family the slightest harm; they are always
polite and take no liberties. They have bought everything in my shop
that they can make use of and paid for it like men, and if I could only
get fresh goods from Luxemburg I should do excellent business. I and
three others are the only ones who keep our shops open. All the others
closed and fled when the Germans came.”
In the shop were two knitting machines at which the eighteen-year-old
Blanche Desserrey and her sister of fourteen were sitting; they were
knitting socks for the Germans, whilst their brother, eleven years old,
was sitting on the steps outside watching the soldiers. Mademoiselle
Blanche was a sweet and pretty girl, but she did not seem very strong;
she had a look of melancholy in her dark eyes and wore an anchor of
hope in her brooch. I asked if she had many relations at the war. She
answered yes, and she longed for her friends who had fled from the
town. “How horrible this war is,” she cried, “how awful for everybody.”
Then she enquired whether they had been fighting hard at the front that
day--she had heard the booming of the guns in the early morning. Yes,
I said, they were fighting hard. It was the Germans and the French
who were fighting against one another, and many a brave and promising
youth had died for his country. Mademoiselle Blanche, I soon found,
was not merely a seamstress for the soldiers, she was also a dreamer
of beautiful dreams, sensitive and high-minded, and her heart was pure
and without guile. She was cheerful, amiable, and could even raise a
laugh in the midst of the billeting bothers and the knitting, but it
was clear that she considered gaiety one of the transient things of
this earth. The German officers and soldiers who entered eyed her with
interest and treated her with respect. She assured me that she had
never yet had occasion to complain of their conduct. She did not quite
understand how she managed to disarm even the strongest by a look from
her eyes. _Soyez comme l’oiseau, penché pour un instant sur les rameaux
trop frêles. Il sent plier la branche mais il chante pourtant, sachant
qu’il a des ailes._ Blanche Desserrey would have made an ideal heroine
of a touching romance.
But I for my part had no time for romances just then. When I came out
into the street the clock in a church tower struck six in the solemn
French way, and I hastened to my room to make a few notes. Then there
was a knock at the door. “_Herein_” I called with the voice of a
corporal. In steps the Crown Prince with a large volume under his arm.
I ask my august guest to be seated on the sofa. There we sat and talked
until it was time to prepare for the evening meal.
The book which the Crown Prince had brought with him, and which he
asked me to accept as a memento of him, was entitled _Deutschland in
Waffen_ (Germany under Arms), and contained, apart from reading matter
by various authors, a series of excellently executed coloured plates of
different German armies in being, in manœuvres and sham fights, as well
as of German warships at sea. The work, produced by the Crown Prince
with the assistance of eminent experts, was dedicated to his father the
Emperor. The copy, which I treasure in memory of the giver, contained a
dedication curiously historical in tone. The motto chosen by the editor
of the book was the following: “The world does not rest more securely
on Atlas’ shoulders than does Germany upon her army and navy.” The
introduction is written by the Crown Prince himself and ends with the
following impressive and prophetic words:
“Doubtless diplomatic skill can and will, for some time to come, defer
conflicts and even dissolve them. Those called upon in the solemn
hour of decision must and will surely be fully conscious of their
terrible responsibility. They will feel it their duty to make it clear
to themselves that once the match has been applied to the gigantic
conflagration, it will be no easy and no speedy task to quench it.
But, as the lightning equalises the tension between two air strata of
different charge, so will the sword, until the world comes to an end,
be and remain the deciding factor. And therefore everyone who loves his
country and who believes in the great future of our people must gladly
and readily do all in his power to guard the old soldierly spirit of
our ancestors from decadence and from the sickly taint of thought. The
sword itself is not enough, it needs the practised steel-clad arm to
wield it. Every man amongst us must keep fit for service in our army
and navy and must in heart and soul be ready for the great and solemn
hour when our Emperor calls us to the colours, for the moment when we
no longer belong to ourselves but to the country only with the whole of
our bodily and spiritual strength--the time when all these qualities
must be strained to the uttermost to attain the ‘will to conquer’
which in all history has never been known to fail. If thus the entire
German people is resolved gladly to adventure its life blood and all
that it holds dear, it matters little if the world is ‘filled with the
legions of darkness’ armed against us, for we shall know how to stand
up against it, however great be the distress of the moment. Thus we
shall indeed obey the exhortation contained in the comforting verses of
Emanuel Geibel, the herald of the new German Empire:
“Und wenn uns nichts mehr übrig blieb
So blieb uns doch ein Schwert,
Das zorngemut mit scharfem Hieb
Dem Trutz des Fremdlings wehrt.
“So blieb die Schlacht als letzt Gericht
Auf Leben und auf Tod.
Und wenn die Not nicht Eisen bricht,
Das Eisen bricht die Not.”[9]
The world conflagration which Crown Prince William foretold is now
raging before our very eyes. Will he be justified in his steadfast
faith in the people over which he is destined one day to reign? The
writing on the wall from Ypres to the Wartha, from Tsingtau to the
Cameroons, is telling its tale. Here is a nation which cannot go under
and which never will be conquered.
[9] And if nought else to us be left,
There still remains the sword
Which boldly wielded with fierce cleft
Defies the foemen’s horde.
Thus combat unto death we make,
Last arbiter indeed,
For if need will not iron break
Then iron shall break the need.
The last line is a play on the German proverb, “Not bricht Eisen”:
Necessity will (teach us to) break down (obstacles strong as) iron; and
if it will not, our “iron” (sword) shall break the necessity itself.
CHAPTER IV
A DAY AT ECLISFONTAINE
September 22nd. Last night the Crown Prince distributed more Iron
Crosses among the heroes of the day. At the end of the meal he
suggested that I should spend my morning with Major Matthiasz,
whose duties with the Chief Command of the 5th Army called him to
Eclisfontaine, from which point an attack was to be delivered against
Varennes and neighbouring villages which the Germans had once occupied,
but from which for strategical reasons they had been obliged to retire.
At half-past three I was called, lit my candle, opened the window and
looked out into the night. It was pitch-dark but for a star here and
there which peered out through the crowns of the trees. It was very
still, and nothing could be heard but the slow, measured tread of the
sentry crunching the garden gravel.
At four I was seated alone at breakfast. A soldier accompanied me with
a lantern to Major Matthiasz’s residence, where a young lieutenant with
an orderly stood waiting. We took our seats, wrapped in comfortable
furs, and drove out of the town, our powerful headlights showing the
way. At this early hour they were not of much use, however. A very
dense fog lay over the ground and it was dangerous to drive fast. We
accordingly made our way cautiously, the more so as the road was as
usual crowded with soldiers on foot and supply columns. There is no
rest on the lines of communication, even at night. It is wonderful
to think that this ceaseless stream of life is never for one moment
interrupted! Will there ever be an end to this incessant rattle and
tramping of feet? Truly Germany seems inexhaustible in vital and
material force.
The trees loomed up through the fog like ghostly sentinels. Yet more
eerie are the transport columns in this unaccustomed and picturesque
half-light. The grey-clad riders, with their cloaks thrown over their
shoulders, sit and dream on patient, snorting horses and seem to spring
up from nowhere out of the fog as they come within the circle of our
headlights. A horse takes fright at the light and the buzz, his rider
starts and wakes up out of his reverie; he pulls himself together and
settles down again in the saddle. The column goes on, but new riders
loom up one after the other. We hear the tramping of innumerable hoofs
against the road surface, and the wagon wheels make a smacking and
gurgling sound as they move onward through the mire, which clings to
them some little way and then drops back in shapeless clods.
By the side of the road is a reddish light which, as we approach, gains
in strength and colour; it is the camp fire of a bivouac, against which
the figures of the soldiers are sharply silhouetted. They appear to be
preparing something over the fire, coffee no doubt, or tea. Here and
there one of them has already lit his early-morning pipe. As dark and
as mist-enshrouded as the night which still enfolds the earth, is the
fate that awaits them with the coming day. There seems to be something
fateful in the air. A new fight no doubt is impending. To the soldiers
there is nothing remarkable, nothing unusual or exciting in this. To
them it is all in the day’s work--there is fighting at the front and
their fate beckons to them under the French fire. Maybe it is their
turn to-day to fall and add to the number of graves and wooden crosses
by the roadside. Maybe this dismal night has been the last in their
lives. But if so they have slept well for the last time, and the flames
of the bivouac fire give out a friendly and agreeable warmth.
The gleam of fresh fires shows through the mist; now clear, now
pale and dim, at some distance from the road. Everywhere are groups
of soldiers, soldiers, soldiers. Once we stop a moment, to allow a
frightened horse to pass. The hushed voices of the night then seem
louder, and the creaking of wagons, rattling of arms, tramping of the
horses’ hoofs or the curt orders of the officers strike our ears. The
troops are moving to the front. We are on one of the arteries of a
fighting army.
Once more we pass through Dun, whose naked walls and ruins present
a desolate sight as they are lit up by our lamps. We drive through
Romagne, which lies wrapped in fog. At the other end of the village a
vast body of horsemen blocks the way; they are what we call in Sweden,
Divisional Cavalry, in contrast to cavalry acting independently. The
standard is furled. Sabres rattle against stirrups and harness. The
horse of one of the troopers, as nervous and thoughtless as many others
of the genus _equus caballus_, frightened by the lights, begins a wild
dance in front of our vehicle. Instead of leaving the road free, the
horse rears up on his hind legs in front of the car, which cannot stop
abruptly. This ended in a tumble, which sent horse and rider spinning.
The former now seemed to realise in his troubled mind that discretion
is the better part of valour, took a jump across the ditch and cantered
off across fields and meadows. Angry at his adventure, the unseated
rider entered upon the pursuit and soon disappeared in the mist.
It is evidently quite impossible to drive fast. We wriggle along
kilometre after kilometre and constantly fresh swarms of soldiers seem
to rise up out of the fog. It is clearly the reserves of an army who
are on the march. Now the sky seems to grow lighter in the east, and
the grey coats of the soldiers appear to assume a queer, ashen-grey,
colourless tone. Here is another ammunition column and a string of
motor-wagons belonging to some hospital establishment; they look like
gigantic boxes with an enormous red cross on a white background on
their sides. There is an infantry battalion which has bivouacked for
the night and is now ready to break up and take up its prearranged
position in the column of march. A little further on we are stopped by
an artillery detachment, accompanied by its train. Even if the road
is clear of vehicles for a hundred metres or so, we pass isolated
companies of soldiers on foot, orderlies on cycles, despatch riders and
police.
It grows a little lighter and the fog lifts somewhat, but the columns
grow ever denser. An ammunition column has halted owing to some
congestion ahead. The riders have dismounted and the men on the wagons
likewise. They stand in groups, talking and smoking, with their
half-frozen hands in their breeches’ pockets. All the time the road is
packed with soldiers and we cannot drive faster than they march.
At last, at half-past six, we arrive at Eclisfontaine, a junction where
several roads unite and where by-roads and paths debouch on to the
main road. Cavalry, riding past at a sharp trot, with their horses’
bellies caked with mire and the mud spurting up round their hoofs, is
travelling in the same direction. We see at these cross-roads a few
dismounted cavalry scouts. They stand there in order to show the way
to oncoming detachments of the unit to which they belong or to which
they have been attached. Orderlies, usually in couples, fly past at
a gallop. They ask the way to Romagne and ride on directly they have
received the required information. They belong to the artillery, and
it seems to be their allotted duty to conduct ammunition columns to
certain points where fresh ammunition has been ordered.
Daylight makes further inroads. We hear the thud of the columns which
we have just passed, they come nearer and move off in different
directions. The artillery fire seems less brisk than yesterday. The
fog prevents accurate fire, but now and again a salvo is heard. On a
by-road in the village stands a row of motor-cars, evidently belonging
to superior Staff officers. We drive up and range our car behind the
others.
Whilst my travelling companions go off to investigate the situation,
I remain behind a moment to observe the busy life around me. I am now
outside a house in which a Divisional Staff has evidently taken up its
quarters; it is distinguished by a little black, white and red flag.
Opposite, in a meadow, stands a group of orderlies and the escort of
the Staff. The horses stand in a long row with the lances thrust into
the ground; the men are standing round in little groups chatting,
prepared to ride wherever they may be wanted with orders and reports.
Now and again one hears the hum of a car rushing past on some errand.
A party of eight stretcher bearers hurries past towards the fighting
line. The stretchers, drenched in blood, bear witness to the recent
removal of seriously wounded cases to a dressing station. The Red Cross
is, or should be, avoided by the fire, and its staff, therefore, carry
arms for self-defence only.
A couple of French women come walking along with water in buckets. They
have been to a well outside the village, where the water in these times
cannot be any too good. It is wonderful how calm they look, considering
that the fighting is raging round their very homes, but they are pale
and have a serious look on their faces.
The remnants of the fog hang about in wisps and patches, now lighter,
now denser, and do their best to challenge the rising sun. It is an
important day for the Germans. They are, as I have said, to attack the
enemy at and around Varennes. It is nearly eight o’clock. The infantry
is said to be engaged already. The artillery is waiting to move forward
to fresh positions, but in the meantime is doing its best to support
the advance of the infantry from the points which it is occupying.
The sound of firing increases in all directions. Close to the village
stands a heavy battery, howitzers and mortars of heavy calibre. The
duller and more distant reports come from the French lines. Sometimes
we hear four or six reports almost simultaneously, followed by a pause
before the next salvo is discharged.
[Illustration: The country round Eclisfontaine and Varennes.]
Accompanied by an officer, I follow the main road through the village
and peep into a little house, where all the wires of the field
telephone seem to unite. Half a dozen officers are seated at a long
table with receivers close to their ears and maps in front of them.
All reports of the progress of the fighting at different points are
brought in here, likewise any information about changes in the German
and French positions and any fresh requirements and wishes entailed
thereby. An officer of the General Staff seems to classify and
summarise the purport of all these communications. He traces “the new
position” on a map already filled with indications of the position of
troops. No doubt this map is later to be submitted to the Chief of
Staff. I can fancy the upshot of all this to be a telephonic order to
some reserves--perhaps some of the infantry we passed at daybreak--to
hurry forward to some point behind the firing line. I can almost see
the impulsive thrill which passes through the ranks as the will of
the High Command is made known to them. I can see in my mind’s eye
the column leaving the road and making its way to its post in little
separate detachments. Many a queer thought occurs to the untutored
layman as he looks into the smithy where the military will is forged.
No superfluous words are uttered, everything is concentrated and
concise. It cannot well be otherwise. When I walk away I feel that I
have a clearer conception of the vital part which the telephone plays
in the direction of a fight.
In the company of my friend Matthiasz I walk a little further
south-westward, following the main road to the point from which the
fighting proper is conducted. The ground rises gently towards this
point, which has a commanding position and from which one gets an
excellent view of the entire area in which the fight is raging. Here
I see the General in Command, von Mudra. Here also is the almost
octogenarian Field-marshal General Count von Haeseler, who, although he
has no command, has not been able to resist his longing to be near his
old corps, as it fights for Germany’s honour and rights. All day long
the two generals stand in the middle of the road, surrounded by several
officers. On the fringe of the road a powerful telescope has been
mounted on its tripod. A Captain is posted behind it and is closely
observing the position, and reporting when the telescope reveals any
changes in the situation. Now and again the Commander of the Army Corps
himself walks up to the telescope.
[Illustration: FIELD-MARSHAL GENERAL VON HAESELER AND GENERAL VON MUDRA
AT ECLISFONTAINE]
After I had been duly introduced to the Generals and had chatted with
them for a little while, I made the acquaintance of the other officers,
and had the situation and the object of attack explained to me. The
spot at which we were standing was not entirely without danger. A
soldier standing on the road close to the telephone house was hit by
a rifle bullet, but, curiously enough, without being wounded. He was
knocked down by the impact or perhaps by the sudden surprise. The
bullet, which had come from a great distance, had obviously spent
itself. Another man was slightly wounded, likewise by a rifle bullet.
Three shrapnel shells exploded fairly close to us, too high up to do
any damage.
The day is long, and I find time to make numerous interesting
observations. The village of Eclisfontaine and the observation station
of the Generals are the terminal points of a line of about a couple of
hundred metres in length along which the officers and I are moving.
Here I had an opportunity of talking, now to one, now to another,
whilst at off moments I sat down in the grass to make notes and observe
the line of fire. From a point near the village we had an excellent
view towards south-south-west in the direction of Varennes. On a stool
in the middle of the road sat the Chief of Division, Lieutenant-General
Count von Pfeil, fat and jolly looking. When the last traces of the
fog had disappeared, the dim, blue outlines of the Argonne became
discernible. Three kilometres away in the direction of Varennes the
ground rises to an extremely bare ridge, behind which, out of sight of
the French, a couple of German field-gun batteries are posted. We can
see them with the naked eye. Immediately to the left of this artillery
position a body of German infantry is advancing to the attack. With
the aid of the field-glasses we can see the soldiers go forward bent
almost double in order as long as possible to retain the shelter of
the height which screens the guns. It seems likely, however, that the
French have noticed the move, as shrapnel is constantly seen bursting
over these lines--one little tuft of smoke after the other, and out of
their midst a streak of lightning. Once we could count as many as eight
such cloudlets soaring simultaneously over the German infantry, and
doing their best to pour a hail of bullets over it. It must thus be at
least two batteries that are concentrating their fire on this point.
Besides the shrapnel, common shells also keep falling in the vicinity
of the attacking lines. These shells are easily distinguishable by the
dark grey columns of earth, clay and smoke thrown up on impact with the
ground.
Immediately to the south of the hill in the south-west and concealed
by it, a strong German infantry force lies entrenched. Here also the
artillery is in position. On the near side of the batteries I notice
two crescent-shaped, dark outlines on the ground, which turn out on
scrutiny through my field-glasses to be bodies of infantry apparently
at rest. This is the artillery cover. On their front the guns are
well masked, embedded in the ground and protected by shallow parapets
which resemble as closely as possible the appearance of the contiguous
ground. It is only from where we are, that is to say from behind, that
the guns are visible. So far no French infantry or cavalry has been
observed this morning; on the enemy’s side the fight is only being
conducted with artillery. The French artillery fire was said by the
German officers to be directed very well indeed, but the projectiles
often failed to burst and were therefore comparatively harmless, unless
one had the bad luck to stand right in their path.
The booming of cannon is now audible all round us, even from behind, a
battery of four 21-cm. mortars having been brought up from the village
and unlimbered only a hundred metres away from us. They make a terrible
noise and the whole ground trembles when they are discharged. I had a
peculiar feeling when standing in front of these winged messengers of
death, a consciousness of security mingled with respect, for are they
not fighting against the enemy’s positions, the duty of whose guns is
to take our lives? The four reports come so close together that there
is only a second or two in between. Then, for half a minute or
longer, one hears a whining, singing, hissing whistle overhead, and one
looks up involuntarily. The projectile is, however, only discernible
if one stands right behind the mortar as nearly as possible in the
extension of the line of fire. The four shells accompany one another
through the air and sing the same whining song in the same high pitch.
The sound arises through the air rushing to fill the vacuum behind the
advancing body, and through the friction. Sometimes it seems to die
away, but is heard again presently quite plainly, this being no doubt
due to air currents.
Time after time the four “growlers” emptied their heavy shells over
the French positions opposite, and each one was meant to cause the
death of heaven knows how many human beings. Their main task was to
drive the defenders out of Varennes, which is situated six kilometres
south-south-west of Eclisfontaine.
After the artillery had been pounding away all day, I asked an officer
what the cost had been. He made a rapid calculation for thirty-two
batteries of different types and estimated the average cost of each
round at fifty marks and the number of rounds at twelve thousand,
which would make an expense of six hundred thousand marks for a single
day, and yet this was only for a short portion of the long German
western front. Others, however, considered the estimate too high both
as regards average cost and number of shots fired. In any case the
artillery swallows up incredible sums in a war such as this, in which
it plays a greater and more powerful part than ever before.
A little troop of soldiers without rifles come walking slowly across
the fields and reach the main road between the observation station of
the General in Command and the telephone house, and they must therefore
march past us. It turns out to be a convoy of slightly wounded. This
first lot is succeeded throughout the day by others. As a rule it is
the left forearm and especially the hand that has been pierced by a
bullet, the arm being carried in a sling. Here and there a man had an
unimportant flesh wound in the shoulders, or his head had been grazed
by a bullet. Two or three of the men looked pale, but they were all in
good spirits. Their first field dressing had been applied on the field
of battle. They were now on the way to a principal dressing station to
be sorted out. Thence they were to proceed to a field hospital or to
a collecting station for wounded, from which they would be sent to a
clearing hospital and finally home.
Badly wounded soldiers are carried past us on hammock-stretchers.
Others are placed in ambulance wagons brought up to a halting-place in
some sheltered position. Every infantry battalion has its surgeon and
dressing wagon--containing medicines and dressing requisites--and staff
of stretcher bearers. We saw several of these dressing wagons drive
up on side-roads towards the batteries in the south-west in order to
establish a _Truppenverbandsplatz_ or regimental dressing station.
The “first field dressing,” which is applied in the firing line by the
wounded man himself or by some ambulance man, is merely temporary and
intended to prevent exhaustion from loss of blood until removal can
in some way or other be effected to a safer place where doctors are
available. Many of these emergency dressings are saturated with blood,
and by the evening the road was stained with little red spots of blood
which had dripped from them. No wonder, then, that now and again I saw
a pale face among the wounded.
We were busy scanning the heights opposite with our field-glasses, when
the news came that the Commanding Officer of one of the battalions
deployed in front of us, Lieutenant-Colonel Machenhauer, had been
badly wounded and that a car was wanted at once to take him to a field
hospital. Orders were immediately given that the nearest car, no matter
to whom it belonged, should immediately proceed to the spot at full
speed and fetch the wounded officer. It was not long before it returned
with the Colonel propped up in the car between two ambulance men.
Presently Captain Bernhard of the infantry came walking along without
assistance. His whole head was bandaged, but the bandages were red and
the blood was dripping down his tunic and on to the road. Just as he
had turned to give an order to his men, who were advancing to charge,
a bullet had pierced his cheek obliquely from behind and passed out
through the mouth, taking several teeth with it. It was hoped that the
lower jaw and tongue had not been seriously injured, but for the moment
he was disinclined to talk more than necessary. He was a plucky fellow
and in excellent spirits in spite of his misfortune. The only thing
that annoyed him was that the flow of blood had soiled his beautiful
tunic. But one soon gets accustomed to the wounded and their injuries
and ends by paying little attention to them.
It is no misfortune to bleed for one’s country and one’s liberty. As
human beings must needs fire on one another, it is a blessing after
all that so many of the wounded can be saved, even though they remain
cripples for the rest of their days. But unhappiest are those who are
deprived of their liberty and taken from the ranks of the defenders
of their country to meet the dismal fate which awaits the prisoner of
war. However kindly the treatment, a prisoner’s life is after all the
hardest trial that can await a soldier.
Here are some French infantrymen marching to Eclisfontaine, deprived of
their arms and accoutrements but here and there carrying a knapsack.
They are twenty-three in number and are escorted by two German soldiers
with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets. Many, perhaps the majority, wear
an indifferent expression which betrays but one thought: everything is
now lost, everything is going wrong for us. Others look very distressed
and one can see that they have been crying--France has been deprived of
their strong right arm just as she needed them the most.
I was just talking to the Brigade Commander, Major-General Bernhard,
when the Frenchmen came marching along in their tattered blue tunics
and baggy red trousers narrowing towards the tops of their “jack” or
high-laced boots. The uniforms were torn and soiled, which is not to be
wondered at after many days’ and nights’ exposure in the trenches. One
cannot well expect them to be neat and trim after such an experience.
General Bernhard stepped on to the road and ordered the convoy to
halt. He then had the Frenchmen formed up before him in a semicircle
and began to chat with some of them. One had been called out from
Auxerre[10] and had on the eleventh day of mobilisation been moved
via Bar-le-Duc to the neighbourhood of Varennes, where his regiment
had since been stationed. Every man is carefully cross-examined. All
statements are entered in the “Protocol.” Valuable information about
the enemy is thus gained. The uniforms alone tell one what troops one
has to deal with. Nor do the German commanders in this siege warfare
seem to have any difficulty in forming a pretty good idea of the
grouping of the forces on the French side. General Bernhard asked how
the prisoners had been fed before they were captured. The answers
varied considerably. Most of them were satisfied, but a couple of
soldiers said that they had only had hot food twice during the last
week, which was probably due to the fact that they were posted at a
point where it was impossible to bring them soup. Such inaccessible
posts are by no means rare. They are also considered the most dangerous.
[10] Auxerre is the station of the 4th Infantry Regiment, 17th Infantry
Brigade, 9th Infantry Division, 5th Army Corps.
Finally the prisoners were asked if they had any diaries. Eight or
nine men answered yes. The books were handed over to the General,
who retained them. In this way one frequently gets much important
information about the movement of troops on the other side, often
from apparently very trivial notes, which can only be interpreted by
an expert. General Bernhard afterwards read out to us an extract from
one of these diaries. It was the last entry made by the prisoner on
the previous day. It was as follows: “The Prussians are bombarding
Varennes. They seem to aim pretty straight, for last night one of their
shells hit General X----[11] just as he had gone to bed.” At this
General Pfeil exclaimed: “Good gracious, is _he_ dead! I met him once.”
General Bernhard told me that the French prisoners always were polite
and attentive, and replied carefully and truthfully to all questions.
In most cases they called him _Mon Général_, showing that they knew the
German insignia of rank even on the plain field-service uniform. As
regards the General himself, I noticed that he spoke to the prisoners
without the slightest trace of military stiffness and without that air
of superiority which rank and power might otherwise tend to instil.
Whilst the examination was proceeding, a French N.C.O. with a fair
beard turned to me and asked: “What are they going to do with us, sir?”
To which I replied: “They are going to offer you soup and bread, and if
you have any wounded they are going to hand them over to the doctors.”
The man looked puzzled and surprised and wondered whether what I said
was really true. He showed me one of his comrades whose neck had been
grazed by a bullet, and whom a German lieutenant immediately placed in
the hands of an ambulance man.
[11] I never noted his name and have forgotten it.
Thus I received close to the field of battle an immediate confirmation
of what I had previously noticed at the hospitals, namely that the
French prisoners in German hands are treated in a kindly and humane
manner, and for the sake of truth I wish solemnly to protest before
God that the allegations of certain foreign newspapers to the contrary
are a mean lie and a shameless calumny. Once peace is restored and the
French prisoners are allowed to return home, they will themselves be
able to testify to the treatment they have received. Some of them will
perhaps even remember Eclisfontaine.
Presently we see fresh groups of Frenchmen, taken prisoners in a
German bayonet charge. One man told us that he was called home from
Constantinople on the 5th August, another that he was a reservist and
that they began to be hard up for men. They were also examined by the
Field-marshal and his excellent Adjutant Rechberg, who spoke most
admirable French.
One group of disarmed Frenchmen comprised a Captain. He had received
a bullet through the thigh, limped badly and was supported by two
soldiers. He had a frank and noble face and one could tell that he was
a thorough gentleman. When his little band was to be examined, a chair
was brought out for him, for he looked pale and weak.
“Is your wound causing you much pain, Captain?” a German officer asked.
“None at all, it is a mere trifle,” he replied.
“Have you suffered heavy losses during the fighting?”
“Not particularly; we fill up all gaps.”
“You look tired and worn, I am sure you must have had a rough time of
it lately?”
“No, not by any means; I have been doing very well.”
“Does it distress you to be amongst the prisoners?”
“Yes,” he answered, in a low voice, without raising his head.
He was not among those who are demoralised by capture, and he was
certain to retain his pride in captivity. When the examination was over
he rose, saluted, and vanished round the bend of the road together with
his men in blue and red.
The hours quickly pass. A kindly soul gives us some ration bread and
claret. My portion was so ample that it was no charity on my part to
give half of it to a French soldier, who at once proceeded to share it
with three or four of his nearest neighbours.
By degrees even one uninitiated was able to notice certain changes
in the situation. We see the limbers being driven forward to the
two batteries in the south-south-west with the Argonne forest as a
background. The guns have been silent for a while; now they are getting
ready to begin again. Gunners and drivers are hurrying to their posts
and into the saddle, and the batteries roll away at a gallop in an
elegant semicircle and soon disappear behind the hill. They are to
accompany the infantry attack. West of the old artillery positions
fresh lines are advancing in a south-south-westerly direction. We hear
vividly the crackling, quivering sound of the machine guns advancing
with the infantry. The attackers have gained ground and are now
entrenching themselves in new positions taken from the enemy.
I return to the observation station of the officer in command. The old
Field-marshal, he who fought in 1870-1, and who ought to have been
fairly tired, had actually been induced to sit down on the cane chair
which had been brought for him. There the old soldier sits reviving
his faded memories and cannot take his eyes off the battle-scene and
the little puffs of smoke showing up where the shells have burst. His
expression is solemn and severe, his face is furrowed by deep folds and
wrinkles, his grey hairs hang round him like a mane. He seems to prefer
to be left alone with his thoughts, but if anyone walks up to speak to
him, he is full of life and vivacity.
General von Mudra, a man of fine military bearing and distinguished
aristocratic features, is standing at his tripod-stand telescope
observing the fighting. The red collar of his light-blue coat has been
turned up, in his hand he holds an ordnance map of the surrounding
country, and at his left side he carries a wallet for maps, note-books,
pencils, compasses, etc.
A third battery of German field artillery has now advanced, and is
seeking a fresh position, whilst a third wave of infantry follows the
first two in the direction of Varennes. These reserves are also moving
in open order so as not to offer a compact target for the enemy’s fire.
The men are advancing at the double, rifle in hand. They soon disappear
behind the nearest rise. The rifle fire keeps rattling away in the
valley, accompanied by the crackling of the maxim guns. Presently the
sound of tremendous cheering reaches our ears. It is evident that yet
another position has been taken.
This little action, which is but a link in the great chain, is
causing considerable liveliness in Eclisfontaine. First the ambulance
wagons of the field hospitals dash forward at full speed to the point
where the fight has taken place. Then comes another body of infantry
reinforcements, evidently to form a nucleus round which the units
scattered by the fighting may be able to assemble. Small Uhlan patrols
with vertical lances seem to be riding at a gallop along the roads
and paths leading to Varennes. At last come the steaming and fragrant
kitchen wagons with their pleased and grinning cooks perched high aloft
on the top of their paraphernalia.
But on the slopes south of us appear little groups of eight to ten men
with stretchers, accompanied by collies whose duty it is to track the
wounded lying lost and abandoned in ditches and ravines. When the dog
discovers a wounded soldier, he stays with him and barks until the
ambulance men come up with their stretchers.
The French artillery fire has now slackened, owing to their having been
compelled to move further to the rear in proportion as the Germans have
advanced.
Varennes, the little town where on June the 22nd, 1791, Louis XVI. was
recognised, captured and taken back to Paris, is now in flames, and a
brownish yellow column of smoke from its burning houses ascends into
the sky. Near it Cheppy and further on Boureuilles are also burning.
Cheppy church defiantly rears its spire aloft through the wreaths of
smoke and sparks.
To the west of us is the broad valley of the River Aire, a tributary
of the Aisne. Varennes is situated on the Aire, the eastern bank of
which is lined by the famous Argonne forest. In the south, through the
valley, Württemberg troops are advancing on Varennes, and a portion of
their right flank is busy on the fringe of the Argonne. Their advance
is plainly discernible through the tripod telescope, which now and
again I was allowed to look through. But I needed no glasses to see the
little white murderous wreaths of smoke which arose when the shrapnel
exploded right over the heads of the Württembergers. They were answered
by German spurts of fire, visible a little further away and more to the
left.
An infantry ammunition column, which had found shelter behind the
slight rise south of us, is now ordered to move forward. The nearest
way would be to follow in a south-westerly direction the main road
on which we had spent our day. But it would be too dangerous to take
this route. The dusky outlines of the column would be visible from the
new French positions and offer an excellent target, besides drawing
the fire on to the German General Staff. The column had just begun
to move down the road, when its commander was ordered to change its
direction and drive behind the town where the great mortar guns were
still posted. Only when dark has set in is it possible to advance right
up to the troops--for the present it sufficed to go as far as the
shelter afforded by the ground allowed. From the points thus reached
the ammunition has to be carried up to the firing lines in daylight if
a shortage becomes imminent. Such shortage of ammunition is however
very rare, as an increased number of cartridges is always served out
before a fight, in addition to which the cartridge belts of the dead
and wounded are also carefully emptied by the men still on their legs.
A battery of light howitzers now appears north of the main road.
It follows the southward course taken by the infantry. In the
west-south-west we notice the bursting of six shells a couple of
kilometres away, evidently intended for the advancing Württembergers.
But the centre of activity is now beginning to move away from my point
of vantage, and I see but an occasional ambulance man who has been left
behind.
In the afternoon I made a hasty panoramic sketch of the battlefield. A
young Captain provided with a map explained everything within our range
of vision. In the east-south-east a battalion of reserves lay concealed
in a hollow, in the south-east the French shrapnel kept on bursting,
and immediately to the right of the puffs of smoke was the little wood
called Bois de Cheppy. In the south-south-east the smoke from the
burning village of Very rose into the sky--it had been taken in the
course of the day. Immediately to the right, but further away, lay the
prettily situated village of Vauquois, resembling a castle on a hill
and still in the possession of the French. Immediately to the south was
the burning village of Cheppy, and in the south-south-west Boureuilles
and Varennes, both in flames. Yet a little further to the right, but
at a greater distance, the little white cloudlets formed by the German
shrapnel were sharply silhouetted against the sky. In the south-west
the church tower and roofs of Montblainville, which had just been taken
by the Württembergers, showed up above the outlines of the country
with the Argonne forest as background. Above the village, numerous
shells kept bursting, as evidenced by the little puffs of smoke--they
were intended to make the conquerors’ stay in the village as unpleasant
as possible. At 6 o’clock I counted eight burning villages, of which
however one, west of the Argonne forest, lies within the fighting zone
of the 4th Army. How many gutted homes, what appalling destruction
of private property! It is pretty certain that the inhabitants have
removed themselves and their portable valuables to a place of safety.
But what will it look like in the thousands of homes when they return!
Is it to be wondered at that one feels the deepest pity and compassion
for the innocent people who are the greatest sufferers of the war?
Surely it is not an unkindly thought towards France to strongly
condemn the policy which has brought such nameless misfortune over
the north-eastern portions of the republic. When one has seen with
one’s own eyes all the misery and grief, all the destruction and the
ruin following in the wake of war, surely one cannot with self-respect
refrain from loudly condemning the policy which alone is the cause of
it all!
“But why does not the General Staff move forward, seeing that the
troops have occupied positions six or seven kilometres in advance of
the old ones?” I ask.
“Well,” is the answer, “it is because it is impossible to extend
immediately the telegraph and telephone lines and to reorganise the
entire system of communications to meet the new situation.”
The following day Varennes was taken, and the whole machinery was
accordingly advanced a step further to the south-west.
Daylight now began to fail and the sun was sinking towards the
tree-tops of the Argonne forest. It had been an instructive day. I
had been allowed to get a glimpse of the inner working of one of the
German armies. I was deeply impressed with the sangfroid and the
relentless certainty with which everything was carried out. The whole
thing seemed like a game, which, subject to certain premises, it was
impossible to lose. Not a single soul had the slightest doubt of the
result. Whence this terrible assurance of ultimate triumph?--I need not
refer to the perfected military measures which make it certain that
it is beyond the power of Germany’s present enemies to defeat the
Empire in the field. Neither need I touch upon all that has been done
to prepare for Germany’s fateful hour and vital needs, or her readiness
on land and sea to take up the gauntlet when it is thrown down. But
there is one thing which above all needs emphasising, and that is the
_inexorable will of the German nation_. It cannot be broken, it lives
with increasing purpose. It grows stronger every day. It does not find
expression in blind and unpremeditated action, _it is conscious and
disciplined_. Its voice has penetrated deep down into the bosom of
every son and daughter of the German Empire. To the onlooker it finds
expression in the deep and silent fixity of purpose underlying every
action, but also in the dauntless courage which once animated our own
Charles XII. and his men. With unshakable confidence in its leaders,
this disciplined people fights with God for Empire and country. It
knows that all that can be done _is_ done, for all are animated with
the immutable will to strain their resources to the uttermost, in order
to attain the goal fixed by those who can discern the situation and
have prepared the line of action. Trained strength has overcome the
weakness of man. A reverse means nothing when met with such resolution.
The skill and bravery of the opponent may sometimes thwart or delay
the execution of a plan. Such things must occur. They are reckoned as
part of the game. But the inherent superiority of German leadership,
the superb strength of the German Army, the mutual confidence which
inspires those who lead and those who execute----
We rely on one another, we on him and he on us--we march inflexibly to
victory.
I witnessed that whole day in the history at Varennes, and was present
at the successes won. I marvelled over the coolness with which
everything was done, but on reflection I came to the conclusion that it
would have been unnatural for these men, in whose midst I was, to break
into expressions of triumph. What had occurred was to them merely what
should and must occur. But there was another element. War is not play.
Those who know it, speak of it with restraint. One does not boast when
face to face with its realities. On the contrary, it inspires a feeling
of humility.
Everybody still remained at the observation station or wandered up
and down along the main road. _Nachrichtenoffiziere_, or intelligence
officers, were still riding backwards and forwards, and orderlies
were keeping up constant communication between us and the fighting
line. At times the road became almost congested. On such occasions,
an officer gave out the order that as many as possible should stand
under the shade of the trees so as not to draw the French fire and thus
disturb the direction of the fight. A car arriving from the village
had been instructed to move down the hill, horsemen had been told to
dismount, and a detachment of cyclists were instructed to disperse, all
in order not to give the enemy any inkling of the whereabouts of the
General Staff by conspicuous massing of individuals.
General von Mudra still kept to his post and old von Haeseler seemed
determined to wait until the night sky was tinted red by the burning
villages. At a quarter past six I took my leave. As Major Matthiasz
seemed very busy, I arranged to have the company of Captain Suhlmann,
who was going the same way.
Thirty kilometres and a wide, straight high road--we ought to have done
it in no time. We began well at a good speed, but had not proceeded far
before the car was stopped. It was four wounded soldiers who had to go
to Stenay and asked for a lift. One of them was badly injured and very
exhausted. He was stowed away as comfortable as possible. Then we met a
string of steaming kitchen wagons carrying the conqueror’s reward, his
dinner, and later on several endless ammunition columns. We progressed
by fits and starts. The drivers of the ammunition train, who shrewdly
suspected that their dinners might be deferred, were cutting into their
loaves, but turned round to gaze attentively at our wounded with their
white or blood-drenched bandages. Further on the crowd becomes even
denser. Fresh streams of men and wagons--a new cavalry force is moving
forward. The same thing is going on throughout the immense front. Now
we come to a dead stop: we must shift to the edge of the road and try
to be patient. An aviator is passing overhead. We hear the buzz of
an aeroplane at a considerable height. The undersides of its planes
are illumined by the setting sun, but it is travelling at too high an
altitude to see whether it bears the mark of the Iron Cross or of the
Tricolor. If the airman is a Frenchman it is unpleasant to have him
right overhead, for he is certain to drop bombs. But he is probably a
German, and soon he has vanished altogether.
A batch of French prisoners adds to the congestion. I speak to the one
who is nearest. He says that out of his company only twenty-six men
were in a position to use their arms when he was taken prisoner, that
so many officers had been killed that there was hardly anybody left to
command.
As we are halting by the side of our ditch, we have an opportunity
of witnessing the distribution of forage by a supply column. A large
fatigue party come dragging huge trusses of hay. Here is another troop
of slightly wounded who are proceeding in charge of a medical service
N.C.O. from a _Leichtverwundeten-Sammelplatz_, or collecting station
for slightly wounded, to the nearest base. We are asked if we have room
for two more men. “Yes, if you can stand on the foot-board.” Yes, they
were quite agreeable, and at last we get under way with our new burden.
Here and there a horse has fallen during the day and lies cold and
stiff by the roadside. A mortar ammunition column is proceeding in our
direction. It is empty. The division stationed at Eclisfontaine has its
supply for to-morrow’s fighting already on the spot.
Now we are at Romagne and here we get badly stuck. There is a frightful
crush in the village street. It is no use trying to force our way. We
stop just in front of an emergency field hospital. The head surgeon is
standing in the street and issuing his orders for the treatment and
distribution of the newly arrived wounded. I am introduced to him and
he declines to let me go until I have seen his organisation at work. To
come to the front to study the war and not to see the field hospital at
Romagne! “No, thank you, my dear Doctor, that will never do! You have
spent the day watching the wounded come back from the fighting line
after their first temporary field dressing. You have seen the principal
dressing station at Eclisfontaine. Now you must absolutely stop for a
look at the third hospital establishment, our field hospital, where all
the wounded have to pass.”
Thus speaking the _Herr Stabsarzt_ conducts me into the beautiful and
ancient little Catholic church. I seem to step into the Middle Ages as
I enter this temple, where a hundred years ago Napoleon’s victories
had been proclaimed to rejoicing congregations. The sun is setting and
twilight is descending over France. It is dusk inside, but still light
enough to distinguish the precious stained-glass windows. At the altar
a single lantern is burning, which seems to accentuate the darkness.
The church has been turned into a hospital. It was now occupied by
eighty wounded Germans. The short pews were arranged in pairs facing
one another, forming with backs and seats roomy beds filled with straw.
Each bed thus improvised contained a badly wounded soldier. The benches
did not quite go round, and many of the wounded were lying along
the walls on straw, laid out on the stone floor. Each one had been
provided with a blanket, and the space between the beds was sufficient
for doctors and nurses to move backwards and forwards without
inconvenience. As soon as their condition permitted, the patients were
sent on into Germany to make room for fresh convoys. Only the very
seriously wounded, who could not stand the transport, were allowed to
remain to die in peace or to recover as lifelong cripples.
Up by the altar, by the light of a lantern, several young doctors
were busy round a patient who had just arrived and who was to undergo
an operation. More light was brought. The head surgeon conducted me
from bed to bed and was indefatigable in his information about the
various cases. Quiet reigned inside the church, as its doors were kept
closed, but outside the rattle of wagons and tramping of horses’ hoofs
continued. A wonderful, almost eerie silence reigned inside, one almost
felt the struggle proceeding between life and death. One might have
been in some subterranean crypt with its cold and musty atmosphere.
We could hear the deep breathing of the patients, but there was no
complaining. Now and again a soldier sighed, that was all. To complain
would have been to show inferiority to the others and to disturb their
rest. Most of them were asleep, dead-tired after the trials of the day.
We pass from one to the other and speak in whispers so as not to wake
those who are asleep or disturb the solemn spirit which had descended
over these eighty heroes who had this day gladly given their blood for
their country. Now they are dreaming their last dreams under their Iron
Crosses. Soon many of them will go to their eternal rest under the
little wooden crosses in the churchyard at Romagne. Their hearts, now
beating at fever-rate, will soon rest ice-cold under the soil of France.
Here lies a man who has received a bullet right through the most
delicate region of the abdomen. He is as pale as his tanned and
weather-beaten skin permits and his pulse is terribly weak. But his
eyes are wide open and his glance roams in unknown regions far beyond
this earth. It is certainly not the trench life, which he has just
left, that is reflected in his vacant gaze. What a wonderful contrast!
From the turmoil out there in the fighting line he is already on the
way to eternal rest. It is difficult to give a name to the heartfelt
sorrow which gripped the wanderer from the north before the quiet death
struggle of the nameless soldier. In the midst of all his comrades
he seemed so alone and abandoned. One could not help thinking of his
people at home, still full of hope but who would soon weep bitter
tears. “He won’t live till sunrise, I suppose?” I asked the doctor.
“No, he is growing cold already”--but the memory of the brave does not
grow cold, does not die.
A school-house close to the church had also been requisitioned by the
field hospital, and its rooms, usually filled with French children
learning their _Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité_, are now occupied by
wounded Germans. Here, too, is an atmosphere of deathly torpor and
fatigue. One of the school-rooms has been turned into an operating
theatre. In the field one has to do what one can to make the best of
the resources at hand. A couple of young surgeons, dressed in white
from top to toe, were standing by the side of the leaf of a table
rigged up on high trestles, on which a handsome and fresh-looking
young soldier lay stretched out. He had had both feet shot through,
but was in good spirits nevertheless. “Please don’t slash me about,”
he ordered, with some conviction. A sister of mercy, the only one so
near the front--for usually the organisation in the fighting zone is
purely military--now undid the emergency dressings, which, clotted with
the blood, had become a shapeless mass. It hurt a bit when the clotted
blood was cleaned away and the wound laid bare, but the soldier bit his
lips and made no sound. The left leg was crushed above the ankle and
even the uninitiated could see that it was a very nasty wound. For the
moment there was nothing to be done. His feet were put in splints and
a fresh bandage applied, and he thanked the doctors very heartily for
having been so kind. Soon after he was carried by two attendants to an
empty bed and seemed determined to go to sleep and forget all about it.
“Will he keep his feet?” I asked. “Yes, as regards the one there is no
danger, but the other, the one that has just been bandaged--well, we
shall see in two or three days; of course, I shall do my best, but ...”
and he shook his head. A number of captured wounded Frenchmen had been
accommodated temporarily on beds of straw in a store-room. Here they
were to receive their first attention. At the moment they were busy
eating bread and a nourishing hot soup of rice and vegetables. They had
a fine appetite and seemed to be in good spirits; a couple of them went
as far as joking and laughing at each other’s remarks. To my question
how they were, one replied: “Monsieur, had we always been as well off
as during the last fortnight, we should never have had much cause to
grumble.”
Outside in the street stood a whole row of wounded, both French and
German, who were anxious to get in and receive a little attention.
Fighting was still proceeding and fresh lots were expected during the
hours of the night. There was no rest for the doctors. The Frenchmen
stood in a batch by themselves. I went up to one of them. He had his
entire head enveloped in a bandage so that I could hardly see anything
but eyes and nose. In reply to my question where his bullet had hit
him, he pointed with his left hand to the left side of his cranium
and then to the underside of his lower jaw. I asked my friend the
head surgeon if it was really possible for a man to stand and walk
about and see and hear with a vertical shot right through his head. He
answered that the man had not yet been examined, but that all sorts
of remarkable wounds occurred. The bullets take the queerest paths
through the wretched human body, which is often proof against the most
appalling injuries.
My experienced doctor friend said of the Frenchmen that they were
wonderfully patient. They would stand for any length of time waiting
for care and attention without betraying by word or gesture the
slightest impatience. It may almost be said to be the rule that when
a doctor goes up to one of the Frenchmen to take charge of him, the
wounded man remarks: “There are other men amongst my comrades who are
in greater need of help than I am. I can wait.” Or: “Sir, be good
enough to attend first to that man over there--he is the father of a
family and his wife is in poor circumstances.” I have heard the same
from other German doctors. Here is another reason why the German
Medical Corps treat the French wounded with so much sympathy. I do not
know how many thousands of French soldiers are lying wounded at German
hospitals, but those who survive the complications of their wounds and,
when peace comes, return to their homes, will be as many witnesses in
the service of truth.
Thus charity, in the guise of medical science, follows in the track
of cruel and relentless war. What are all these doctors, assistants,
sick attendants, sisters of mercy, these endless medical trains, but
guardian angels wrestling with the angel of death for the lives of the
wounded? What are the ambulance wagons, the stretchers and the faithful
and intrepid collies, but friends and allies of the poor wounded,
bringing in their harvest on the bloody battlefields? Here is the
atonement which follows war hand in hand, just as the emblem of the Red
Cross combines the colour of blood with the symbol of Christian love.
“Doesn’t the soldier get nervous and terrified at the sight of all
these dead? I should have thought that he would realise that the danger
which he runs is just as great as that of those who have already
fallen?”
“No, he hardly notices the dead bodies. ‘You are dead, you poor devils,
but I am still alive and do not mean to die.’ That is how he reflects.
It is as if the sight of the fallen had steeled him in the face of the
danger. And yet he may sometimes come across the bodies of friends so
swollen that the buttons burst from the uniforms, and with blackened,
grinning features staring up into the sun and rain.”
“But surely the bodies are not left above ground?”
“No, as soon as the firing has died away on the battlefield, the
civil population, or, if it has fled, our own soldiers, must inter
the dead pell-mell in common pits, often without any attempt at a
burial service. This can follow afterwards. The chief thing is that
the dead disappear so as not to give rise to sickness and epidemics by
putrefaction.”
The time was now approaching when I ought to be back at Stenay. I said
good-bye to the head surgeon of the Romagne field hospital and hurried
with Captain Suhlmann into the car, where our seven invalids had been
waiting. Our headlights had now been lit and once more we penetrated
into the maze of the never-ending transport columns. Does night then
bring no rest at all?
At the edge of a ditch we saw two wounded soldiers sitting. They
shouted and gesticulated to us to stop. We asked them what they
wanted. It turned out as usual that they wanted a lift, they had not
the strength to go any further. We pointed out, as they could see for
themselves, that we had no room. Oh, that did not matter. They could
sit on the knees of a couple of others. And they squeezed into the car.
We now had a complement of twelve persons in a car made for six. One
of the new arrivals was quite a character. He began by telling us that
the Crown Prince had shaken hands with him that very day at Romagne
and had asked him how he felt. Later on he told us that he had been in
the storming party at St. André. He had even overheard his Colonel, as
the day of St. André broke, say to the General in Command: “This will
be a bloody day’s work.” And the Chief had answered: “Are you afraid?”
But the Colonel was not afraid. When the time came he led the way and
was immediately shot. The young soldier, on the other hand, had come
through without a scratch. To-day he had been relieved of a couple
of toes, a loss which did not seem to affect his good spirits in the
least. He chatted away almost unconsciously, but he had quite forgotten
how many of his foes had come into contact with his bayonet. The part
he had not liked was when the French shot from trees. It was like
shooting game.
At last we arrived home and the sentries at Madame du Vernier’s iron
gates looked surprised at the curious company I had brought with me.
In the hall I asked a footman to let me see Herr von Behr--for I had
arrived an hour late, but that could not be helped. The Crown Prince
and his suite had finished supper, but remained at table to keep me
company whilst between the mouthfuls I recounted my impressions of this
eventful day.
CHAPTER V
A DAY AT DUN
September 23rd. I had intended leaving the 5th Army that day, but at
our meeting on the previous evening Crown Prince William had been kind
enough to ask if I could not stay one day longer. This hospitality
was the more acceptable, as I wanted to inspect the pretty, but
unfortunately badly damaged little town of Dun on the Meuse.
[Illustration: WRECKED HOUSES AT DUN ON THE BANK OF THE MEUSE]
When, therefore, the Crown Prince, called away by duty, motored that
morning to Romagne, I accompanied Chamberlain von Behr in one of the
Staff cars, and after an early and rapid run to Dun was ceremoniously
handed over to the Commandant of the base there, Lieutenant-Colonel
Betz. The latter was only just up when we entered his quarters at
the Villa Saint Claude, belonging to a M. Thiébaut of Nancy. But he
appeared, big, strong and pleasant, and assured me that I should be
well looked after at Dun. To begin with I kept him company while he
breakfasted, and he gave me an account of how Dun was taken by the
Germans and how by far the greater part of the serious damage to the
houses in the main street was done by French shells. But this belongs
to the general history of the war, and I have pledged myself to speak
of nothing but what I have seen with my own eyes.
A civilian who wanders about a recently conquered town, in which the
invader’s troops are quartered, looking at everything and sketching
this, that and the other, is rightly regarded by sentries and patrols
as a highly suspicious character. He is rigorously watched and tracked;
he will notice that someone is following him like a shadow; finally he
will be arrested and directed with cold military precision to accompany
his captor to the proper examining authority. Little adventures of
this kind might be quite amusing and exciting to me, knowing that they
would always have a happy ending; but I had no time for them, and was
grateful when Lieutenant-Colonel Betz told off a non-commissioned
officer to escort me on my rambles through Dun.
First we crossed to the east side of the Meuse, where the high road
between Montmédy and Verdun runs through a fine avenue. This road joins
on to the main street of Dun, in the northern half of which the backs
of the houses, wrecked by shell fire, are reflected in the river as
ruins and heaps of débris. In the southern part of the same street
the hospital service has requisitioned those buildings that have been
spared by the shells. Here, too, we find a little garden, enclosed by
a fence, which is used as a mortuary, and to which soldiers who have
died in hospital are brought. Four dead men were now lying on a grass
plot in the shade of the trees. They were dressed in their uniforms
and had their caps on. Wrapped in blankets and with a white cloth over
the face, they lay there waiting until there were enough of them to
be lowered in a batch into the big grave that was kept ready in the
churchyard. I went up to them and raised the cloths. The features were
cold and stiff, yet infinitely calm, and bore no trace of the hard fate
and severe suffering the dead had undergone. I stopped in particular
before a soldier who
“seemed to be resting from a game.
His aspect as undaunted as before,
But paler far.”
He was a fine-looking fellow and his face seemed carved in
marble. He lay as in a deep and heavy sleep, with eyes and lips closed,
oblivious alike of the cannon’s roar and of ether fumes, of fatherland
and songs of victory. The soil of France was receiving him in its
embrace, and his relatives would never bring wreaths to his grave.
Nevertheless, as we know, the fallen do not vanish without a trace,
since every soldier wears round his neck a little disc, giving his
regiment and his number. All that remains to be done is to turn up the
roll of his unit to find the dead man’s name and home. In clearing the
battlefield the discs are collected, and with their help the lists of
killed are drawn up.
A steep and narrow road leads up to the crest of the hills that form
the eastern boundary of the Meuse valley. On the very edge of the
slope stands the handsome and noble church of Notre Dame de Bonne
Garde, which dates from the time of the Emperor Charles V. It is
characteristic of this part of France that the churches, even of quite
insignificant places, are veritable pearls from an architectural and
artistic point of view.
The porch is decorated with a little silvered statuette of Joan of
Arc. On entering the nave we find on the left, behind an iron railing,
a group of painted figures, three feet high, representing John the
Baptist baptising Christ. Immediately opposite is a Pieta, on the altar
of which helmets, knapsacks and bayonets form a sharp contrast with
the ecclesiastical objects. But the floor between the railing and the
altar is strewn with straw, and there soldiers have their simple beds.
Notre Dame de Bonne Garde! Under her protection German sentries are now
finding safe quarters.
Inside the rail under the chancel arch which separates the choir from
the nave, the high altar is surrounded by camp mattresses of straw.
Some wooden chairs stand about a table and on the floor arms and
equipment are heaped pell-mell. Where French priests formerly said
mass, foreign soldiers now sit writing field postcards to their homes.
On the arms of a silver candelabra stockings are hung to dry, and from
niches and altarpieces saints and apostles look down with disconsolate
eyes upon rifles and carbines, bayonets, belts and ammunition pouches,
which lie scattered over the seats in the nave. Even the sacristy has
been transformed into a bedroom. The priestly vestments of red velvet
and gold brocade hang untouched in their cupboard, and on the arms of
the chairs outside it hangs the soldier’s modest equipment of small and
well-worn objects, together with a cloak or two, tattered and worn from
the life of the trenches and sooty from the flames of camp-fires. The
sacred vessels are touched by nobody. In the German Army it is strictly
forbidden to commit depredations on the property of the Church, the
State or private persons; and so it was here at Dun.
The havoc of shells, on the other hand, is one of the privileges
of war. Into the lower part of a buttress facing west a shell has
penetrated the brickwork to about a third of its length. It is a
_Blindgänger_, that is, one which has failed to burst on contact. It
seems inadvisable to move a thing of this kind, and it will probably be
allowed to stay where it is as a souvenir of the war. The shell is a
French one, and its object, like that of the others that destroyed Dun,
was to drive the Germans out of the place again or at least to make
the first hours of their occupation as warm as possible. A projectile
has badly damaged another buttress and several grave-crosses in its
neighbourhood. Large blocks of masonry have crushed in their fall
a flat gravestone lying close against the wall of the church. Many
shrapnel holes may be seen round the clock-face on the tower, and a
small house beside the church has been destroyed by two shells.
We went out into the churchyard and turned our steps first to the
railing at the edge of the slope. From here a magnificent view is
displayed. Right under us lies Dun like a little map, and we can
clearly see all the houses that have been ravaged by the French shells.
We also have a bird’s-eye view of the valley of the Meuse, with the
almost deserted road to Verdun on the south, and on the south-west the
road to Romagne and Varennes, filled as usual with whole strings of
transport columns, cavalry and hooting motor-cars.
The graveyard itself offers an affecting sight. A shell has fallen in
the midst of the tombstones, forming a fresh grave, which however did
not expose any of the dead. But now peace reigns among these French
crosses, which are often decorated with wreaths of coloured beads,
expressing sorrow and loss in simple but eloquent words: _Nos Parents,
Regrets, Souvenir_.
To us all these names are unknown. They are modest townsmen of Dun and
peasants from the neighbourhood who are taking their long rest in the
churchyard. But the gravestones are always costly and handsome, and one
can see that even the poor gladly part with their savings in order to
honour the memory of their dear ones in the city of the dead.
How simple, in contrast, are the memorials raised to soldiers who have
died in the hospitals of Dun! Two strips of wood nailed together in
the form of a cross, that is all. There one may read such epitaphs
as the following: _Ein unbekannter Soldat._--_Ein Landwehrmann,
Kanonier._--_1. Comp. I. R. 22._[12] _Ein deutscher Krieger_ ✠ _16/9
1914._--_Zwei Französische Krieger 21/9._ Curiously enough, _deutsch_
is spelt with a small d, but _Französisch_ with a big F; why, I
don’t know--perhaps from some kind of unconscious politeness towards
foreigners. The cross signifying “dead” is carved in the glorious shape
of the Iron Cross. Here, too, is the big grave prepared for those
who are slumbering in the garden down below. By one of the new graves
a dog howls plaintively. Perhaps he is lamenting his master--it is a
very common thing for the German soldiers to adopt for the sake of
company French dogs without a master, who take to them and follow them
faithfully.
[12] No. 1 Company of the 22nd Regiment of Infantry.
[Infanterie-Regiment Keith (1. Oberschlesisches) No. 22, quartered at
Gleiwitz in peace time.]
In a special little chapel at the side of the churchyard are buried the
priests, natives of Dun, who have died there.
We descend by another way, a steep lane between ruined houses. One of
them has been exposed by the fall of the outer wall, and one can see
the interior of a room, the bed standing in its place with blankets and
pillows, while a mirror has fallen down and been smashed to pieces.
Through the dark, gaping holes in the heap of débris surrounding the
house one can see into the kitchen in the basement.
One or two saw-mills and workshops driven by water-wheels had stood
by the side of the river, but now nothing was to be seen but the most
terrible devastation where formerly they had been. Machinery, belts and
wheels lay twisted together into rubbish among charred beams. Close by
were to be seen the remains of a bridge, which crossed the river in two
spans, and which was blown up by the French when they had to evacuate
the place. They also blew up the western span of the three-arched stone
bridge over the Meuse, which carries the high road and the main street.
With great skill and rapidity the German engineers have replaced the
wrecked arch by a wooden bridge.
The railway to Dun has been repaired by the Germans, and the station
showed a scene of animation and traffic which the little town can
scarcely have witnessed before. All the storehouses and baggage-rooms
were literally packed with mountains of provisions, ready-baked loaves,
tinned foods, meat, sacks of flour and oats, and even with wine. These
warehouses had a smell like a grocer’s shop. The supply columns are
loaded at new and old platforms and then go forward to the troops.
I sketched here one of these columns, consisting of requisitioned
farmers’ carts, drawn by horses also requisitioned at the seat of
war, only two to each cart. The long lines of vehicles are brought up
to their loading stations by special roads marked out by placards.
Everything is done rapidly, but in silence and with unfailing accuracy.
When a column is ready, you hear a shout to the horses, a crack of
the whip, and the procession moves forward with creaking wheels on its
way to Romagne. I noticed that--in addition to finger-posts--pickets
have been posted to guide the traffic and prevent dangerous congestion
at cross-roads. This is quite necessary, as column after column is
constantly passing along the main road. Here was one, for instance, the
wagons of which were marked “Fs. A..., III. Btl. (Mrs.) I. MK”--that
is, Foot Artillery Regiment, 3rd (Mortar) Battalion, 1st ammunition
column, and then the number of the wagon in the column. The stores at
Dun supplied amongst others the army corps whose guest I had been the
day before.
In a field quite close to the station was a base slaughterhouse and
cattle depot. Here all the cattle collected from the neighbourhood were
assembled in a space enclosed with posts and barbed wire. A fenced-off
portion was drenched with blood from the slaughter, and here lay
immense piles of ox-hides. One felt certain that these would be turned
to good account. An enclosure for pigs was equally well filled. There
was thus beef and pork in plenty; the troops would not go hungry. The
day’s requirements for 1000 men amount to 2 oxen or 6 pigs or 19 sheep,
of an average weight respectively of 500, 90 and 40 kilogrammes. The
depot is replenished by degrees. In most cases the troops do their own
slaughtering; the animals being taken to the front by the provision
columns.[13] At Dun there was also a field-bakery detachment with its
attendant wagons, ovens and tents, and surrounded by a fragrant odour
of new-baked bread. Each of these detachments is capable of supplying
23,000 rations of bread in twenty-four hours, working uninterruptedly.
[13] During more mobile operations the troops requisition their own
cattle, so far as the local resources allow.
We also visited the courtyard of a private house, where food was served
out to a thousand French prisoners three times a day in separate
batches. A kitchen on a grand scale with gigantic caldrons has been
installed in a shed in the yard. When the hour strikes, the prisoners,
drawn up in single file, have to step up and hold out their bowls to
a cook, who fills each bowl with a single dip of his ladle. He is
incredibly expert and rapid in his movements, and never spills a drop.
Probably the condition of the French prisoners will one day disclose
the fact that they have not been subjected to a starvation diet.
[Illustration: FRENCH PRISONERS AT VOUZIERS WAITING FOR THEIR DINNER]
Here again I sketched a few types: a gilder, an official and a workman,
all from Paris, as well as one of their German guards, a strapping
Landwehr man. I remember I had half finished the portrait of a young
French soldier--of the 113th Infantry Regiment,[14] of aristocratic,
melancholy appearance, when the word of command was given that the
batch that had been served was to be taken to its quarters and the next
lot brought up. At my request, however, my model was allowed to stay
behind. He was a bank clerk from Blois, of a highly _sympathique_ and
amiable nature. Perhaps some day he will remember that sitting at Dun;
I shall not forget him.
[14] The 113th regiment of infantry of the line belongs to the 5th Army
Corps, and is garrisoned at Blois. Parisians as a rule belong to the
4th Army Corps.
[Illustration: BANK CLERK FROM BLOIS. PRISONER AT DUN]
While I was sketching the soldiers from Paris, I had a dense crowd of
onlookers round me, and I threw out to them the following impertinent
question:
“What are you really fighting for?”
“We have absolutely nothing to fight for,” replied one fellow with a
defiant air, and he was seconded with much animation by another man
opposite.
“You have your country to fight for, I suppose?” I went on.
“We _have_ no country,” answered the two malcontents.
I asked a sensible fellow who was standing behind me what sort of
persons they were, and was told: “They are notorious anarchists.”
One may be tolerably certain that they would never have dared to answer
like that on the other side of the firing lines. And if they had done
so, they would have been torn to pieces by their comrades, who, even if
they did not know how and why war had broken out just now, nevertheless
understood that the future of France was at stake, nay, perhaps her
existence as a first-class Power. On the other hand, they were all
agreed in regretting the war, and expressions such as these constantly
recurred: “_Cette malheureuse guerre_--_Cette guerre inutile_--_C’est
terrible_--_C’est très, très malheureux pour tout le monde_.” But even
to this criticism of the war a reservation must be added. For not a
spark of the enthusiasm with which the French soldiers went into the
fire is left after they have been taken prisoners. Their hope has then
vanished and nothing is left but the regret that they can no longer be
of use to their country.
But it was now one o’clock, and I was engaged to dine with Colonel
Betz at the officers’ mess, where a party of a dozen assembled at a
big round table. The mess was installed in a private house, very plain
but well preserved, although a few shots or splinters of shell had
made their way through its walls. Even the piano had been pierced by a
bullet, but its tone was still irreproachable. At this table, again,
the German officers spoke with unmixed respect of the French soldiers
and their commanders. They are equal and worthy opponents, they are
real, fully trained soldiers, not mercenaries who fight for money. They
fight for their lives with skill and with the courage of despair.
After dinner I continued my ramble and visited amongst other places
a hospital, where trained Red Cross sisters were at work. Finally I
halted in the main street and sketched it and the bridge. A sheet was
stretched right across the street, and on it was written, in enormous
letters that nobody could help seeing, a notice that all empty vehicles
returning from the front must be reported at the headquarters of the
officer in command, where they would find out whether there were
any wounded to be transported home. One constantly sees all kinds
of directions, on calico, paper, planks and on whitewashed walls,
to drive carefully, to keep to the right, as well as information of
the distances in kilometres, the names of villages, where different
roads lead, the position of the headquarters and other local offices,
especially that of the hospital, and many things besides. Here, as
in everything else, an exemplary orderliness prevails. Nobody needs
to ask, he has only to follow the painted directions. As regards
finger-posts and milestones, however, the French had done a good deal
in advance; the notices which had to be added concerned the German
lines of communication.
The day was drawing to a close as I walked along the principal street
of Dun with Colonels Betz and Fretzdorff. Fresh bands of French
prisoners--“Red trousers,” as the German soldiers call them--had come
in during the day and were now standing with their guards outside
headquarters, waiting for orders as to their further destination. The
prisoners were patient and calm as usual. Some sat on a bench chatting,
others on the kerbstone; but the majority stood with their hands in
their trouser-pockets, looking at the movement of the Prussians around
them. They had never seen the German Army and its inner life at so
close quarters. While fighting, the combatants see very little of each
other; and now these Frenchmen had the strange sensation of standing
quite close to their enemies without a shot being fired and without
there being any question of slaughter. A couple of squadrons of Uhlans,
armed with lances, sabres and carbines, were just riding past in close
column. Their horses’ hoofs clattered on the stone pavement and the
rattle of their arms and stirrups echoed in the narrow space between
the houses. The prisoners watched the hostile cavalry attentively but
calmly: “They are still in the game; we are out of it,” they appeared
to be thinking, and one would have to have a heart of stone not to feel
great pity for them.
Colonel Betz told me how desperate things became sometimes, just
at this spot, when columns of different kinds met in the street at
night, troops marching through and motor-ambulances with severely
wounded men anxious to get on. It would be all right if there were any
possibility of keeping the street lighted, but the garrison was short
of everything in the shape of illuminants, and a street could not very
well be lighted with beacons. It was paraffin lamps that were wanted at
suitable intervals, and presumably such lamps are now burning at night
in the street of Dun, so that the supply columns no longer need get
blocked and delay each other.
[Illustration: A FOOD COLUMN COMPOSED OF COMMANDEERED FARMERS’ CARTS]
It had been arranged that at about half-past six I should look out for
the Crown Prince and his staff as they passed through Dun on their
way back from Romagne. The time was approaching, and we were on the
watch. The traffic had not decreased at all, rather the reverse. For a
moment it looked like a block, and it would have been a nice thing if
the Crown Prince had arrived just then. We crossed the bridge and were
outside the town, when the aristocratic-looking cars, bearing the mark,
_General Ober Kommando V. Armee_, came tearing along at full speed.
Beside the chauffeur of the first one sat the Crown Prince himself
in a cloak with a high collar. He made a sign to me to get in and I
took my seat behind him. Then he talked for a while to the officers of
the lines of communications, and after that we started. But now the
pace was slow, as we happened to meet an infantry regiment. The men
took hold of their helmets by the spike, raised them aloft and gave a
rousing cheer, as if they were charging a French position. But this
time the cheer was meant for the Commander of the 5th Army and the heir
to the throne, and we drove through a roaring sea of loud hurrahs.
Gradually the ranks thinned out and finally came the stragglers--for
there are footsore men even in the best marching army of all--in small
groups of two or three, but they cheered as wildly as the rest. Last of
all a solitary man stood by the side of the road. He, too, joined in
with all the strength of his lungs. When the Crown Prince had reassumed
his motor goggles and turned up the collar of his cloak he was not
easily recognised, especially by the men of the transport columns we
met, who had their horses to look after. But his Imperial and Royal
Highness turned half round to me and said unassumingly that nothing
pleased him more than to find that he was supported and understood
by the soldiers. He considered it the first duty of a prince to show
himself worthy of the confidence of his whole people, and for his own
part he could not imagine a greater happiness than to occupy such a
position in the minds of the German people.
We reached home in due course and sat down to table. The spirits of the
company were as cheerful and unconstrained as usual, though one would
have expected high-sounding speeches, toasts and cheering. For Varennes
had been taken and news had come of Weddigen’s exploit at sea.[15]
But no speeches were made and there was no cheering at all. The Crown
Prince received the news with the same dignified calm as the others;
he was glad, but not a muscle of his face moved, only his eyes shone
with a moister brightness. The conversation then turned for a while
on the question whether the effect of the submarines on the floating
forts would be as great as that of the 42-cm. howitzers against the
land fortresses. For that matter, subjects of conversation were never
wanting at this table, where the spirit of comradeship was always held
sacred. The imperturbable calmness of the Germans, especially of the
higher ranks, in the face of success aroused my wonder and admiration,
as it had done the day before and as it has often done since. And again
the thought rose within me of the immense moral strength of the German
military power and the conscious will of the German people in its fight
for life.
[15] This refers to the sinking of the _Cressy_, _Aboukir_ and _Hogue_
by torpedoes.--Tr.
Immediately outside Dun, on the north side of the road to Romagne, lies
a solitary grave, covered with wreaths round its cross. In it reposes
a captain, who held out with his little band in the thick of the fire
when the French were shelling their own town, and who fell at last at
his post. His memory lives among the German soldiers at Dun, fresh as
the flowers which are constantly renewed on his grave. And he is only
one among millions. Life is the least they can give to the fatherland.
The virtue of bravery is not a rare one; history has often borne
witness to its existence; but the inflexible fulfilment of duty, which
distinguishes the Germans in their hour of destiny, has few parallels.
Such a nation _cannot_ be conquered.
Dinner had been going on for some time when Professor Widenmann, the
body-physician, came in and took his place. He had been at a hospital,
looking after our friend, Baron von Maltzahn, who had been the victim
of a motor accident in the course of the day. The car, while going at a
terrific pace, had skidded at a corner of the wet road and turned over.
Von Maltzahn lay underneath and had the whole weight of the car on his
chest. He had a couple of ribs broken, a broken leg, concussion of the
brain and general shock. His condition was rather alarming, but the
professor had good hopes of his recovery.
That professor is a man one would never forget. We took to each other,
more especially as he had travelled all over the world. He had seen a
great deal of Africa, and had been very near the summit of Kilima Njaro
when he was forced to turn back by wind and weather. We had mutual
friends far and near, and long after the others had gone to their rooms
we sat up chatting--on that evening, which was my last with the German
Crown Prince, the Crown Prince of Prussia.
On the following day, September 24, we made a very early breakfast,
after which the cars of the Chief Command of the Army again drove up to
the château. I thanked his Imperial and Royal Highness the Crown Prince
with all my heart for the great hospitality which had been shown me and
for all the memorable things I had had the opportunity of seeing while
with his proud army. After a vigorous shake of the hand and a friendly
_Auf Wiedersehen!_ the energetic young Imperial Prince got into his car
and went off to his duty.
[Illustration: ROAD ACROSS BRIDGE AT DUN]
[Illustration: LANDWEHR SOLDIER, GAOLER AT DUN]
As for myself, I was not to leave till twelve o’clock, as there was
no convenient car going direct to Main Headquarters before then.
Sitting by myself in Madame du Vernier’s château was far too slow, and
I preferred a walk to the great base hospital, where the chief staff
surgeon, Professor Sick of Leipzig, showed and explained everything to
me in the most obliging way. We went from ward to ward and spoke to
many of the patients, both German and French. The largest ward had room
for forty beds. Over the head of each was a paper giving the wounded
man’s number, name and regiment. On a folding table by the side of
the bed stood a number of medicines and a glass of water, and in many
cases a little Bible, some field postcards and portraits of relations
at home. There was also a chart showing the wounded man’s temperature
from day to day. Wards, beds and everything were excellent, which was
not to be wondered at, since the building was a hospital in peace time.
My visit concerned in particular my friend Baron von Maltzahn, who lay
wrapped and bandaged in an officers’ ward. His condition was better
to-day, and I was able to sit chatting with him for a good while. He
agreed with me that it was a stupid thing to choose a motor accident,
when there were so many other ways of getting killed in war. Not till
several weeks later was von Maltzahn sufficiently recovered to be
able to stand the journey to his home; but as late as the middle of
November, when I saw him again in Berlin, he was still limping and had
to use a stick.
I then said good-bye to Madame Desserrey and her charming daughter, and
made a hasty portrait of Mademoiselle Blanche, which, however, by no
means did her justice. After the conclusion of peace I was to write and
remind her of the hours we had spent together during the war.
To conclude with a trifling anecdote: I was standing in the road in
front of the château, making a hurried sketch of it. Then up came a
sentry and addressed me in a rough tone:
“It is forbidden to draw the Crown Prince’s quarters!”
“O-oh?”
“Give me your sketch-book.”
“Here you are.”
“If you have no permit I shall turn you away.”
“You can’t turn away the Crown Prince’s guests.”
“Anybody can say that. Where is your identification?”
I then handed him my _Ausweis_, signed “von Moltke,” Chief of the
General Staff. He took the paper, read it and gave it back, stood to
attention, saluted and begged my pardon. Whereupon I assured him that
he had only done his duty, which was always refreshing and pleasant to
see.
[Illustration: THE CROWN PRINCE’S HEADQUARTERS AT STENAY]
CHAPTER VI
BACK AT MAIN HEADQUARTERS
It is twelve o’clock and in the yard stands a covered car with
chauffeur and N.C.O., fat and jolly looking. It comes from Cologne and
has been to take out _Liebesgaben_ to the soldiers at the front. In
token hereof it carries on its dash-board the green and white flag of
the Rhine Province and the red and white flag of the City of Cologne. I
take leave of the château personnel and drive away from Stenay just as
two German airmen ascend in humming spirals into the brilliant bright
blue sky to reconnoitre the French positions. The little city gate with
its arched tunnel disappears behind us and once more we are spinning
along the road, which has now recovered from the rain to such an extent
that we actually leave a trail of dust behind us.
Now begin the old familiar scenes, these incredible masses of marching
troops, supply columns--here made up chiefly of requisitioned vehicles
on the way to the intermediate base or the fighting line--and
motor-driven ambulance trains with the badly wounded, travelling in
our direction soon to return to fetch fresh patients for the hospitals
on the lines of communication. Presently we catch up to and pass a
convoy of several hundred French prisoners marching three abreast with
a German soldier for every twentieth or thirtieth man. The prisoners
include a captain, who marches dejectedly with bent head after the
heavy blow which fate has dealt him and his men.
[Illustration: A SERVICE WAGON AT STENAY]
Here is the village of Chauvency, and we pass under the arch of its
railway bridge, where the sentry orders us to halt. A supply column of
tremendous length is just on the point of crossing by the temporary
bridge over La Chiers, resting on the almost dry river-bed close to
the permanent bridge which had been blown up by the French. Between
the trees on the other bank we catch sight now and again of fresh
strings of wagons with their hooped canvas awnings, the white and
yellow showing up vividly against the verdant background. Presently
they come out on to the bridge, swing up under the archway and pursue
their creaking progress westward. On one of the vehicles I catch sight
of the lettering “_V. A. C. Etappe Fuhrp. Col. 4 Wagen 48_” (5th Army
Corps, 4th Transport column, Wagon No. 48)--but this was by no means
the last wagon of the column. It took them a long while to get across,
the more so as the notice _Ganz langsam fahren_ (Proceed very slowly)
was posted in large letters at each end of the bridge. At length the
bridge was clear, but we had to look sharp so as to get well on to it
before the next column, the creaking of which was already audible from
among the trees, had time to arrive. Once we were out on the bridge we
could safely obey the notice to drive very slowly, for whilst we were
on it no one else had the right to use it.
Soon after we pass a column which has decided to bivouac in a meadow,
and presently we see a railway train loaded with Guards troops. At a
curve in the line a body of railway engineers are at work. We pause a
moment whilst my friend the N.C.O. distributes two boxes of cigars and
fifty tins of preserves, the last that he had left of his “love gifts”
from Cologne. As we moved away, blue rings were already rising in the
air from the happy smokers. Nearly all the houses in the little town
of Montmédy have been turned into hospitals, but on a naked piece of
wall, all that is left of a wrecked house, some waggish soldier has
chalked up the words “first-class waiting-room.” Another house had had
the misfortune to stand in the way of the new railway built by the
Germans, who had adopted the simple expedient of passing right through
it. A train-load of Bavarian troops has just passed by and is followed
by another full of Saxon Landwehr and engineers belonging to different
regiments. It is not enough for the roads to convey gigantic columns to
the front--the railways, too, are continually pouring fresh floods of
human beings into the fighting zone.
In the market-place of Montmédy we pause a while to fill our petrol
tanks. Here we find long strings of cars, most of them Red Cross
ambulance wagons, loaded to the roof with medical stores and dressing
requisites. Some Catholic sisters are seen to cross the square,
attired in dark brown with girdles round their waists, black and white
head-dress and wearing crosses suspended by chains round their necks.
I take them to belong to the Franciscan Order. The wind sighs sadly in
the tops of the leafy chestnut trees. Now and again a police patrol
comes riding by.
Once more we drive through Marville, the pretty village with its
curious amphitheatrical aspect and red-tiled houses, and its church
which rears its tower above them. The fields round about are peopled
with bivouacking troops and transport trains. The harvesting machines
stand abandoned in the fields, where the German soldiers have brought
in the autumn crops. Here and there, however, the corn has been left
out to dry after the recent rains.
Although Longuyon has suffered far more from the war, there seem to be
more inhabitants left than at Stenay, where only a couple of houses
have been damaged by fire. I stood for a moment in the main street to
sketch the devastation, the naked walls with their crazy chimneys, the
crumpled gutters and broken telephone wires, and the piles of wrecked
masonry.
[Illustration: STREET IN LONGUYON]
By the roadside are a few soldiers’ graves with crosses of untrimmed
branches cut from the nearest tree. Next we come to Tellancourt, a
terribly battered village in which only a few inhabitants remain, most
of them women and children--and cats. Yet a priest comes walking along
in his round hat and long black cassock, and behind him some twenty
boys--possibly a reorganised school.
A little further on I make a hasty sketch of the remains of a piece
of ordnance from St. Étienne, which has been shot to pieces. Several
unused shells are still lying in the ammunition box by the side of
the gun, and a cross shows that one of the gunners has fallen at his
post. Wreckage of the war is everywhere to be seen. Broken rifles, torn
knapsacks, scraps of uniforms and helmets--a whole open-air museum.
Near by, some French peasants are ploughing their field with two
ploughs and four horses.
On the way out I had not had time to visit Longwy, the upper portion
of which, within the Vauban fort, has suffered dreadfully through the
war, whilst the manufacturing portion of the town down in the valley of
the La Chiers has remained undamaged. This time we drove over the two
moats up to the picturesquely ornamented gate with its Vauban memorial,
over which the German flag was flying. I showed my pass to the sentry
at the gate. The galleries are also guarded by sentries. The guard has
settled down in a casemate in the counterscarp. Large placards still
remained posted on the walls here and there, such as: _Armée de Terre
et Armée de Mer_. Or again under two crossed tricolors: _Ordre de
Mobilisation Générale_, with all particulars, and finally a notice that
Sunday, the 2nd August, 1914, was the first day of mobilisation. It is
really horrible to read this order, which was destined to cause rivers
of France’s noblest blood to flow, to ruin all her northern provinces,
and reduce the little town inside the fortifications to a mass of
wreckage.
From the gates the main street runs through the town of Longwy. In the
part we first come to, a number of French workmen are busy emptying
the powder out of French hand grenades to render them harmless. No
earthquake could have destroyed this street throughout its length more
completely than the shells have done. There is not a single house
left standing. When the attacking artillery began to bombard Longwy,
the inhabitants were ordered to leave the place, and most of them
went away. Some, however, preferred to remain, and of them some sixty
were buried under the ruins, among them several women. I stopped at
the church and walked in. The scene there is one of indescribable
devastation. The arches over the aisles had fallen in completely, and
elsewhere the shells had made tremendous gaps, the hail of splinters
having struck the pillars and cut great scars into them. The force of
the explosions had broken practically all the stained-glass windows.
All that remained here and there was the lead setting. The pulpit,
from which the truths of Christianity had so often been expounded, had
curiously enough been spared, and had the priest stood there and read
the Mass during the bombardment--as did the Greek patriarch when the
Turks stormed into the Hagia Sofia--not a hair of his head would have
been touched, and a miracle would doubtless have been proclaimed. The
sanctity of the altar, however, had not been proof against the shells,
for the floor of the choir was strewn with fragments and débris,
covered in turn with a thick layer of limestone dust. The centre
aisle was impassable, for the organ with its flattened pipes and the
galleries with their benches and rails had been shot down and formed
an incredible confusion of débris and rubbish. Heaps of plaster and
fragments of ornaments, _prie-dieux_ and other church furniture were
piled on the floor, all mutilated beyond recognition.
The lower part of the massive temple walls had more or less been
spared, together with their oblong panels, in high-relief, illustrating
the passion of our Lord. I stood in front of one which is quite
undamaged, and under which I read the words: _Jésus tombe pour la
deuxième fois_. The face of the Redeemer expresses infinite anguish as
He totters under the weight of the cross and the sins of man.
Oh, vanity of vanities! Everything seems vain and futile. On a stone
tablet I read the following well-preserved inscription: _Hanc ecclesiam
Ludovici XIV jussu et pecunia procurante_ Vauban _erectam primar.
benedixit lapidem 22 martii 1683_ ... etc. Now the organ notes are
silenced and no words of spiritual comfort fall from the pulpit. The
wind sighs through the bared arches and seems plaintively to echo the
frailty of human purpose.
Outside the church the scene is one of equal desolation. There lies the
skeleton of what was once a motor-car and the remnants of a bicycle
amid the wreckage of accoutrements and uniforms, buckled soup-plates of
tin, sword sheaths, rifle stocks and barrels, children’s toys, colour
boxes and Noah’s Arks, water pipes, balcony rails and grilles, chairs
and tables all entangled in an inextricable confusion of stone, brick
and dust. Pompeii could not have been so utterly destroyed as this
town, and my old Lou-lan in the heart of the desert, where the angel
of destruction has reaped his harvest for so many centuries, looked
less forlorn and desolate than the fortified town of Longwy after a few
days’ bombardment.
I walk along through the alleys and look round. The silence is
ghostlike, except for occasional creaking in walls and joints and the
sound of chips of stone falling to the ground. The wind is moaning
among the roofless houses, and the gutter pipes, detached from their
fastenings, hang nodding into space. Here and there the name of the
street is still discernible at the corner, such as Rue des Écoles, or
Rue Stanislas. Postcards, frayed and worn away by sun and rain, are
lying about amongst the rubbish. I take one up and read the address:
_Monsieur Crombez, Subsistant au 164 de Ligne,[16] Longwy-haut_. The
text is as follows: “Le Mans, 22nd August. Dear Comrade, I have
arrived safely at Mans, and have sent my certificate direct to the
chief. I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of seeing you again.
H....” Has this Crombez, I wonder, ever received the greeting of his
comrade and been able to enjoy the pretty picture of the landscape
where the tranquil waters of the Huisne and Sarthe flow together? Or
has his name gone to make up the list of dead or of those who are
missing, never to be found?
[16] A battalion of the 164th regiment of infantry was garrisoned at
Longwy in peace time.
The little square in front of the church is planted with trees. Many
of them have been cut down and lie piled into logs for fuel, and the
leaves are yellow and shrivelled. In a line with the church and looking
on to this open space, stands the riddled and shapeless frontage of
a house over whose portals I fancy I can read the words _Hôtel de
Ville_, and the year 1731. Its entrance hall, leading to the _Bureau de
Police_, is one big rubbish heap of rags, broken furniture and paper.
The archives of the police station lie scattered about. Here we find
the whole edition of a little pamphlet: _Traité pour l’Éclairage au
Gaz de la Ville de Longwy du 9 Janvier 1912 au 23 Décembre 1961_, that
is to say, covering a period of fifty years. They little thought in
printing it that the gas would go out in 1914. I hear a rustling sound
among the scraps of paper as the wind passes through the bleak ruins.
The lower part of the town, at the other end, reveals no other signs
of war than the none too numerous German uniforms. The German soldiers
wander calmly through the streets of the conquered town, in the central
parts of which the civil population is quite well represented.
A moment later we are driving over the frontier into Luxemburg, and as
the sun sets gorgeously we reach the little Grand-Ducal capital, where
once more I take up my quarters at the _Hotel Staar_. That very evening
I had the good fortune to meet Prince Waldemar of Prussia, Admiral von
Müller and Major Nicolai of the General Staff. The Chief of the General
Staff, von Moltke, was absent from the town.
As regards my immediate plans, I decided to proceed on the following
morning, the 26th September, at 9 a.m. by a Landsturm train to Sedan,
partly in order to see what sort of accommodation the troops had on the
railways. The rest of the day was taken up by various tasks. My purse
needed replenishing and accordingly I withdrew a thousand marks on the
strength of my Swedish letter of credit. The payment was made less
½ per cent, which after all was not to be wondered at in war time. I
was glad enough to get any money at all. The great hall of the Banque
Internationale looked empty and deserted.
I had not brought a camera from Stockholm, as I had assumed that I
should never be allowed to use it. But at the 5th Army I was told that
it was not so very serious a matter--provided I kept within certain
bounds and tolerated a certain amount of supervision. I was now
fortunate enough to obtain at Luxemburg from a German photographer a
perfectly new and excellent Eastman Kodak, thanks to which I have been
able to adorn this book with pictures of my own selection.
Through Chamberlain Baron von Reischach I was once more honoured with
an invitation to dine at the Emperor’s table at one o’clock. Those
present, apart from the Chamberlain, included Herren von Plessen,
von Gontard and von Busch, the latter being the German Minister at
Luxemburg, also the Emperor’s Field Chaplain and a couple of adjutants.
In the forenoon news had been received of the illness of Prince Oskar.
He had contracted some sort of heart complaint through over-exertion.
I expected therefore to find the Emperor a bit depressed, but there
was no sign of it. He walked in with youthful and military bearing,
honoured me once more with a hearty handshake and bade me welcome
back from the 5th Army. Thereupon he took a letter out of his pocket
and asked me to read it through carefully. Whilst His Majesty was
talking to his suite, I read the letter. It was addressed to the
Emperor personally and was written by a sergeant who had been at Prince
Joachim’s side when he was wounded. Now the sergeant wanted to tell
his august master how gallantly the Prince had borne himself and what
an example he had been to the soldiers. The letter was simply and
ingenuously written and showed how deep and strong is the loyalty which
binds the German Army to its supreme Chief and Emperor. The loyalty and
unity between Emperor and people, between Commander and Army, form the
firm and immovable rock on which the German Empire has been built up.
When the Emperor turned to me again and asked what I thought of the
letter, I merely answered: “It must be a pleasure to your Majesty to
receive such messages from the rank and file.”
“Yes,” he replied. “There is nothing that gives me so much pleasure as
these proofs of the faithful loyalty of my people and the close bonds
which bind me to my entire army. Such a letter as this I treasure
amongst my most valued possessions.”
Then we talked about Prince Oskar’s illness, and whilst on this topic
the Emperor said: “So you see, now Hohenzollern blood, too, has flowed.
I have six sons and a nephew with me in the war and among the many
German Princes who are fighting at the front several have already given
their lives for Germany’s sake.”
The rest of the conversation was about my experiences with the 5th Army
and the wonderful incidents of war.
In the afternoon the great flag of the Red Cross tempted me to visit
the Convent of St. Zita, where the sisters are Carmelite nuns of the
second and third degrees. Amongst them are some of the very strictest
order.
The day was brought to an end with supper at the quarters of the
Imperial Chancellor, von Bethmann Hollweg, to which several charming
and eminent gentlemen of his entourage had also been invited.
CHAPTER VII
TO SEDAN
September 26th. I had been told that if I were at the railway station
just before 9 a.m. I could go by the train which was to carry the
Weimar Landsturm Battalion to Charleville. I arrived in time, but only
to be informed that an alteration had been made in the train time-table
and that this battalion would not leave until later, but that an
ammunition train for Sedan, of about twenty-two “N” wagons, covered
in with tarpaulins, was on the point of starting; if I liked to go by
that, a first-class compartment would be placed at my disposal. A few
passenger coaches were attached to the train, and I seated myself in
one of these. My future travelling companions were the ten or twelve
_Ersatz_ Reservists, belonging to an Ammunition Park Depot established
in Mayence, who were in charge of the train. The latter had been on
the road for eight days and the men had slept eight nights on the
train. Our carriage had strayed here from the north-eastern regions of
Germany, as appeared from its mark: “Prussian-Hessian State Railways,
North-East.” On the wall of my compartment there was a little map of
the railway line from Berlin to Memel.
I had been advised by a friendly soul at the _Hotel Staar_ to take with
me a supply of provisions, as it was more than doubtful whether any
eatables could be found on the way. Four substantial cheese and ham
sandwiches, three eggs and two bottles of mineral water had therefore
been stowed away amongst my luggage in the compartment.
And so we started. We glided smoothly out of Luxemburg Station, and
passed a train shunted into a siding and crowded with soldiers who sat
and talked and laughed and seemed to be in the best of spirits. The
town disappears behind us. We are out in the open country. We pass
by flourishing villages, farms and woods, meadows and pasture lands
with grazing cattle, fields with ploughs at work, country roads and
metalled high roads lined by two long rows of trees vanishing in the
distance. In the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg one sees no houses wrecked by
shells, no people rendered homeless. It is true that the billeting of
German troops has caused some inconvenience, but the inhabitants have
received full compensation for all that has been taken.
On the roads one sees no marching troops, no toiling columns. And
why--so near to the front? It is because, as far as the railways are
worked in conjunction with the German railway system, they carry out
almost the whole of the transport. It is only when railway traffic
comes to a stop that recourse must be had to lines of communication
by road. Hence the country on both sides of the railway looks quite
flourishing, often idyllic. The only thing that reminds us of war are
the sights which meet us at the railway stations, and the guards posted
along the line. These guards are frequently stationed at such short
intervals as to be actually in sight of each other. German railway
corps troops are responsible for the traffic. The Landsturm attends to
the guarding of the line. There you may see men of over forty, clothed
in the dark-blue tunic with red collar and light-blue shoulder-straps,
black trousers with a narrow red stripe, and peakless blue caps with
red band. All are armed with rifles. It is especially at bridges and
other important points of the line that one is sure to see these
loyal trusty fellows, pacing to and fro,--just as they are doing in
every other part of the German Empire. They are always there, always
vigilant. _Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein...._
Our route takes us _via_ Mamer and Kapellen. The country is rather
flat; gently undulating, sunlit fields extend in every direction.
Between two stations the train pulls up--we wonder why. At last we see
a long train of empty carriages, nothing but goods-trucks, running up
by our side on the up line. There does not seem to be a soul in it and
one can hear how empty it is by its hollow ring as it rumbles by. It
has carried a body of fresh troops as a reinforcement for one of the
armies, and is now hurrying back through Luxemburg to fetch another.
When the train has passed by, we run on to Kleinbettingen, where not
a single civilian is to be seen, only some twenty of the usual trusty
blue Landsturm men.
Sterpenich! So we are now on Belgian soil. There is no change in the
landscape. Here, too, German soldiers are on guard, and here and there,
as in Luxemburg, a field is being ploughed. But one is not reminded by
customs officers that one is entering another country as in peace time;
war breaks down all barriers.
We stop for a while in Arlon. We feel tempted to take a stroll through
the town, but as I did not consider my ammunition train dependable, I
contented myself with having a peep at the church with its grey tower
and louvre-turret, and looking at the handsome station building. To the
south-west, the dull but distinct thunder of guns was audible, but my
fellow-travellers could not say whether it came from Verdun or from the
Argonne. The distance would be some sixty kilometres or over.
Meanwhile the train moves on at normal speed, but soon repents this
effort and runs dead slow as if the murderous load which it is
carrying, in the shape of heavy projectiles, will not bear shaking.
We are now running on a high embankment and cross a country road by
an arched stone bridge. At its foot a solitary sentry, alone with his
rifle, looks up at us as we pass.
Here is a village wrecked by shells and burnt. All that is left
standing is some bare walls staring at us from between the trees.
Part of an avenue has been cut down, as also the trees on the fringe
of woods near the railway. At first I thought this had been done to
facilitate watching the line and preventing attempts at wrecking it.
But further on we found the felled trees stacked in piles, and a goods
train on a siding, loaded with hewn timber, suggested that the wood was
to be used for sleepers. Large notice-boards _Langsam fahren!_ (slacken
speed) mark the spots where the straight line changes into sharp curves
and where the German engine-drivers have not yet become familiar with
the ground. Traffic is not particularly brisk, and one does not pass
many trains on this line, though it is a double track.
Lavaux, Cousteumont and Hamipré are small stations. The soldiers of
the guard-pickets are sitting peacefully on the platforms smoking and
reading the latest newspapers that have come through. Longlier and
Neufchâteau are larger stations, where some wrecked houses are to be
seen from the carriage window. This is a memento of the fights of a
month ago, when the Army of Duke Albrecht of Württemberg beat back the
opposing forces. We run into Libramont station alongside a huge troop
train which, like ours, is bound for Sedan. All carriages are decorated
with green branches, as if on the way to a midsummer fête. Sentences
chalked on the sides of the carriages testify to the high spirits of
the passengers:--“To dinner in Paris,--now waiting”; “Every shot a
Russian,--every thrust a Frenchman,--the Serbs must die,”--and such
like jokes. Amidst the jovial song and merry talk of the soldiers the
train then rolls away to an unknown fate.
After an hour’s halt it is our turn to follow in its track. We run
through fields in which fragrant stacks of oats are standing in rows
like soldiers. A road-bridge of stonework crossing the line has been
blown up by the enemy before they retired, clearly in order to block
the railway line passing beneath. The Engineers are now busy repairing
it. Otherwise there are not many traces of warfare to be seen from the
railway in Belgian Luxemburg.
From Libramont our course lies to the south-west. At a small station
we stop once more immediately abreast of a troop train, and glide
slowly past it. It consists of third-class carriages, the interiors
of which are exposed to our view, one by one, through the open doors.
On every imaginable projection the soldiers have suspended their
knapsacks, rifles, tunics and cartridge belts, all in picturesque and
almost impressive disorder. Some are lying stretched full length on
the seats, with their noses in the air, fast asleep; others sit with
crossed legs, smoking, chatting or looking out on the scene outside.
Officers and non-commissioned officers occupy the first and second
class compartments. They are cavalry. The train also comprises “H.Gr.”
carriages filled with horses. There are eight in each carriage, four
on each side, with their heads turned towards each other and they
are separated from the central doorway, with sliding doors, by bars
suspended on short chains. The halters are fastened to the bars.
Between the bars--that is in the middle of the carriage--is a table on
trestles, and two benches. On these some men are seated at their midday
meal--cold coffee and savoury sausage sandwiches.
Bertrix! Another stop of one hour. Through the window one overhears
involuntarily a few scraps of the soldiers’ conversation. “Have you
heard that the Belgians are said to have a secret wireless station near
Arlon, which it is impossible to lay hands on?”--“That was a neat
piece of work of Weddigen’s.”[17]--“But the losses on land are far
greater than at sea--a submarine means twenty men, but a bayonet charge
on land ten or a hundred times as many.”--“Is it true that Rheims has
been taken?”--“It is said that the right wing has fallen back a good
way.”--What rumours one hears in the rear of the fighting line!
[17] See footnote to p. 113.
The station-master of Bertrix comes up to my compartment and engages
me in conversation. He tells me that the stone bridge which we have
just passed was destroyed by the Belgians on the 19th of August during
the fierce engagements which were fought in this region. “But we
railwaymen,” he confessed, “had to sit tight and listen to the guns
in the distance. We cannot go into the firing line and fight with the
rest.”--“Yes, but your work is just as important, after all! How would
the fighting troops fare, as to supplies and reserves, if the railway
traffic were not kept going?”--“That is true, but at any rate it is
terribly trying to one’s patience.”
He further told me that from Bertrix, for thirty-six kilometres
onwards, the railway had been continued by German railway troops to
establish connection with the French railway system. All blasting
work, cuttings and embankments had been almost finished when the war
broke out, but the line in question was not to open for traffic until
1916, as probably a war before then, in these regions, had not been
thought of. The new line is a single track and is of the type of a
“field-railway.” Its section is narrow and will not bear too heavy a
load. Its traffic capacity would therefore necessarily be very small.
This was the reason for our long stop at Bertrix.
At last the train which had been holding up the line arrives and we can
go on. To the south-east a boundless view opens towards far-off regions
wreathed in a dim blue haze, where, beyond the boundaries of Belgian
Luxemburg, Montmédy and Longuyon are situated. One feels glad to see
the oat stacks in the fields; many mouths will need feeding here during
the coming winter. And for the same reason I was glad to observe the
well-fed cattle, of which I caught a glimpse in copses and pastures.
“Have you any recent newspapers?” This from the Landsturm sentries and
railway workers as our train slowly rolls by. “I have already given
away those I had,” I answer. But as I lift up a coat I discover yet
another copy of the _Treves Gazette_, and next time I see a group
of soldiers I throw it out and observe how eagerly they devour the
news--one of them reading aloud and the others listening.
Here stands a curious-looking train, belonging to some fatigue party
or railway corps. Some of the carriages have been fitted up as repair
workshops, with carpenter’s benches and grindstones, and saws, chisels,
axes and hammers are lying about. Other carriages are crammed with
bicycles, wheelbarrows, spades, crow-bars, hatchets, pickaxes and other
tools--entrenching tools, such as used by the sappers.
As we issue from a long tunnel, a beautiful landscape presents itself
to our view--more hilly than before. Below us several high roads
meet, in a vale clad with verdant trees. Towards the nearest road the
embankment slopes down steeply. Near by is a guard-hut, with a small
detachment of Landsturm men close by, resting from their labours and
waiting for their comrades to come out on the line to relieve them. A
number of grey-clothed workers with spades on their backs come up to
the railway line. “Any newspapers left?” asks one. “All gone,” I reply.
“That is very unfortunate,” he answers, without looking up. Had I only
anticipated such avidity for news, I should have bought up the whole
edition of the Luxemburg German newspaper. At a small halting-place we
see some forty blue and grey soldiers near their piled rifles. Is there
no end of all these men in arms? To think of the numbers which the
railways alone absorb!
The sun is setting; it is nearly six. After we have passed another
tunnel, the panorama of the meandering water-course of the Semois
unfolds itself in the valley beneath us. More groups of railway workers
returning to their billets. “You have twenty kilometres to the French
frontier,” one of them informs me, and another points to a wrecked
village on the slope of a hill. We are told that whole piles of corpses
lie buried there.
The sun has now set, but there is still sufficient light to enable us
to see, from a high bridge across the Semois, the main road, deep down
below to the right of us, crossing the river on a handsome stone bridge
with three spans. The banks are thickly covered with foliage, and we
pass through a dusky belt of trees.
The twilight deepens and the shades of night begin to fall. It is
a pity to be robbed of the view over this beautiful country. The line
winds in manifold curves, now rising, now descending.
[Illustration: WOODED HEIGHT BETWEEN SEDAN AND DONCHERY]
On we travel, desperately slow; the train groans and the timbers of the
carriages creak under the burden of their load. Ahead of us appears
another tunnel. At its entrance a little hut has been erected, where
a patrol of Landsturm soldiers are just engaged in preparing their
supper. We are travelling very slowly and are able to exchange a few
words with the blue-clad men. Slowly and steadily we glide into the
dark mouth of the tunnel. The engine pants and snorts, the tunnel
is filled with smoke, and we quickly close the windows. We advance
more slowly still, and the steam makes a horrible roar in front.
Now the engine breaks down, and we come to a standstill! One of my
fellow-travellers comes into the pitch-dark compartment, carrying a
little lamp, which makes us feel more cheerful. The smoke becomes
thicker and fills the compartment--if this goes on much longer we shall
be asphyxiated. I open the window for a moment and peep out--nothing
but darkness and smoke! But through the cloud one can see the sparks
flying from the engine, which seems to be gathering strength. This
train is loaded with powder and shot, and if it should explode just
here in the tunnel--well, the railway corps will have their work cut
out!
The engine gives another snort, making the walls of the tunnel re-echo.
We begin to move again. A light appears ahead--probably the mouth of
the tunnel. But no, it is only a lantern dimmed by the smoke. A little
later it is the reflection of the engine-fire that looks like the
dawning of daylight. Will this eternal tunnel never end? We have been
in it for more than half an hour, when at last it gets clearer and we
can breathe fresh air again. But there is now little daylight left; the
dusk obliterates the outlines of the landscape and the moon, yellow and
mocking, floats over the troubled earth.
By about eight the satellite has whitened, and is perched in the
tree-tops. It is clear and cold. How easy it would be for snipers to
send their bullets from some lurking-place in the woods through the
faintly lighted windows of the train! But no shots echo through the
night; all is hushed and silent outside. There is nothing to remind one
of war--one travels as in times of profoundest peace.
We have left behind to the west of us Bouillon, once the dukedom of
Godfrey the Crusader, and are now at Messempré-Messincourt, the first
station on the French side. One of my fellow-travellers has met an
acquaintance from Darmstadt, and gives him messages for his home just
as the train moves out into the darkness. A sheaf of flame issues from
the funnel of the engine, tinging the steam red. Probably the fire and
the powder on board are used to each other by now, after having kept
company for a whole week. Over the flat French meadows floats a film
like the whitest hoar-frost, but it is only a very thin stratum of
mist, lit up by the moon....
About midnight I fell asleep for the rest of the journey, and at 3
o’clock on Sunday morning, the 27th of September, I was awakened by
one of my fellow-passengers who told me that we were in Sedan. We had
been travelling for eighteen hours. The Commandant of the station,
Major von Plato, is already up at this early hour, cheerful and
sprightly; he receives me with a hearty welcome and places a room in
the station building at my disposal. But before I take possession of my
new quarters I must have a cup of tea with the Major and a few other
officers, as wide-awake and lively as he. Our early breakfast is served
in a strange-looking dining-room belonging to the commissariat station
established here, where sixteen lady volunteers provide for up to four
thousand wounded daily. In their kitchen huge caldrons are always
boiling, filled with nourishing soup. Immediately after the occupation
of Sedan, a wooden shed was erected in two days in the station yard,
where troops and wounded passing through are now fed at long tables.
This morning, too, several seats were occupied, whilst outside a
detachment of Landwehr were waiting for their morning coffee and roll.
Each man was also to receive dry rations for the day--bread and ham--to
take with him on his journey to the front. All were merry and cheerful,
no one would guess that these men would shortly stand in the fighting
line, to conquer or to die. It was said that, on an average, five
thousand men a day had been passing through Sedan, on their way south,
during the last five weeks. Meat and vegetables for the maintenance of
these troops are supplied by the Sedan “Line of Communication Depot
Commandant’s District,”--a French district the boundaries of which
have been defined within the sphere of the Chief Command of one of the
German Armies. The provisions are supplied, on requisition, by the
French local civil authorities,--such is the custom in war time. The
invader lives on the invaded. It will be readily seen how advantageous
it is to be able to carry on warfare beyond one’s own frontiers. Woe to
the vanquished! The invaded country must feed, not only its own army,
but also that of the invader. As long as grain was to be had, it was
simply requisitioned, but now, towards the end of September, flour had
been procured from Germany to supply the requirements of the troops. In
the coffee kitchen a dozen large caldrons were bubbling away, and an
old Frenchwoman, garrulous but cheerful, was busying herself among them.
The room which was now to be mine had been set apart for Major von
Plato and his Adjutant. They were to use it in turn to rest in, but
they had never had occasion to do so, as they were working day and
night and only snatched a short rest, often without undressing, in the
refreshment-room of the station, which did duty as Station Commandant’s
Office. The detachment told off for guarding the railway station had
its quarters in the third-class dining-room. The men were lying on the
floor, and were just about to get ready for the morning roll-call.
Our round also brought us to the waiting-rooms and store-room, where
the Base Hospital wards had been established. In one of them none but
badly wounded French soldiers were lying, nursed by the Red Cross
staff. One ward contained Germans awaiting the day when they could bear
being conveyed eastward. I was once more impressed with the importance
of being able, even in an intermediate base, to clear the hospital
wards immediately. A notice had just been received that a train with
wounded was on its way to Sedan, and that five hundred ambulance
carriages had been requisitioned by the Commander of the Army--which
suggested fierce fighting and bloody engagements. When the train
arrived, there was much bustle on the platforms. The sisters of mercy
and volunteer civilian workers hurried from carriage to carriage with
pails and cans of steaming coffee and large round baskets filled with
bread. Bearers stood ready with their stretchers to carry those of
the wounded whose condition was critical out to the motor-ambulances
which were to take them to the hospital in the town. All goes like
clockwork--everybody works with zeal and zest in this labour of
charity. However many may come, there is always sufficient food for
all, stretchers and bedding are never lacking, and the helping hands
never tire. The wounded Frenchmen are treated with the same kindness as
their own wounded, perhaps even better, as nearly all have a feeling
of compassion for those who have fallen into an enemy’s hands and who,
apart from their wounds, must suffer at the thought that their native
country is bleeding under the hostile invasion. Sedan station is like
a swarming beehive. Ambulance trains are not the only ones to be seen;
frequent trains loaded with fresh troops also run into the station.
There is also a considerable number of prisoners. Most frequent of
all are the supply and ammunition trains from the north, and trains
with captured or worn-out war material from the south. Now night is
hovering, cold and starry, over Sedan, rich in memories of the past.
But to those who are working here for the sake of tending the wounded
and providing food, there is no difference between night and day. It is
a puzzle to me how the officers, doctors, nurses and working staff can
stand it. The force which impels them and prevents their breaking down
with fatigue, is the love of their fatherland, which is now fighting
its greatest and most fateful war.
During our hurried round the Major narrates some episodes of the
locality. The bridge across the Meuse was blown up by the French, and
after the street-fighting some civilians fired from the windows. A fine
of two hundred thousand francs was therefore levied on the town. A few
days later, shots were fired again from houses in the town, and the
war contribution was increased by half a million francs, to be paid
within forty-eight hours. The Maire was given the somewhat unpleasant
task of raising this sum. It was paid after fruitless representations
as to the difficulties. If we try, in an entirely objective manner,
to enter into the psychological currents which in such cases stir
the minds of the French and of the Germans, we come to the following
result: The Germans consider that, when a town has been conquered by
them in honest and open fight, they are its masters, and the fight is
therefore ended. The French citizens who are armed and have seen that
their own troops are unable to defend the town, nevertheless nourish
a mad hope that they can check the invasion and prevent the enemy
from taking up his quarters there. They fire in frenzy and hatred,
forgetting that a few fatal shots signify nothing in the serried ranks
of disciplined soldiers. Nor do they realise that they are doing an
evil service to their fellow-citizens, and that the war levy will
become much heavier. An open honest fight is _one_ thing, but shots
by civilians, after a decisive issue of the fight, are looked upon as
murder, and must be punished, according to usage of war, by shooting or
hanging, bombardment or imposition of a war contribution. No rules of
civilised warfare recognise sparing the lives of sniping _franctireurs_
or civilians firing from an ambush.
The sufferings which war brings in its train for the populace visited
by it are severe enough without being intensified by cowardice
and stupidity. It is best, while there is yet time, to create for
oneself an efficient army--_that_ will always command respect.
Characteristically enough, such attempts as described here are defended
and approved by individuals who, in times of peace, oppose the regular
military training of their people. When the day of retribution comes
they shout themselves hoarse at “right being trampled under foot.” But
it is futile to disguise the betrayal of one’s own country. It is then
too late. Jurisprudential sophistries are silenced when the guns talk
in their voice of thunder.
When Major von Plato came to Sedan, in the early part of September, the
railway station looked more than wretched. Dead horses were lying about
everywhere at and on the line. The fallen soldiers had been buried in
very shallow graves, contributing to some extent to the unbearable
stench which filled the air. The Maire was requested to call out French
labourers, whose task was to scour the whole neighbourhood and bury
the bodies properly. Now the ground around the station looked well and
properly kept.
In the afternoon I went with Major Heyn and a couple of other
officers--one of whom was ordinarily a judge at Frankfurt-on-Main, and
had now become _Kriegsgerichtsrat_ or “Court-Martial Councillor”--for
a motor drive to the historically famous spots outside Sedan, the very
name of which evokes, in the breast of every Frenchman, memories of
grief and sorrow.
We drive through the town. The citizens who have remained or returned
are not few in number, but the well-to-do have gone away and taken
up their abode elsewhere. Some shops are open, and those in which
articles of food, preserves, or tobacco are sold, are emptied of stock,
the owners having done a brisk business. But the tradesmen on whose
shop-signs one reads _Teinturerie_ (dyer), _Imprimerie_ (printer),
_Bijouterie_ (jeweller), and the like, might just as well have put up
their shutters. A school has been converted into an intermediate base
hospital, and the Place d’Alsace is the “motor-vehicle hospital,” or
open-air workshop. This may not be photographed, as the sentry informs
me when I approach with my camera. On one of the “patients” undergoing
treatment here, the inscription “Mannheim Brewery No. 6” indicates its
avocation in peace time. Even such motor-lorries, then, are mobilised
for service in war time! All is arranged and regulated beforehand with
the utmost forethought and exactitude. But, for this very reason,
everything goes like clockwork when the hour has come. The honest
brewer in Mannheim had no need to enquire what he had to do when the
mobilisation order was issued. He knew it, and sent his motor-lorries
to the prearranged spot.
_Impavidus numero victus 1870_ is the inscription engraved on a
memorial near a street still showing traces of the fighting, to which
indeed the marks of bullets on its houses bear witness. Two bridges
across the Meuse, one of stone, the other of iron, have been blown up
by the French and replaced by the Germans.
We are now out in the open country and pass over the scene of the
hotly contested sanguinary fights of the 25th and 26th of August. The
entrenchments have not been filled in, and the parapets and trenches
are still in the same state, though they have crumbled here and
there. I was told that many of them had been thrown up by the local
population, whose assistance thus gave the defenders an advantage over
the attack.
Near the village of Frénois we run up to the little château of
Bellevue, where after the great battle of the 1st of September, 1870,
the capitulation of the French Army was signed on the morning of
September 2nd, and where King William I. of Prussia had his historic
meeting with the Emperor of the French, Napoleon III. The two monarchs
met on the small glass veranda on the ground floor, which forms a porch
or vestibule to the château.
The furniture which was there at the time has all disappeared and there
is no relic of those days remaining. Yet there is one! The aristocratic
and venerable lady--who owns Bellevue, is still there, bowed with age
and grief, and is now witnessing for the second time all the phases of
a Franco-German war. Her hair was snow-white and she was bent with
age, but it seemed nevertheless that she held her head high, and her
carriage was proud and commanded respect. We asked whether we might see
the interior of the château, but she asked us to excuse her--a wish
which, of course, we respected.
It is not to be wondered at that the soldiers, whose way lies past
Bellevue, like to look at the famous veranda. But the old lady asked
that these visits should cease; she wished to be left in peace, alone
with her sorrow. “_C’est bien malheureux; c’est très, très triste!_”
she repeated again and again, and she, like her words, evoked the
deepest sympathy. Bellevue with its round tower stands like a rock
lashed by the tempestuous waves of the two greatest wars of modern
history.
Our next objective is Donchery, the little town which now inspires, in
a twofold measure, such mournful impressions. It was here that General
von Moltke, Chief of the German General Staff, and General Wimpffen,
the French Commander-in-Chief, discussed the terms of the capitulation
late at night on the 1st of September, 1870. Count Bismarck, the
Prussian Prime Minister, was also present, as well as several officers
of both sides. The house where the negotiations took place has been
destroyed in the present war. But Werner’s picture remains. This has a
most stirring effect on the beholder. To the right, the Germanic iron
strength and resolution, which will admit of no compromise; to the
left the beaten Frenchmen in their dire misfortune. Moltke especially
attracts our eyes, as he stands there with his hand thrust upon the
table, categorically demanding the surrender of the whole French
army, and we may well look with emotion on the picture of the “Iron
Chancellor,” sitting with his hand on his sword-hilt;--these two men,
the great strategist and the great statesman, are just about to lay
the foundations of the mightiest empire of modern times;--but the
central figure of the painting is Wimpffen, for he stands there as the
impersonation of the deepest tragedy and the most terrible misfortune
that could befall man. He has just been struck by the blow which the
terms of capitulation involve for him and all France. He can bear no
more--he has risen to go; but he totters, and has to support himself on
the table and a chair. The light of the lamp falls upon his face, which
betrays the deepest anguish and grief. His name will now be coupled
for ever with this calamitous day! A picture of the Corsican hangs
on the wall, and the great Emperor seems to cast a reproving look on
the unfortunate general. The countenances of his companions express
sorrow and dejection for which language has no words. No less grave
is the expression of the Prussians standing on the other side. Their
features betray admiration for the heroism of the French army and its
dauntless courage, which should have deserved a better fate. The artist
has created a scene which suggests to us that all those present were
conscious of the fact that this day would live in memory as one of the
greatest in Prussia’s history and one of the most tragic in that of
France.
Some parts of Donchery have been destroyed by the shells of the
present war, but the Church of St. Onesimus still remains standing
amid the desolation and has not suffered any damage to speak of. The
chancel with the high altar dates from the twelfth century, the nave
from the fifteenth. In front of the altarpiece stands a crucifix of
ivory, and filtering in through the beautiful stained-glass windows, a
multi-coloured light plays upon the pillars. The priest who accompanies
us, assures us that not a single shot has been fired from the windows
of Donchery and that the punishment which was inflicted on the town
was therefore unmerited. But the German documents tell a different
tale. A careful investigation in France and in Belgium will reveal,
in due course, where the root and origin of the participation of the
civilian population in the warfare is to be found. Until the result
of this investigation lies before us, it will be wise to abstain from
pronouncing judgment.
[Illustration: HOUSES WRECKED BY SHELLS AT DONCHERY]
On the return journey to Sedan we also stopped for a while at the
little house by the roadside where Napoleon and Bismarck had an
interview on the morning of the 2nd of September. Accompanied by his
suite of a few horsemen, the Emperor drove over from Sedan in a landau.
He had alighted and stood, broken and prematurely aged, leaning on his
stick, when Bismarck came up alone on horseback. This incident, too,
has been immortalised by Werner in one of his pictures. The victor and
the vanquished then entered the house together, ascended the steep and
narrow stairs and seated themselves in the inner of the two larger
rooms. The host, the weaver Fournaise, withdrew; his wife, twenty-seven
years of age, stayed in the outer room. And Madame Fournaise is still
alive--a worthy and kindly woman, with a cheerful and philosophical
view of life, in spite of the harrowing scenes which she has witnessed
around her abode. The only thing that annoyed her was that two rifle
bullets had gone through her windows and lodged in the ceiling. But
she gave us a regular lecture on that momentous day, forty-four years
ago, and recalled each detail. The Emperor had been friendly and
condescending, Bismarck cheerful and jocular, when they had talked to
her. And when the interview was over, and both of them went their way,
the Emperor had given her four 20-franc pieces, which she still kept,
set in a frame under glass, with the following inscription: _Donné par
sa Majesté l’Empereur Napoléon III à Mme. Fournaise le 2 Septembre,
1870_.
As a memento of our visit we shall keep the stamp which she imprinted
on our note-books: _Maison de la I^{re} entrevue, Donchery_. And the
house itself is known as _Maison du Tisserand_, or “The weaver’s house.”
At last we return by another road to Sedan, in order to cast a brief
glance over the site of the forts which have been razed since 1870, and
to enjoy the fine view over the unfortunate town from the surrounding
heights. One cannot feel cheerful in Sedan; one feels as if one’s
breast were oppressed by a leaden weight. Here is a people, generous
and yet thrifty, which has suffered and is now suffering--which, in the
leading strings of the republican democracy, has been led to an abyss
of misfortunes--a people which has deserved a better fate than to bleed
to death for the sake of its allies--a people whose children vainly
repeat those high-sounding, but in reality empty and hollow words:
_Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité_. What brotherhood is it that never
thinks of anything but revenge; what equality is it that for political
aims sacrifices the fruits of the people’s thrift; what liberty is
it that drives these same people into the arms of the world’s most
despotically governed power?
And yet one cannot but love the French, above all on account of their
fascinating and attractive qualities, their unbounded patriotism, their
brilliant bravery, their ever youthful enthusiasm, their bright wit
and their high level of art. And one deplores the desolation which is
spreading over their glorious country and which might so easily have
been avoided.
Late in the day we drive back into the town, past Place Turenne, where
a statue, nearly one hundred years old, has been erected in memory
of the great victorious marshal, himself a native of Sedan. In the
market-place is the office of the Sedan Intermediate Base Commandant,
located in a better-class café, in which busy clerks have taken the
places formerly occupied by the habitués of the place. Here we happened
to come across a most unusual sight,--a couple of civilians from
Germany, who have come to see about the body of a killed relative. The
dead man had been traced, and if they could identify his body they
would have a zinc coffin made and take him home.
From there I proceeded to the Hôtel Croix d’Or to call on General Baron
von Seckendorff, who is Inspector of the Lines of Communication of the
Fourth Army. The “Inspectorate” comprises, besides its Staff--the Chief
of which is Colonel von Kemnitz--a variety of administrative branches,
with subordinate organisations and establishments. One may truly say
that whole armies and endless processions of transport columns of
various kinds pass through General von Seckendorff’s hands. The task of
the lines of communication organisation in general is, on the one hand,
to arrange for bringing up to the army reserve troops and matériel of
all kinds, and, on the other hand, to relieve the fighting troops of
the wounded, prisoners, booty of war, and all worn-out material. As
already hinted, each class of requirements has its own representative
in the Line of Communication Inspectorate. There are supervisors for
the provisioning and for the hospitals, for ammunition supply and store
maintenance, for the railway traffic, for the telegraph, post-office,
and road and hydraulic construction departments, for administration of
justice and maintenance of law and order, and for civil administration.
It is an immense burden of labour that rests on the shoulders of
an inspector of the line of communication. There must be no hitch
anywhere. The troop trains must not come too late; the ammunition and
commissariat supply trains must arrive at stated times and places.
Nothing must go wrong. The inspector must know how to find ways and
means in all emergencies, must think of and foresee everything,--else
incalculable calamities may arise.
It might not be out of place here to give a short outline of the manner
in which the lines of communication between the fighting troops and the
home base are arranged.
I reproduce a diagram showing the arrangement of the lines of
communication of a German Army. The reader will see how the railway
lines coming from the home bases of the respective army corps are made
to converge towards the main line of transport which leads to the
district of the lines of communication of an army--in a hostile country
to a principal line of communication depot or “intermediate base,” and
how, from this point, a new system of lines of communication of all
kinds--railways, field railways, roads, waterways--diverges towards
the operating units at the front. The whole reminds one vividly of a
tree with its roots and branches. As far as possible, the functions
in connection herewith must be planned in peace time. Of course,
instructions and regulations are drawn up, not only for the transport
system as a whole, but also for each and every detail thereof,
as one can never elucidate with sufficient clearness the various
administrative branches of war: the commissariat, the medical service,
the veterinary department, the field post-office, the field telegraph
department, the field-railway service, the war matériel and the army
pay departments, etc.
The supreme direction of the organisations of the lines of
communication is exercised by an Inspector-General, who is subordinated
to the Chief of the General Staff. The various armies each have their
“Lines of Communication Inspectorate” subordinated to the Chief
Command of the army, organised internally as indicated above. It
controls the respective principal Lines of Communication Depot or
“Intermediate Base,” and has under it the “Lines of Communication Depot
Commandants” who in their turn are in charge of one or several Lines of
Communication Depots with their surrounding districts.
Now what principles are followed, in their work, by these different
controlling authorities of the lines of communication? Well, they have,
in continual _collaboration_ with the commanders of the troops, to
supply to these the requisite information as regards depot, hospital,
and other arrangements on the lines of communication,--such as store
depots of different kinds of war matériel--and to give timely notice of
the arrival of men, horses, matériel and requisites.
Generally speaking, it is the duty of the Lines of Communication Depot
Commandant to look after all the requirements of the system of the
lines of communication itself, and to provide for the detachments
of troops, and transport of remounts and animals intended for
food, which may happen to be stationed in, or pass through their
district of the lines of communication, while the “Inspectorate of
the Lines of Communication,” through organisations and establishments
directly subordinated to it, requisitions what is needed for the
fighting troops from within the whole of its district of the lines of
communication, or from the home bases. In order that the organisation
of the lines of communication may work quickly in the event of urgent
requirements--more especially in case of a battle--it establishes,
as we have seen, store depots of matériel and requisites. Books are
kept as to all that is stored within the respective district. The
“Inspectorate” always enters into close relations with the civil
administration, and in a hostile country may often--if the safety
of the army requires this--take over this administration into its
own hands. Both the “Inspectorate of the Lines of Communication” and
the “Intermediate Depot Commandant’s Office” frequently requisition,
for instance, from the Maire, labour for certain purposes. Some ten
labourers or other civilians may for instance be required to bury dead
horses or to clear a road. The soldiers of the invading army do not do
this themselves.
Frequently, the working of hospital departments attracts, more
especially, the attention of the layman; at least such was the case
with me. One marvels at the enormous sphere of duties that fall
solely to the share of the intermediate base surgeons, subordinated
to the “Inspectorate.” The Chief Surgeon-General at the “Inspectorate
of the Lines of Communication zone of the 4th Army” had under him
hospitals at twenty-eight different intermediate depots, apart from the
transports of sick and wounded passing through this zone of the lines
of communication.
The reader will form some idea of the amount of work which devolves
on the officers in charge on the lines of communication, when I
mention that the Lines of Communication Depot Commandant’s Office in
Vouziers alone, usually received every day six hundred requisitions and
enquiries which all had to be attended to immediately. This needed men
of ready and well-trained skill and energy, who could accomplish the
task of ensuring that the fighting troops always had what they needed
at the right time and in the right place. Dawdling routine work will
never do in war!
[Illustration: Example of Lines of Communications of an Army]
If we had before us a large-scale map, faithfully representing the army
and its connection with the home base, the lines of communication would
appear to form a veritable cobweb, or network, the knots of which would
be formed by the intermediate base depots. But the aspect shown by this
network would only hold good for a certain period, perhaps only for
one day. For, especially in the extreme ramifications of this network,
changes are of course incessantly occurring, owing to the advance of
the positions, or transfers of troops. The whole is like a system of
blood-vessels in the body of the army or of the nation. The transport
columns going west are the fresh blood of the arteries, maintaining
combustion and life in the organism of the army; the trains returning
east, empty, or loaded with wounded, represent the spent blood flowing
back to the heart and lungs to be renovated. You cannot form any clear
idea of this complicated apparatus until you have seen and felt, on the
lines of communication, the throbbing of the pulses of the army.
The army thus rests on the home country, and draws its food and
sustenance from every nook and corner of the whole German empire--just
as the roots of a tree, with their ramifications of fibres, suck up
from the earth the nutritious juices. Every town and village, every
farmstead in Germany feels that it contributes, in its measure, to
the vitality of the army. The whole nation takes part in the war, and
the soldier out at the front, in the trenches, cannot fight with any
prospect of success, unless the peasant at home does his duty. But the
German peasants and the whole German nation are doing their duty, not
as if it were a hard necessity, but gladly and with pride and devotion.
[Illustration: GERMAN INFANTRY]
And now let us return to the “Inspectorate of the Lines of
Communication zone of the Fourth Army!”
General von Seckendorff has,--to use a common expression--plenty to do,
and he works like a galley slave, I must say! He maintains faultless
discipline on his lines and inspects them daily in person. During the
campaign he has already covered twelve thousand kilometres in his
elegant covered car. On the roads he rules with an iron hand and can,
if necessary, roar like a lion at men and officers. But towards me he
was kind, and gentle as a zephyr.
He received me with open arms and invited me to stay to supper in the
large restaurant of the hotel. Here, some forty of the three hundred
officers now in Sedan were assembled--among them a Prince Hohenlohe
who had something to do with the Red Cross. At the moment when we
entered, the gentlemen were already standing by their seats around the
long table and the small side-tables, and the General introduced me,
once for all, with a few forceful yet kindly words. The food served was
the same as for the rank and file--boiled rice, mutton with beans and
potatoes, and pancakes with jam, the last being a luxury in honour of
the Sunday.
After a pleasant evening, in the course of which the General invited
me to accompany him next day to Vouziers, I walked at midnight through
the silent and empty streets of Sedan. The way from Place Turenne to
the railway station, where I was staying, was rather long, and it was
made no shorter by the six sentries who in turn stepped out from the
gloom and challenged me--a suspicious-looking night-bird, perhaps out
on some unlawful errand. Each of them read the “pass” issued to me
by General von Moltke, and then left me to my fate--and to the next
sentry. All were quiet and civil, and they were doing their duty. When
I came to the last, quite close to the railway station, I stepped up
to him and asked whether he had any objection to reading my _Ausweis_.
He replied with a smile: “I suppose it has already been read often
enough; and besides, I have seen you in the company of the Chief of the
_Kommandantur_.”
But this Chief had gone to sleep when I came “home.” He certainly
needed rest after all the trains he had cleared through the course of
the day. And as for myself, I will not deny that I was half-asleep
before I lay down on my bed.
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE REAR OF THE FOURTH ARMY
Early on September 28th I proceeded to the Hôtel Croix d’Or and a
moment later I was once more on the way towards the front with General
von Seckendorff and his Adjutant. Our way lay in a south-south-westerly
direction and followed roughly the Ardenne Canal, which we crossed
two or three times. Our first goal was the town of Vouziers. Railway
communication exists up to this point, but numerous transport columns,
nevertheless, make use of the paved high road. A road on the lines of
communication is always animated. The roads in the rear of the 4th
Army resemble in all respects those I had seen before in the rear of
the 5th. In fact, it was only the setting of the picture that seemed
different. We passed a number of inviting-looking bivouacs, in some of
which smoke was still curling from the cooking trench, by the fire of
which the men of the transport columns were preparing their breakfast.
In the avenue of chestnut and maple trees lining the road, which were
already turning yellow, marching troops and transport columns of all
kinds, supply and ammunition wagons, motor-ambulances and long rows of
old-fashioned yellow mail-vans, filled with field-post mails intended
for Germany, via Treves--where the first sorting takes place--succeed
each other in motley procession. The indispensable “Field Gendarmes”
(Military Police Patrols) in their green uniforms, with helmets and
bright badges, ride backwards and forwards on their road sections to
see that all is in order. There lies a horse which has broken down,
worn out! A merciful bullet has just put an end to his suffering, and
he is being dragged aside; a stream of blood is trickling from his
nostrils, staining the road-dust red.
It is a very pretty landscape that unrolls its undulating outlines on
either side of the colonnade of ancient trees. Fields and meadows,
pastures, groves and orchards--all slashed in different directions
by the dark shaded lines of the roads. Now and then one sees cattle
browsing peacefully--sheep among the goats. And the peasants who have
returned to their land are busying themselves in their yards and
fields. We pass through several villages, among others Tannay and
Le Chesne on the Ardenne Canal. This country is full of memories.
One can without much effort imagine oneself back in the last days of
August, 1870, when Marshal MacMahon’s army marched in long columns
along these very roads--towards Beaumont and Sedan. There, close by,
in the wood to the south-west, and south of Le Chesne, the first
German cavalry pickets were peering out, on August 29th, on the road
to the north. These were horsemen, no doubt, who less than a fortnight
previously had gained glory on the blood-drenched fields of Vionville
and Mars-la-Tour.--Hark! The bugles are sounding at the head of
von Bredow’s brigade!--The stranger from the land of Charles XII.
feels a twinge in his heart, as his fancy calls up kindred memories
of past ages. From remote regions far, far away, other sounds, yet
strangely similar, seem to ring in his ears--an echo from the days
of long ago, when his people were fighting for the Germanic cause
in the east.--Around him is seething the vital energy of the German
army, of the German people. He feels something he has felt before. He
now comprehends the true significance of the words in which the poor
Swedish petty officer Wessling replied to the Generals of Tsar Peter,
who asked him how the Swedes could fight so valiantly, two against a
hundred: “We were bound to do so for the sake of our most gracious king
and the oath we have sworn.” This spirit shines from the eyes of every
German soldier.--At length we arrive in Vouziers on the western bank of
the Aisne.
We do not stop long. The General only remains long enough to hear the
reports of a couple of officers of the Intermediate Base Command there,
as to what has occurred since yesterday. When he has gathered that
all is in the best order he gives the word to drive on, and we soon
continue southward on the high road to Séchault and Cernay--the road
taken by the 11th Army Corps to Sedan in 1870. At Cernay we are twenty
kilometres west of Varennes. But between these two localities lies the
Argonne, where obstinate fighting is still proceeding. From Cernay
issues, to the west, the great highway to Rheims. On the first
sixteen kilometres of this road, or right up to the village of Somme
Py, I was afforded the opportunity of visiting some highly interesting
spots. At the end of September this was the most advanced road to the
south then held by the Germans in this region.
[Illustration: The country round Somme Py and Rouvroy.]
The first village west of Cernay is Rouvroy. We did not intend to
drive any further this day. We made a short stop to take our plain,
soldier-like early meal--long narrow slices of army bread with butter
and ham, and a glass of claret.
[Illustration: INFANTRY RESERVISTS ON THE FRINGE OF A WOOD AT ROUVROY]
[Illustration: A DRESSING WAGON HAD HALTED BEHIND A FEW DARK PINES]
The General had with him an extra car, filled with bottles of wine,
which he distributed among the soldiers. There was no need to be
sparing with wine in these regions, where even the peasants have their
cellars well stocked. But nothing is taken away off-hand. All will be
made good to the owners after the war. The terms of peace will contain
a provision to the effect that the defeated side shall pay the amount
of every receipt or voucher (_bon_) representing the value of the
things requisitioned during the military occupation. The individual
is not to suffer direct, but only as a participant in the misfortune
which falls on the country as a whole. It is the duty of the State to
make good the people’s personal losses when the State is incapable of
protecting the property of the individual against the enemy. And if the
invading power is defeated in the war, its just punishment is that it
must make good the losses of the sufferers.
Perhaps someone may object that it is improper to let the soldiers
drink wine--seeing that, in the east, the Russians have made the
experiment of introducing total prohibition, and are satisfied with
the result. No doubt this demonstration of moral strength, _per se_,
deserves admiration, though it does not appear to have been fully
carried through at home. Nevertheless I think that a draught of red
or white wine, now and then, cannot but be beneficial to the soldier
if it is distributed at the right time and in the right place, after
strenuous exertions. To preach total abstinence is easy enough for
those who are not called upon to lie freezing all night in cold, wet
trenches where it is not permitted to light the smallest fire.
At Rouvroy we left our cars and proceeded on foot up gently ascending
ground, along fields and ditches, through hedges and brushwood. Here
the ground was much pitted by shell fire and no one could tell when
the rain of shells might recommence. Numerous projectiles were lying
scattered about and I took with me a so-called _Ausbläser_, i.e. a
shell “burnt out” without bursting.
Higher up the slope we came across some reserves waiting to be called
upon to relieve their comrades in the trenches. They lay concealed in
a wood, with small bodies advanced to the very edge of the wood, which
was protected by all sorts of entrenchments, with semi-subterranean
“dug-outs” at the back--excavations covered with branches, twigs
and green boughs, and serving not only as shelters for the men but
also to screen them from aviators. As is natural, these bodies of
reserves always locate themselves on the northern side of the points
of vantage which they occupy. They must be concealed out of sight
of the French lines. But in this war reconnoitring by aviators has
also to be reckoned with. They are therefore compelled, even when on
the far side of such cover, such as villages, woodlands and groves,
to “dig themselves in” or at least hide as best they can from the
buzzing war-hawks which every now and then come spying from the clouds
for prey. Hence the most important thing of all is good screening or
masking of the position. Exceedingly great care is bestowed on this
point. Not the smallest detail is overlooked. The admissibility of
lighting fires in these caves depends on the completeness of this
masking.
At a spot near the fringe of the wood, a field ambulance was stationed,
well screened by some dark pines. It was accompanied by a spare horse,
which might be useful in case the pair of horses forming the ordinary
team should be shot down. Another vehicle belonging to the medical
service corps was fitted with a greyish-yellow folding hood. Grey
loin-cloths had been thrown over the horses to approximate their colour
as nearly as possible to that of the ground--all as precaution against
observation by aviators.
[Illustration: A DRESSING WAGON WITH HOOD]
In a small shelter-hut near by, four surgeons who were in charge of the
two medical wagons had taken up their quarters. They had just finished
their luncheon, which had been fetched from the nearest kitchen
wagon; I also took the liberty of sampling the food, which seemed as
nutritious as it was palatable.
[Illustration: FOUR DOCTORS BREAKFASTING UNDER COVER OF A SHELTER TENT]
Up on the hill, which afforded a view of the French positions, we found
several officers. Close by, under cover of an enormous haystack, was
a group of men of various units--presumably orderlies and despatch
riders who had followed their respective superior officers so as to be
at hand whenever wanted. All these men seemed to enjoy the opportunity
of getting to know more than their comrades. They did not pay heed to
the greater danger of their position. Reminders of death were not far
to seek. Near by, two soldiers had been buried in the shade of a small
copse. Fresh wreaths were hanging on the arms of the cross, suggesting
that the brave men resting beneath had but recently fallen victims to
the French fire. The solitary, insignificant little mounds were adorned
with the helmets of the fallen men.
[Illustration: SOLDIERS UNDER COVER OF A HAYSTACK AT ROUVROY]
On our return trip, for which we chose a more easterly route, _via_
the villages of Condé, Autry and Grandpré, we passed four companies
of Landsturm, headed by a spirited band. It is an unusual thing to
hear band music so near the front, where all has to be as silent as
possible and where usually the only music is that of guns and rifles.
The general drove past the whole detachment and stopped ahead of it by
the side of the road. He then alighted, and we followed his example.
The whole detachment now marched past. When the first company came up,
he called out: “Good morning, first company,” greeting the others in
the same way and receiving their salute. It was a fine and impressive
sight to behold these sturdy men, among whom more than one was nearing
the age of fifty.
[Illustration: OFFICERS’ CAR AT GRANDPRÉ]
And what a march-past! It moved me strangely. It vividly recalled to my
recollection a troop of old Swedish territorials, whom I saw many, many
years ago. They were of a similar stock, faithful in life, faithful in
death--without reproach. Their dark-blue uniforms stood out in vivid
contrast to the rusty foliage of the trees. There was nothing lacking
in the equipment of this Landsturm battalion. It was a fine sight,
too, to see the General, with his look of determination blended with
kindness, his white moustache and his steel-grey hair. Erect and tall
he stood, in his grey cloak, with his hands behind his back. There
had been no need for him to alight and salute them, but it pleased
his martial soul to look at these men, who had left hearth and home,
wife and children, to bleed and die, but determined also to fight and
conquer for their country. “We are comrades,” he thought, no doubt, as
the last man filed past, and the sound of the music died away in the
distance. And so we ran past the Landsturm battalion a second time,
and listened once more to the inspiriting strains of the parade march.
On our return to Vouziers the General handed me over to the care of
Cavalry Captain von Behr, a brother of the Chamberlain. He was a
merry and lively gentleman, and when the General asked him to show me
every attention, he promised that I should want for nothing. And he
kept his word, for during the period of fully a week which I spent
with him and his comrades, I had occasion to see and learn much, and
to make the acquaintance of many notable and estimable men. Von Behr
had retired from the army long ago, but on the outbreak of the war
he had re-entered the service in a cuirassier regiment and was now
in command of a reserve squadron. His troop was now quartered in the
barracks of the 3rd French Cuirassier Regiment. As the day was not
yet spent he immediately proposed--like a true cavalryman--a visit
to a riding-school which had been fitted up as stables and barracks.
There we found the horses well-groomed and well-shod, in their stalls
along the walls, while the men had arranged their beds on a litter of
unthreshed wheat. The oat sacks were lying piled in large stacks. The
bridles, saddles, arms and accoutrements were suspended on brackets
and pillars. The interior of this stable, and of another immediately
adjoining it, presented an aspect of military order, discipline and
precision, which ensured that in case of need the squadron could be in
the saddle, fully equipped, in a few minutes.
A third building in the same grounds had been assigned to the French
prisoners and their German guard. Thus the strangers were neither
better nor worse provided for than the cuirassiers. They had arranged
their beds in the best possible way along one of the walls. Armed with
sketch-book and pen, I paid several visits to them during the following
days.
Lastly we also looked in at the barracks, now fitted up as a clearing
hospital. We had the best imaginable cicerone, the head surgeon
himself, Dr. Zinsser of Cologne. He was famous as a physician and
surgeon. As a man he was charming and fascinating. It was always a
great pleasure to me to meet him and hear him talk of the experience
he had already gained during the war, and which had induced him
to introduce many alterations and improvements in the hospital
arrangements.
[Illustration: FRENCH PRISONERS CARRIED WOUNDED GERMANS TO THE RAILWAY
STATION]
We made a hurried round through some of the hospital wards, where
nurses and Catholic friars were passing softly from bed to bed,
silent as ghosts. Not all the beds were occupied, but five hundred
wounded were expected at night, of whom, however, many would be moved
on next day. Here we saw some French prisoners carrying wounded
Germans on stretchers to the railway station for further transport--a
strange sight! Among the German patients I noticed the same spirit
that animates, with infectious ardour, the whole of this wonderful and
firmly knit army--no homesickness, only an irresistible desire to get
back to the front. If one ever came across a soldier who said that he
wished himself back home, it was sure to be one of the badly wounded,
prostrate on a sick-bed and at best doomed to be a cripple for life.
We saw an instance of this in the operating theatre of the hospital. A
man had his leg so badly shattered by a shell, that he had to undergo
amputation. The bandages were skilfully and quickly put round the stump
of the leg, and the man came to. But he had forgotten where he was, and
it appeared from his confused talk that he was still imagining himself
to be lying in the trenches.
[Illustration: A CHEF DE MUSIQUE OF THE 11TH INFANTRY REGIMENT, 17TH
ARMY CORPS, TAKEN PRISONER ON SEPT. 26TH, SOUTH OF VOUZIERS. SLIGHTLY
WOUNDED IN THE HEAD]
One ward contained patients who had recently undergone operations;
another was occupied by men who had been wounded in the head. In the
case of one, the bullet still remained lodged in the skull. It was
horrible to see him lying there staring intently at one spot, and
making restless but futile efforts to raise himself. One of those next
to him had been rendered blind by a shot, and a third had lost his
memory; he readily answered questions relating to the present, but was
quite oblivious of all concerning the past.
[Illustration: CHAMBON, 30 YEARS OLD, FRENCH SOLDIER FROM PERIGUEUX IN
DORDOGNE (17TH ARMY CORPS). SLIGHTLY WOUNDED SOUTH OF VOUZIERS]
The wounded officers had a ward to themselves, and seemed pleased to
have an opportunity to chat awhile. “What news from the front--any
fresh victories?” was the invariable question. The most singular case
here was that of a Captain who had been shot right through the neck,
the bullet having entered on the right and issued on the left side,
without causing serious injury to the arteries, trachea, pharynx,
or cervical vertebræ. The Captain sat up in his bed, his whole head
swathed in bandages. He followed our conversation attentively, but did
not, and could not, utter a word himself. Professor Zinsser said that
it would certainly take him half an hour if he tried to pass a probe in
the same way through a human neck without inflicting injury. But this
bullet had found its way through in the minutest fraction of a second.
Some distance apart from the rest lay the patients suffering from
tetanus. It is only in rare cases that their lives can be saved.
One-half of those who died in hospital had succumbed to tetanus. It is
a terrible affliction. A surgeon who had been at the front in Alsace
and whom I met on a subsequent occasion, thought he had noticed that
this disease first appeared when they had crossed the French frontier.
It is generated by the so-called tetanus bacillus, a bacillar microbe
to be found in the soil, chiefly mould. If such infected earth comes
into contact with a wound, say through a ricochet bullet, the latter
may carry the bacilli with it and by their poisonous secretions induce
this form of muscular catalepsy. We saw a few tetanus patients, and the
professor talked to them. A young German had tetanus in the muscles
of the mouth, and his face became distorted as he attempted almost
inaudibly to speak. I was told that his life might possibly be saved.
About the middle of September Professor Zinsser and his colleagues
had had a trying time at the hospital. It was at the time when, for
strategical reasons, the army retired from the Marne to the Aisne.
The badly wounded men who could not bear hasty removal involving
discomfort, had to be left in the care of surgeons, who thus
voluntarily went into captivity--surely one of the greatest sacrifices
that could be made in war.
The rest, who could bear being removed, were conveyed in large numbers
to these barracks, the floors of which had been covered with straw.
Professor Zinsser arrived there late one night, in darkness and pouring
rain, and at once proceeded to the improvised hospital. No lights were
to be had. But wagon after wagon brought fresh wounded--would the
stream never end? They were crammed in anywhere, anyhow, in terrible
confusion. Some died during the night. Others grew worse. All were
soaked with rain, their bandages were torn to shreds and undone.
There they lay, fifteen hundred, light and grave cases, pell-mell.
Here and there, among the living, lay a body growing cold in death. A
terrible smell pervaded the atmosphere. Of course, none of the patients
were able to go outside. Their strength was utterly gone. It was a
pitch-dark night--the rain was pelting down! But the professor was
powerless to relieve their distress; he had no alternative but to wait
till the morning.
In the morning five doctors and twenty men of the Army Medical Corps
arrived. A dreadful sight met their eyes in these overcrowded rooms,
foul with the stench of purulent wounds and excrements. But they set to
work at once and soon received assistance from a field hospital. They
were then thirty all told. They worked day and night. But new hosts
of wounded kept on arriving. It seemed utterly hopeless! The wounded
stretched out their hands to the surgeon as soon as they caught sight
of him and cried: “Help us! Help us!” Extra motor-cars were procured
to carry away those who could bear removal. Many of the wounded
even crept down to the bottom of the steps to find a place in some
ambulance wagon--to get away from this inferno. But in the end, the
superhuman energy of the medical staff triumphed. A kitchen was fitted
up, cattle were slaughtered and meat-broth was made. Soldiers who had
been starving for days could at last stay their hunger. All dressings
were changed--those of the graver cases first, the others afterwards.
In a few days the medical staff were masters of the situation. But if
such is the state of things on the lines of communication of an army
which has only fallen back momentarily for some distance, what must
happen after a crushing defeat? Of one thing I am certain, none but an
army permeated with boundless confidence in its leaders and its chief
command, can stand the strain of such phases of war without going to
pieces.
In the foregoing I have often stopped to speak of the wounded and shall
do so again. It might therefore be opportune to give a brief outline of
the system and the organisation which prevails in the hospital service
in the field. All is arranged beforehand so as to be ready when war
breaks out.
Of course the hospital service assumes a different aspect according
to the distance from the actual fighting line. At the front they have
Medical Service Corps and establishments to meet the first needs of
the wounded. There we find surgeons with military training. But all
these dressing stations and field hospitals are cleared as speedily as
possible to make room for fresh wounded. They pass their patients on,
step by step, along the lines of communication, on which their further
care, or transport to the home base, is provided for. Here most of the
medical staff are not on the normal war establishment, but civilian
medical men liable to military service or who have volunteered--though
appointed already in peace time for certain duties.
Each field force has its medical service staff whose task is to look
after its well-being, to supervise its hygiene, to watch over the daily
food supplies, to analyse the drinking water, etc. It is therefore the
first duty of the Army Medical Staff to regulate the general hygienic
care so as to prevent such epidemics as might otherwise easily spread.
Men who have fallen sick among the troops are cared for in “local
sick-rooms” until they can be handed over to the care of the Army
Medical Service.
[Illustration: FEEDING THE WOUNDED (THE SECOND FROM THE LEFT IS MAJOR
VON PLATO)]
At the fighting line the army surgeons establish regimental dressing
stations. Some surgeons accompany the bearer patrols on to the
battlefield, but without, save in exceptional cases, entering the
actual fire zone.
Each infantry division has at least one medical service company. The
latter establishes, in a suitable spot at the rear of the troops, one
or more principal dressing stations, sending its ambulance wagons to
an advanced halting-place, so as to get the dangerously wounded as
quickly as possible back to the rear. Each medical service company
comprises nine surgeons and a large number of bearers, sick attendants,
apothecaries, etc. The company, further, has eight two-horsed ambulance
wagons, two medical-store wagons, equipped with medicaments, stretchers
and dressing materials, two baggage wagons and one food-supply wagon.
For each Army Corps there are twelve field hospitals. These are
established in suitable towns, villages and mansions, behind the front.
They have to be located in sheltered situations where they may remain
even if the fighting line advances. The field hospitals receive the
patients from the auxiliary and principal dressing stations, with the
exception of such as are sent to a “collecting station for slightly
wounded,” to proceed thence direct to the nearest line of communication
depot.
The field hospital has its own regulation medical wagons and carries
with it a complete hospital equipment, such as mattresses, or empty
covers to be filled with straw, pillows, blankets and sheets, shirts
and other necessary clothing for the patients, china vessels for the
convenience of the wounded, and many other things. The first surgical
operations are carried out in the field hospital building unless, in
quite exceptional cases, these have to be performed at once in the
open, for instance, to staunch the flow of blood from gaping wounds.
The field hospital staff is military throughout. No nursing sisters,
nor, generally speaking, any volunteer nurses are to be found here.
The head of the medical service organisation of the Army Corps is
the “Chief Medical Officer” of the Army Corps. He is assisted by
a consulting surgeon who in civil life is generally a University
professor or lecturer and who also inspects the field hospitals.
[Illustration: THE UHLANS PROCEED ON THEIR WAY]
[Illustration: A SERIOUSLY WOUNDED MAN CARRIED FROM THE TRAIN TO THE
HOSPITAL AT SEDAN]
We will now proceed to the zone of the lines of communication. The
field hospital is replaced after a time--as soon as possible when the
field operations advance--by a clearing hospital section. This consists
solely of a staff--medical men, military nursing attendants and
volunteer assistants. Each Army Corps has one such section of nineteen
surgeons and a corresponding number of subordinates.
The field hospital is thus converted, on the advance of the troops,
into a clearing hospital, or, in other words, when the field hospital
with its matériel thus set free or replaced, follows the troops
forward, its place is taken by the clearing hospital, which retains all
that its predecessor has left behind. When, as at the time of my visit,
the advance is slow, no change takes place and the clearing hospital
staff has _comparatively_ little to do.
Clearing hospitals are found wherever the fighting has given occasion
for the establishment of a field hospital, and therefore also at
considerable distances from the main lines of communication. In the
event of hard fighting, clearing hospital sections with temporary
equipment establish their hospitals side by side with the field
hospital. The task of these hospitals is ultimately to remove by
degrees their patients to the Line of Communication (stationary)
hospitals, and to places, such as Sedan in the case of the 4th Army,
from which a regular railway connection exists with the home country.
The transport of the wounded is effected not only on foot and in empty
transport wagons, but also by the motor-ambulance vehicles, of the
Sick and Wounded Transport Department, among which one sees ordinary
omnibuses from Berlin and other towns and motor-lorries bearing the
names of well-known factories and business concerns. These may carry up
to seven or ten beds. If slightly wounded are in question, one single
large motor-vehicle can take up to fifty men, but then they will sit
tightly packed and even on the roof. Thus the wounded are conveyed to
the principal intermediate base on the lines of communication, from
which they proceed by rail or by canal or river to the home base. I
have previously discussed the organisation of the hospital service
within the zone of the lines of communication. I will only remark
here that just as the Principal Medical Officer of the Army Corps
has a Consulting Surgeon, so the Principal Medical Officer at the
Lines of Communication Hospital has a Consulting Sanitary Officer who
is likewise, in peace time, a University professor. The latter has
to examine all suspicious cases of infection and to prescribe all
necessary measures of precaution to prevent any outbreak of infectious
diseases. The Sanitary Officer is provided with a bacteriological
laboratory and is expected to investigate carefully every individual
case of typhoid fever, dysentery and similar diseases, to ascertain
whence the patient has come, to isolate him and to try to eradicate the
cause and source of infection. In certain cases he may find that by way
of precaution, the establishment of an infectious diseases hospital in
the zone of the lines of communication is advisable. Such a hospital
has been established, for instance, in Attigny near Vouziers.
Within the zone of the lines of communication to which the clearing
hospitals--which are in charge of a “Director”--form the link of
transition, there is first of all a Lines of Communication Hospital
Supply Depot which replenishes the stores of the hospital units and
organisations, both at the front and on the lines of communication,
the Lines of Communication Hospital, with which we have already become
acquainted, the sections for non-dangerous cases of disease, and for
convalescents--from which the patients can frequently be sent back
to the front after so short a time that their transport to the home
country would be needless--the infectious diseases hospital, the
ambulance trains--hospitals on wheels--and any incidental trains for
the transport of wounded. I have already acquainted the reader with
such hospital organisations at intermediate base stations, where we
have seen doctors, nurses and medical service men go from carriage to
carriage of the ambulance train to examine the patients and pick out
those who cannot bear further transport.
In the home country the arriving wounded are sent to home base
hospitals--either ordinary hospitals or private houses which have
been fitted up as hospitals during the war. Many, too, are sent direct
to their homes. The main governing principle all the way from the front
to the home country is: make room, make room, make room! Therefore
every effort is made to get rid of the wounded as speedily as possible
to make room for new arrivals.
Every first-aid medical wagon is carefully divided into compartments
and boxes so that each requisite has its proper place and can be
found in an instant. The hospital trains are organised and equipped
with equally exemplary care and forethought, everything being planned
beforehand in peace time. The iron framework supporting the berth for
the wounded is always kept ready, all that is required is to remove
from third-class carriages the seats and racks, and screw fast in their
place the framework for the berths. It is known beforehand how many
mattresses, pillows and blankets are required for each carriage. In
the medical and apothecaries’ store wagons all is arranged with such
precision as to enable the doctor to find, blindfolded, the tincture
of iodine or quinine he requires, or a piece of sticking-plaster, or a
safety pin. Everything is arranged on a uniformly fixed system; if a
new-comer cannot at once find his way he need only refer to the printed
key which applies for all German ambulance trains. The punctilious
thoroughness of the Germans has been ridiculed and called pedantry. But
it now appears why this pedantry was useful. All goes like clockwork
and no one has any need to search or enquire. And the same order,
regulated by strict rules laid down in peace time, reigns everywhere;
therefore the Germans do not behave like half-dazed dreamers startled
out of their slumber, when they are faced with war in earnest. They are
well prepared and trained in everything, whether the duties assigned to
them are on the lines of communication or at the operating table.
I have been told in German quarters that the French Army surgeons are
better equipped than the German, that is to say that in the French
Army there are on hand larger supplies of pharmaceutical and surgical
stores. It is said that the French field hospitals are more numerous
than the German and are not replaced subsequently by the clearing
hospital. This last mentioned circumstance is, of course, quite natural
and arises from the situation of the war itself. The Germans have
been advancing on French soil; their lines of communication have
lengthened. The field hospitals had to be shifted forward step by step.
They had to be hurriedly replaced by the clearing hospitals. This is
the result of the spirit favouring the offensive, which is peculiar to
the German Army. Hitherto the French have not more than once had any
need of corresponding arrangements. They were compelled from the first
to keep on the defensive. Although it is a misfortune for them to have
hostile armies on their soil, they have at least the advantage that the
railways everywhere reach up to their front, whereby all transport of
troops, wounded, supplies and ammunition is simplified and shortened.
But this advantage is infinitesimal as compared with the misfortune of
not being masters throughout their territory. And it also vanishes as
soon as the operations assume such an overwhelming character as was the
case in the latter part of August. In the present period of stagnation
of the war the conditions are naturally different.
The German soldiers have a perfect horror of falling into the hands of
French doctors--they would rather die. When prisoners and wounded are
exchanged some day after the close of the war, impartial critics in the
medical world will be able to judge on what side the wounded prisoners
have been treated most tenderly and humanely. In more than one respect
this war has demonstrated the impotence and futility of all conferences
and conventions of Geneva, The Hague, and other places, bearing names
which now have an empty and illusory sound.
But we cannot detain any longer the excellent Captain von Behr who has
been waiting with angelic patience while we strayed into the subject
of hospital organisation. He now takes me by the arm and we enter the
little town.
We enter the house in which von Behr, together with Count von
Eichstedt, Baron von Tschammer, and a few other officers have taken up
their quarters. Soon the supper bell rang, and we afterwards assembled
for coffee in the drawing-room on the ground floor. The scene which met
my eyes here and which I afterwards saw repeatedly, reminded me vividly
of one of Anton von Werner’s war paintings, showing a brightly lighted
room and an officer seated at the piano accompanying a singing comrade
while the others listen.
[Illustration: A SQUADRON OF UHLANS HALT OUTSIDE CAPT. VON BEHR’S HOUSE
TO AWAIT THEIR BAGGAGE TRAIN]
Forty-four years have since elapsed, but the picture represented by
soldiers billeted in France is still the same. Von Behr sang Schumann,
Wagner, and Richard Strauss to von Eichstedt’s accompaniment, and the
rest of us sat silent like statues and listened. And while the soft
sounds of the music were lulling my senses, my thoughts began to wander
and I wondered what kind of man it was who, only a month ago, lived in
this house and had so lovingly adorned the walls of his drawing-room
with portraits of his wife and children. Then came a day when he had
to leave his home in haste, to join the army himself and to carry his
family into safety. And now his house has become the home of others.
It is usually considered bad taste to examine too closely another man’s
furniture. But the war sweeps away all conventions, and I cannot take
my eyes off the objects surrounding me, not on their own account, but
because one has a feeling as if the owner and his family were haunting
the room and as if one heard their voices in the sharp tick of the
clock on the mantelpiece. Their eyes have fallen daily on the expensive
bureau between the windows, their feet have trod the carpet, and they
have sat at that very writing-table and entrusted their fears and hopes
to note-paper and envelope, whilst the chandelier had shed its light
upon them until the last night before they departed in hurried flight.
Why did this unfortunate war come to disturb their peaceful life? Was
it necessary for the welfare of France?
Above the writing-table hangs a war painting by Détaille, and from
its shelf stares, gloomy and dark, a bronze bust of Bonaparte--not
the Emperor, but the victorious General of the Italian war of 1796.
A legendary glamour hovers around this image, whose look seems to
be strangely penetrating into every corner of the room. However
attentively I listened to the song and music and whatever else might
attract my attention, my eyes always travelled back to the bronze
figure on the writing-table. If it were alive and could talk! What
would the Emperor say to the French? “The Prussians hated me; they had
a right to do so as my hand had been heavy upon them. But England was
my enemy as she was that of France. And Russia assisted her with forces
the strength of which I did not realise until it was too late.”
Who is host and who is guest in this house? I feel that I am the
guest of my German friends as far as we are not all guests--I in a
double measure--in the Frenchman’s house. For I presume it is, after
all, the owner who is the host. Yet, no, war upsets all values. In
war everything is settled by force of arms. By right of war, which
is the highest instance of appeal, the Germans are at present owners
of north-eastern France. And who will insist that Tsingtau is still
German, only momentarily occupied by Japanese? No one knows how it will
be after the war. But what we do know at present is that in those parts
of France which are occupied by the Germans, they are also masters and
hosts. Ask the civil population in our little town; they consist, it is
true, solely of old people, women and children. They are treated with
the greatest consideration and kindness, yet they know who is master
here. To have invading troops quartered in one’s place is a terrible
thing. And yet they are gentle here; inhabitants as well as property
are spared as far as possible, and one sees everywhere, in streets and
market-places, German soldiers in friendly intercourse with the natives.
[Illustration: COLONEL FISCHER AT HIS TRIPOD TELESCOPE]
CHAPTER IX
WITH THE FOURTH ARMY
On the 29th September I made a trip in the company of Count von
Eichstedt to the little village of Séchault, chiefly with the object
of quietly taking a few photographs of the daily life of the soldiers,
such as I found it on a comparatively peaceful day immediately behind
the front. We proceeded along a familiar road past marching columns of
all kinds, and villages and woods. Our road took us past many fields
where there was nobody to bring in the over-ripe corn, whilst in others
the sugar-beet was simply rotting away. On reaching the above village
we put up the car in a yard and went off to look for some tempting
subjects.
[Illustration: AMMUNITION COLUMN HALTING BESIDE A BARN]
Of these there was no dearth and I will simply say a few words by way
of explanation. In a field of white beet we came across the encampment
of an infantry ammunition column, the men having already put up
their shelter-tents. The foreground was littered with beet pulled up
and thrown aside. By the side of the road an artillery ammunition
column was resting, and its magnificent team of six horses was being
regaled with hay, whilst to complete the picture a _Fussart.-Mun. Kol.
Abteilung_ (_s. F.H._)[18] comes creaking past. From a side-road there
suddenly issues a _Fuhrparkkolonne_, or food column made up of farmers’
carts. A mounted military policeman presides over the crossing. He is
making notes on the column which is marching past. A little further on
another ammunition column has halted by the side of a barn which looks
very picturesque with its decrepit patched-up walls eaten and worn away
by wind and weather. We also catch a glimpse of one of those blessed
institutions, a dressing wagon, which I have already spoken of. It is
probably not the only one. It looks as if we had chanced upon a spot
where what we call in Sweden the first _échelon_ of the great train
belonging to the army corps in front was about to assemble.
[18] Foot artillery ammunition column detachment for heavy field
howitzers.
[Illustration: PROTRACTED HALT OF AN INFANTRY AMMUNITION COLUMN.
SHELTER-TENTS HAVE BEEN PITCHED]
[Illustration: CAMP SCENE ON A FARM AT SÉCHAULT]
In all yards and alleys in the village we see groups of these strong
and cheerful German soldiers, always happy and contented, busy
extricating their gear from the baggage wagons or cooking their dinners
or patching their clothes. The infantrymen--of whom there are many in
the village--are concentrating their attention on their kitchen wagons,
which stand steaming and appetising as usual, ranged up at sheltered
spots. The others, who had no such luxuries, did their cooking in
cooking-trenches in the old familiar way. Around the large awnings
stretched over and in front of the wagons, the crews of the transport
columns often form really idyllic little picnic groups.
Out in the field a bridging train has halted. Its vehicles, drawn by
four horses, have been dispersed. Why? It is because yesterday a French
airman flew over the column and dropped a bomb which mauled several
horses horribly and seriously injured four men. One of the pontoons
was pierced by several shell splinters, but was quickly and most
effectively repaired. It is best to be careful--one does at least what
one can to minimise the effects of these little visitations. Presently
a few infantry soldiers come along, driving a flock of about a dozen
sheep before them; we presume they have come across them wandering
about in the open. Next day there will probably be Irish stew for at
least a couple of companies.
Before a barn stands a steam-engine, busy driving a threshing machine.
Soldiers have brought in the wheat, and soldiers are driving the
engine. So it seems at any rate that a part of the crop is being
gathered. In the copse close by a company of Landwehr have halted by
the side of their piled arms. What they are doing I cannot tell, but
they seem ready for anything that may turn up.
In the village we come across the 38th reserve field hospital.
Accommodation is scanty, and the primitive farmhouses have had to be
requisitioned. The wounded are lying on straw on the bare floor. I
cannot resist the temptation of looking in, and step into a little
hovel which has once been a kitchen. It is now occupied by six men.
They are lying comfortably and softly on their backs and are all fast
asleep. They must be terribly tired since they are sleeping so soundly,
although it is eleven o’clock. I try to step as lightly as possible
on the creaking floor boards so as not to wake them. “Up, ye warriors,
arise and hie ye to the fight!” Had I exhorted them thus, they would
have lain there just the same, sound asleep with peaceful placid faces
and a smile playing about their lips. Why is their sleep so deep, I
wonder? They are all shot through the head, and in most of them the
bullet is still there.
Here is a reservist. What a tremendous figure of a man. What can
Latins, Slavs, Celts, Japs, Negroes, Hindoos, Ghurkas, Turcos, and
whatever they are called, do against such strapping giants of the true
Germanic type? His features are superbly noble, and he seems pleased
with his day’s work. He does not regret that he has offered his life
for Germany’s just cause. I cannot leave him, he holds me back, and I
ask for a chair to make if but an imperfect sketch of the dying hero
and his neighbours. But yesterday he had sung himself hoarse with the
proud refrain: “_Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein!_” But yesterday he
lay in the cold, narrow trench, and when he and his comrades dashed
forward to charge, he was struck in the head by a bullet which lodged
in the lower part of the temple. From the first collecting-place he was
now on his way to the field hospital.
The doctor comes in accompanied by two assistants. They support and
lift him into a sitting posture, whilst the doctor carefully undoes the
bandage and lays bare his skull. A large lump of cerebral matter has
been squeezed out of the wound and still lies exposed. The doctor does
not remove it, merely dries the edges after the hair round the wound
has been cut away. The edges of the lump are painted with tincture
of iodine, and a fresh, spotlessly white bandage is wound round his
head. “But why don’t you remove the exposed cerebral substance?” I ask
the doctor. “Because one wants to disturb his poor head as little as
possible, and cerebral inflammation must be avoided.”
“Can his life be saved?”
“There is little or no hope for any of those lying in this room.”
The wounded man half opens his eyes. The doctor taps him gently on the
shoulder and asks: “What regiment do you belong to?” He mumbles a few
unintelligible words which we take to mean “Reserve Regiment 87.” The
brain-centre controlling his organs of speech has been injured. He
lapses once more into unconsciousness, his thoughts no longer wander.
Shortly they will cease altogether and the soldier will rest, as now
beside his comrades, in the little churchyard in the village.
The doctor passes on to the next man and rearranges his bandages. “What
regiment?” he asks once more. “Ninety-nine,” is the reply. “Where are
you from?” “Ninety-nine.” “Are you married?” “Ninety-nine.” He gave
the same answer to all the questions put to him. “Anyhow, I suppose
he really belongs to the ninety-ninth regiment of reserves?” “No, his
regiment has quite a different number.”
But why this persistent answer to everything? Had there been
ninety-nine men in his trench or had he estimated his opponents at
this number? Had his battalion or company at some time or other lost
ninety-nine men? Or had he thought that he would reach the French
trenches with his bayonet before counting to one hundred and had
just got to ninety-nine when struck by a bullet in the forehead? Why
had this figure, or its counterpart in the mechanism of his brain,
imprinted itself on his mind like the image on the photographic plate?
Who knows? The dying soldier was about to sink into his last sleep, in
which there would be no counting to one hundred to disturb him. And
when his immortal soul awakens beyond the churchyard, other sights than
bayonets and trenches will meet his gaze.
Right opposite the doorway lay some ten seriously wounded soldiers in a
living-room. Near the door lay a man who had had one leg torn away from
the hip joint by a shell. A few ragged muscle fibres were all that held
it to his body. His face was whiter than the bolster, his big eyes were
wide open; I noticed vaguely that he had a good nose and a dark beard.
No doubt he had already been drained of blood. But as we stood opposite
him, he turned his head and asked for a glass of water. It was brought
at once, he drank eagerly and thanked us. We made a hasty round amongst
the others and in five minutes we were back at the soldier by the door.
He was now dead and his vacant eyes were gazing into the unknown.
The doctor stooped down and firmly closed his eyelids. He patted him
affectionately on the forehead and said in a tender voice, “Sleep
well, my poor boy.” Later on, the hero, dressed in his uniform and
greatcoat, was carried out to the little churchyard outside the village.
[Illustration: “A HERO’S DEATH”]
Of course it was a depressing and melancholy experience to stand
beside so many death-beds. Every day numberless men in the hey-day of
youth were thus being gathered to the eternal rest, in hospitals and
trenches. But one gets accustomed to such sights, as do the soldiers
themselves, for it does not seem to depress or frighten them in the
least to see their comrades die.
When a soldier sees his nearest neighbours fall, he does not think:
Next time it is my turn. On the contrary his train of reflection seems
to be like this: Yes, there they are, poor chaps, but I am still on my
feet and the gaps will soon be filled. No need to lament over men who
are dying for their country and for the liberty and honour of their
people.
Before we left the hospital, we had a look at some of the
identification discs carried by the German soldiers round the neck, by
the French round the wrist. One of the former read: “_Res. 1. R. 17. 6.
K. No. 220_,” and one of the latter: “_Seine, 6, Bau (Bureau) 601_.” A
third bore the somewhat incomplete inscription: “Leclerc, Alfred, 1902.”
The party at dinner, which was served in the open air, included the
Commander of the Army, Duke Albrecht of Württemberg, his three sons and
his staff, and a young Lieutenant von Hindenburg, son of the famous
Field-marshal.
[Illustration: A COMPANY READY TO START OUT, RECEIVING ITS MARCHING
INSTRUCTIONS]
[Illustration: BIVOUACKING FOOD COLUMN WITH HORSES AND COVERED WAGONS]
On the return _via_ Cernay, Condé and Challerange I had a further
opportunity of adding to my collection of photographs. In the
first-named village I took a couple of pictures of an ammunition
column, a few soldiers cooking their dinner in a yard, and a company on
the point of starting out and receiving their marching instructions.
In the next village we came across a fine-looking body of Landsturm,
likewise formed up to receive instructions regarding the work in hand,
and a parked food column with covered wagons and horses. The most
amusing sight was an ammunition column, the wagons of which had been
pulled right under the overhanging trees on the fringe of the wood and
were in addition covered over with leafy branches, all to conceal them
from observation by French aviators. A field hospital had, if possible,
masked its vehicles still more skilfully, and had likewise established
itself under the trees by the roadside. The horses were not to be seen
anywhere. They had disappeared amongst the hazel shrub. A little
further on a dressing station had been rigged up in the middle of the
wood. The white flags with the red cross could just be seen through the
foliage. Similar precautions had been taken for the protection of a
number of kitchen wagons.
[Illustration: AN AMMUNITION COLUMN AT CERNAY]
[Illustration: A FIELD HOSPITAL AT CONDÉ EFFECTIVELY SCREENED FROM
OBSERVATION]
[Illustration: KITCHEN WAGONS “AT WORK” NEAR CONDÉ]
The French aviators were out daily between 5 and 6 p.m. They--like the
corresponding German air scouts--have a double mission, consisting
partly in damaging in a military sense, by means of bombs, the more
delicate parts of the opposing mechanism, and partly in observing the
transfer and grouping of troops, but especially of artillery positions,
on the part of the enemy. The bridge across La Dormoise at Autry had
been the victim of a bomb attack a couple of days previously, resulting
in injuries to a couple of men, but leaving the bridge undamaged. At
another point in our vicinity a soldier was struck by one of those
horrible steel arrows which the airmen let fall from a height of 2500
metres and which pass right through a horse or bury themselves in the
ground after having struck a man on the head. They travel at the speed
of a rifle bullet, but weigh more. At Grandpré, a captain was killed a
few days ago by one of these arrows, and twenty-seven men were injured
by a bomb from the same aeroplane. The previous week the Germans were
just in the act of putting the last touches to a repaired railway line
running through a little town in the neighbourhood, which was to become
the railhead. The French were at once informed through their aviators
of what was going on. Three bombs were thrown, which burst close to the
station building, but no damage was done. The airman was immediately
fired on from an anti-aircraft gun, also without effect. The incident
showed however how well prepared one must be for everything. At some
points in Germany there is a constant watch for enemy aviators. If
one comes soaring along over a fortified town at night-time, several
searchlights are concentrated on him, he is blinded by the light and
loses his bearings altogether, whilst from the nearest church tower he
is pelted by the fire from machine guns, which pour a rain of bullets
on him.
The aviator uses various methods of keeping in touch with his own
side. This presumably is partly effected by direct signals, such as
flags or electric torches, the light from which can be discerned from
the ground through field-glasses. If an airman has seen, or thinks he
has reason to suspect the presence of troops or transport trains
on the fringe of a coppice or wood, he describes by the direction of
his flight the outline of the area in question, and this is promptly
followed by a rain of shells. One of the chief duties of the aviator is
thus to guide the direction of the artillery fire. If one or several
French batteries make it their business to bombard, and if possible to
destroy, a German battery the approximate position of which is known by
the airman, the latter ascends in the neighbourhood of the target and
makes his observations, which are immediately conveyed to the artillery
commander concerned. In case of “minus” hits--that is to say if the
shells fall short of the object--the airman describes a circle of
small diameter. In case of “plus” hits--if the shells burst beyond the
object--the airman describes a circle of large diameter. If the shells
fall to the left of the object, he makes an abrupt turn to the right,
and if they fall subsequently to the right of the object he swings to
the left. In this way the airman by his movements in the air brings the
fire gradually closer to the target. It goes without saying that all
these tricks are countered by the Germans with equal skill. If a German
battery notices aerial observations on the part of the enemy, and that
the enemy shells are coming nearer, it ceases fire and the battery is
moved during the night. One advantage which the French possess, owing
to the otherwise unfortunate circumstance that their own country is
the theatre of war, is that they can gather much valuable information
from the civil population. Amongst the latter it is of course easy
here and there to conceal someone who by certain signs or by light
signals at night is able to give information about the movements of
the Germans. If the chief command of an army corps or other staff has
taken up its quarters in a certain village, the French observers are
informed thereof by prearranged signals, and it is soon revealed by the
artillery fire whether they have been correctly interpreted. Signals
can also be given in day-time, for instance, through a peasant driving
his cattle to a certain spot when an airman is aloft and can see him.
Constant shifting of ground is the most effective means of overcoming
the effects of spying and of direct observation. These changes are
made at night. In daylight care is taken to remain quiet and concealed
under such cover as the ground affords. The Germans are past-masters
in the art of moving troops. The great mobility of the German Army,
the rapidity with which its various units can be thrown backwards and
forwards, according to requirements, the scientifically developed
marching powers of the infantry--there we have a few of the reasons
which contribute to make this army the finest in the world.
On our way eastward we just skim the zone which may at any moment be
reached by the French fire. But we get past safely and all that we
see is a column of yellow smoke ascending from the burning village of
Sevron, set alight by German shells. Thenceforward we are on familiar
ground and are soon home again after a thoroughly successful trip.
At half-past seven I was invited to supper with the Commander of
the 4th Army, Duke Albrecht of Württemberg. The guests included the
Minister of War, Lieutenant-General von Falkenhayn, the Chief of
Staff, General Ilse and the Duke’s three sons, all fine-looking and
talented young men, the eldest twenty-one, the second eighteen and
the third seventeen years old. They performed their duties with their
units like any other officer and had already on numerous occasions
shown commendable ability and courage. We Swedes remember what the
Württemberg Princes are like from the time of Charles XII., when Prince
Max, not yet fourteen, arrived in the King’s camp at Okuniev east of
Warsaw and subsequently shared our hard and scanty bread as well as
the plentiful fare of more prosperous days, until he died at twenty as
Colonel and Chief of the Scanian regiment of Dragoons.
At the end of the meal the son of seventeen rose to go. His duties
took him to another part of the front and he had to return. He now
walked round the table and said good-bye to all, and last of all to
his father. The Duke took his head between both hands and kissed him,
but said nothing. No scenes, no tears, no exhortations not to expose
himself needlessly to the fire and other dangers. It was like an
ordinary, “Good night, I shall see you to-morrow.” And yet, how many
officers and soldiers are there not in this war for whom there is no
such thing as “to-morrow”? How many families on parting from their dear
ones do not see them for the last time? How many bonds have not been
severed for ever? One of the Red Cross nurses had twenty-four relations
in the war, and I was told about a father who had eight sons in the
field and a ninth of sixteen who longed to follow their example. The
whole German nation has during the past months displayed a fortitude
and greatness the like of which has not been seen in our or any other
time.
On my return “home” my friends Behr, Eichstedt and Tschammer were still
sitting up talking. I settled down beside them. We were just discussing
the events and news of the day, when a cavalry captain entered and told
us that the inhabitants of two villages about twelve kilometres away
had fired on the soldiers, although the village had been in German
hands for six weeks. The order had therefore been given that all the
men of one village and all men, women and children of the other should
be arrested and taken to Vouziers. The distinction made was probably
due to the shots in the first village having been aimed at aviators
and in the second at troops. Half a company of Landsturm infantry,
accompanied by a squadron, likewise of Landsturm, were therefore at
1 a.m. to proceed to the spot. The latter were to occupy all street
exits and prevent any attempt at flight. Meanwhile every house was to
be searched by the infantry and all inhabitants arrested. On arrival
in the town they were to be court-martialled and the guilty ones shot.
Such is the severe rule of war. There is no quarter, no salvation.
Of course pity is felt for the wretched people, for what could they
gain by firing a few paltry shots against a whole army? Is it possible
that they believed in the mad rumours that the bridges of the German
engineers had been built to assure the German retreat, and that the
fortune of war had lately turned completely round? Whence could such
news come? Obviously only from the civil population itself. Those
who spread such rumours incur a heavy responsibility towards their
countrymen for the lives they have risked, and gain nothing in return.
I wondered what would happen to the wretched creatures. The very next
day I had an opportunity of seeing them in the dock. They were all
old people, peasants and their women folk. The latter wept and looked
surprised, the men showed an indifferent demeanour. The war had already
taken from them everything, life had no longer any charms. During the
few days that the trial lasted they wanted for nothing--once I saw the
prisoners sitting round large tables in a yard, eating their dinner. My
heart urged me to intercede for them and to appeal to charity and pity,
but my reason told me that one cannot and must not interfere in the
decisions of military authorities, who are guided by law. I could but
harden my heart and let it grow as cold as ice. It may be asked what
happened to them in the end, whether they were tied to trees and shot.
I lost trace of them for the moment. But a couple of days later I asked
one of my friends about their fate.
“They were all released through lack of evidence,” he said. “Those
who had fired from the villages had clearly fled when our Landsturm
arrived. The suspects have all returned to their homes.”
[Illustration: PEROT JULIEN, A 54 YEAR OLD PEASANT CHARGED WITH
PLOTTING BUT RELEASED THROUGH INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE]
It must not be thought that the German court-martials treat such cases
lightly or hastily, as if human life in a conquered country had no
value. No, the court is utterly incorruptible and carries out its task
with the most scrupulous thoroughness. Just as mitigating circumstances
are when possible adduced in favour of a German soldier who--which
is very rare--has assaulted a woman and therefore been condemned to
death, it is sought in the same way to save the country’s own children
when they are accused of crime. The court-martials of the German
“barbarians” are in the highest degree conscientious and humane.
The last day in September was set aside for rest, that is to say,
for short walks and excursions. One of the latter was made to the
churchyard, where eighteen German soldiers had been buried the previous
day in a common grave, which was still open. Dressed in uniforms,
greatcoats and caps, the dead are laid in rows alongside one another,
with thin layers of earth in between. The reason why this grave has not
been filled in is probably that there is still room for more dead. The
German warriors who have been resting since 1871 amongst the French
crosses have now indeed got company from their own land. On a new grave
I read the inscription: “_Hier ruht in Gott Ltnt. Hans Greiner, Inf.
Reg. 29. Schlaf wohl, tapfrer Kamerad_.” (Here rests in God Lieut.
Hans Greiner, Inf. Reg. 29. Sleep in peace, brave comrade.) And on
another: “_Hier ruht in Gott Hauptmann Parsohen, Res. Feld Art. 16. Er
starb für König und Vaterland._” (Here rests in God Capt. Parsohen,
Res. Field Art. 16. He died for King and Country.) A third grave bore
underneath the name and regiment the words, “_Auf Wiedersehen!_” To one
of the German graves a French rosary had found its way and hung on the
cross over the dead soldier’s helmet and two bunches of flowers. An
obelisk bore the inscription, “_A la mémoire des soldats morts pour la
Patrie. Armée Française 1870-71_,” together with a string of names.
Next von Behr and I drove to the flying station at ----, where six
_Gotha Tauben_ with Mércèdes motors were housed in large yellow tents.
One of the “doves” had a wing perforated with bullets. The holes had
been covered over with little patches. These patches are regarded
almost as medals for valour in the field. The more scars an airman has
on his machine, the more exposed he has been and the greater has been
his daring when above the enemy positions. I do not know which is the
more unpleasant feeling, to know that one has an enemy aviator right
above one’s head or to know that an anti-aircraft gun is planted right
underneath and taking aim!
Whilst we were at the station, two “doves” spread their wings for
flight. It is beautiful to watch their graceful, easy movements. Before
one can quite realise it, the slender wheels have left the ground and
the machine is slowly rising from the field and describes a little
circle over the tree-tops round about. It gradually rises in a circling
motion higher and higher and the two enormous iron crosses under its
wings gradually dwindle in size. It reminds one of the carrier pigeon
which first rises to a certain height to get a view of the surrounding
country and then darts off as straight as a die towards its goal. For
when our first Gotha “dove” had reached a sufficient height, she went
off at a tangent from her last spiral and flew straight south to the
French positions and to the rear of them. Once there, it was the duty
of the “observer,” who sits in front with map, note-book and glasses,
to make his observations and then to come back and report them--that
is assuming that he does not happen to be shot down on his journey.
When over the enemy lines, it is necessary to ascend to a height of
2000-2500 metres so as to be moderately safe from the shrapnel fire
from below. But even at 1600 metres the airman and his companion begin
to have a feeling of security. After a short while, the second _Taube_
ascended and followed the invisible track of its predecessor through
space.
[Illustration: FRENCH PRISONERS AT VOUZIERS]
On my return I looked in to see the French prisoners. Five of them,
from Bordeaux and Narbonne,[19] were seated round a tub peeling
potatoes for their own dinner. Whilst I was sketching them, we had a
chat on general topics. They were surprised at the kindly treatment
they received in German captivity. They had expected something quite
different. “One can’t expect more than a roof over one’s head, straw
to lie on and sufficient food to eat, and all that we get here. We are
on friendly terms with our German guards. They often offer us cigars
or chocolate. We should quite well be able to live on good neighbourly
terms with the Germans.” The Frenchmen further told me that they all
had wives and children at home who of course were anxious about their
fate. They wondered whether the war would last long, whether they
would be taken to the interior of Germany, and whether they would be
allowed to associate with their own countrymen in captivity so as not
to feel too lonely. I was able to give them comforting answers to
their questions. One of them said that he had seen quite fifty of his
comrades being killed at the spot where he was taken prisoner. Another
had lost an old school-fellow by his side, after they had long been
together in the trenches. The five prisoners from southern France were
calm, self-possessed and sensible men, whose views on the war had
sobered down considerably since the day they first heard the reveille
in Bordeaux and Narbonne. The glamour and the gloss had disappeared,
and the triumphant chant of the victory which they had dreamt of,
had died down to be succeeded by the naked, bleak reality. Now they
saw the tricolor but dimly, as through a haze, and the music of the
Marseillaise no longer sounded in their ears.
[19] From the 18th and 16th Army Corps or their reserves.
[Illustration: FIVE RESERVISTS FROM BORDEAUX AND NARBONNE WHO FOUGHT
IN ALSACE AND CHAMPAGNE AND WERE CAPTURED THE 26TH AND 27TH SEPTEMBER
SOUTH OF VOUZIERS. THEY ARE BUSY PEELING POTATOES. AT VOUZIERS THE
FRENCH PRISONERS WERE ALLOWED TO COOK THEIR SOUP THEMSELVES IN ORDER TO
GET THE PROPORTION OF MEAT AND VEGETABLES THAT THEY LIKED BEST]
[Illustration: SAISAC OF TOULOUSE, 11TH INFANTRY REGIMENT (33RD INF.
DIV. 17TH ARMY CORPS). PRISONER AT VOUZIERS]
We spent the evening in the mess together with about thirty officers.
The discussion was of course about the events of the day and the hopes
of the morrow, and about the news brought by the latest newspapers from
all parts of the front. One of those present told us that 270 military
trains a day had passed through Kirn (between Kreuznach and Birkenfeld)
during the first days of mobilisation, whilst another mentioned that
when a regiment at Eiffel was told by its colonel that Britain had
declared war, they broke into frenzied cheering. These war pictures
were accompanied by the peaceful tones of a gramophone--which not long
ago must have had very different listeners! The mess was housed at the
residence of a French officer, and I had a look at the pleasing and
attractive family portraits in an album, with groups of cavalry
officers, amongst them a couple of Swedes, Counts Lewenhaupt and
Cronstedt, lieutenants respectively of the Dragoons and Hussars of the
Regiment of Life Guards.
[Illustration: OLIVE, 30 YEARS OLD. INFANTERIE COLONIALE, 24ÈME (2ND
COLONIAL INF. DIV.). NATIVE OF PERPIGNAN, EASTERN PYRENEES. PRISONER AT
VOUZIERS]
On the 1st of October we made an excursion to the troops, and had
the company of the delightful and plucky chief of the flying corps,
stationed just then at Vouziers, Captain H. von Chamier-Glisczinski. He
called for us in his car and we drove at a wild pace through the avenue
south-westward to Somme Py. Before however getting so far, we stopped
a moment at the flying station, where the Captain had some business to
attend to. Whilst we halted a _Taube_ came swooping down in a glorious
vol-plane. It descended at what appeared a terrific speed, with its
light graceful wings sharply silhouetted against the glorious blue sky.
It came to the ground quite close to us and I thought I should have
to step aside a bit not to be struck by one of the planes. When near
the ground, the machine made a slight movement as if intending to rise
again. But it was merely to lessen the shock on landing. Then it rolled
along a little way on its wheels and came quietly to a standstill.
[Illustration: GERMAN AIRMEN: CAPTAIN CHAMIER, LIEUTENANTS COUNT
RAMBALDI AND BÜRGER, AND A FOURTH. THE IRON CROSS CAN BE SEEN ON THE
UNDERSIDE OF THE LEFT PLANE]
The airman and his companion accompanied us a little distance on our
way. Once more the many phases of the active life in the rear of the
fighting troops unfolded themselves before our eyes. It was not so
difficult to advance as I expected, for nowadays it is the custom to
keep still and under cover during daylight. Here and there little fires
were burning in the shadow of trees. Cooking was going on, and the
soldiers were contentedly drinking their coffee, smoking their pipes
or taking sun-baths on overthrown wheat-sheaves. The food wagons with
their white and yellow arched awnings were as usual covered with leafy
branches in order not to attract more than necessary the attention of
the French airmen.
Somme Py was not much of a place to stop for, nearly the whole village
is burnt and destroyed, leaving nothing but naked walls with sides
blackened by the soot of flames. We proceeded on our way. Now and again
we catch a glimpse of an ambulance section with doctors and stretcher
bearers and vehicles, or of the fighting train of some infantry
regiment. We recognise our old friends the foliage-shrouded kitchen
wagons, the yellow ambulance wagons, surrounded by stretcher bearers
with their white bands round the arm, and rows of grey ammunition
wagons, all harnessed up with a team of two horses.
At length we reach a point in the road where four light field howitzers
are posted in a strong position by the wayside. Captain Chamier tells
the chauffeur to stop and to hide the car well in the shadow of a
tree. It is not considered advisable to proceed further, as the car
may attract the attention of the French observers. We therefore alight
and take a little turn round the battery, which happens to be at
work. A salvo has just been fired, and the reloading is proceeding. I
seize the opportunity of taking a couple of pictures. The guns, like
the ammunition wagons, were well masked and were either dug in or
surrounded by a rampart consisting of stone and sandbags covered over
with earth. The target for the day was the village of Souain, 4050
metres distant. I was told it was practically in ruins and that what
remained was in flames. The firing of the battery was directed from the
_Beobachtungsstand_ or observation post which we visited later on, and
from which the effect of the shells could be discerned through good
field-glasses.
[Illustration: A BATTERY OF LIGHT FIELD HOWITZERS IN POSITION]
When a shell strikes a house or other object, a dark column of
smoke composed of gases, dust and earth, rises from the spot, and
flames mingling with the smoke soon reveal the fact that combustible
substances have been ignited. When unaccustomed to these weapons, one
cannot but regard them with a certain amount of awe. This awe is no
doubt still further increased with experience. The officers themselves
appear perfectly unmoved, but I think this is mostly due to the
exercise of self-control. A commander must not betray emotion before
his men. He must be perfectly calm. But it _must_ nevertheless tell
upon the strongest nerves to remain for long under fire. This battery
had occupied the same spot for eighteen days without being discovered
by the French aviators.
[Illustration: A SALVO HAS JUST BEEN FIRED. THE GUNS ARE NOW BEING
RELOADED]
From the battery we proceeded on foot in open order through an avenue
of trees, taking care to keep in the shade. Of course our security
was not absolute, for here and there the trees had been cut in two
by the French fire. We walked some five hundred metres southward to
the observation post referred to, from which the fire was directed by
telephone, and from which the foremost French positions could be kept
under observation. The first thing that attracted our attention on
approaching this very interesting point was something resembling a
tree, rising above the young growth of the wood. On further inspection
we found it to be a mast of the thickness and height of a telegraph
pole, provided with a ladder, a little platform and a seat for an
observer. A pair of glasses were left there permanently, and the
observer was masked by leafy branches.
On reaching the spot we were received by not less than three colonels,
of whom, however, two were accidental guests, and by a couple of other
officers. Colonel Fischer, Brigade Commander of the Field Artillery,
a most genial and amusing man, was full of talk about Asia and more
especially India, where he had travelled very extensively. We had thus
many memories and friends in common, and I am afraid that on this
occasion Asia took precedence over the Franco-German war.
[Illustration: COLONEL FISCHER AT HIS TRIPOD TELESCOPE]
However, I could not go away without seeing the underground abode of
these officers, for they live there day and night, and as the spot is
exposed to the French fire, they have to take certain precautions. A
stairway, the steps of which had been cut out of the soil, leads to
a cave dwelling of two rooms, small and dark, faintly lighted by a
paraffin lamp and heated by a little tin stove, now burning brightly.
A table, let into the wall, made of half a plank, is laden with
toilet articles, glasses, maps, instruments and pistols in delightful
confusion. In the sleeping apartment the beds are laid on the floor
close together. I could not suppress a pious wish that the inmates
would be preserved from death by asphyxiation in this subterranean
cavern. One must not suffer from a horror of confined spaces if one
is to sleep comfortably in these holes. But nevertheless it must be
a great comfort to have this haven of refuge if and when the spot is
bombarded. I was told that the cave was not quite proof against common
shells, but that there was no danger from shrapnel. The officers’ meals
are usually taken in the cave, so that they may at least eat in peace.
A few steps further on we visited a telephone station installed in
the masonried cellar of a wrecked house. This cellar was thus a
subterranean chamber, to the walls of which a number of telephone
appliances had been fastened. Below them several officers and privates
were seated on benches let into the walls. Whilst I was there several
telephones kept ringing simultaneously. Constant attention was
therefore indispensable. Besides being in permanent communication
with its own division, this station was in touch with the whole of
the 4th Army through its Chief Command, and with Main Headquarters.
There was, in fact, nothing to prevent its occupants from ringing up
Germany, except of course that private conversations are forbidden.
Two airmen, Lieutenants Count Rambaldi and Bürger, had just arrived at
the observation post after a reconnaissance over the French positions.
It was wonderful to hear how clearly and concisely they reported what
they had seen. Rambaldi stood for a long while with the telephone
receiver in one hand and in the other the map on which he had traced
his observations. He was speaking to some member of the General Staff
of his Army, with the same map before him and doubtless also with
a pencil and note-book. The Lieutenant would, for instance, report
something like this: 550 metres north-west of the village of X I
observed artillery in position, but probably only 2 guns. On the road
leading from the west to the village Y I saw a stationary column of
eight vehicles. I could not make out whether it was an ammunition or
food train. The battery which yesterday was posted in the hollow south
of the village Z has to-day been removed, but it is impossible to tell
at present where it has gone.
Information thus gained--especially if it is of the kind indicated in
the above example--assists in the first place the direction of the
artillery fire. But that is not all. The air scouting--as I have made
clear above--is primarily at the disposal of the Chief Command in
order to discover in time the grouping and shifting of the opposing
forces. Movements of troops, in order to avoid observation from above,
therefore now take place during the night. This is why between four and
five in the morning one always encounters troops of every description
on the march, whilst in daylight they are seldom to be seen--at least
not the infantry--barring an occasional body of Landwehr or Landsturm.
From this observation post it was about two kilometres to the foremost
German infantry positions, which in turn were from three hundred to
five hundred metres from the French trenches. Sometimes, when the
country is very open and affords no cover whatever, it may not be
possible to get closer to the enemy than one thousand metres. In these
advanced positions there is never any relaxation of tension. A
moment of quiet can never be relied upon. Of course the occupants of
a trench need not all be on the alert at the same time. If this were
so, exhaustion would soon set in. But in every unit a certain number
of men are always told off to watch the enemy whilst the others are
“resting.” Glasses are always in use as long as daylight lasts. When
it is dark, patrols are pushed forward to signal immediately in some
way or other if there is any sign of approach on the part of the
enemy. It is a dog’s life. If one pokes one’s nose over the edge, one
becomes immediately the target of unwelcome attentions, and bullets
start whizzing round one’s ears. The previous morning at ten o’clock
it had been discovered that the French were proceeding to an attack on
a part of the German position in front of us (north of Souain). One
could see how, from a little wood at ----, they tried to creep forward
under cover of the folds and creases of the ground. Two volleys of
shrapnel were at once poured over them, 150 men fell and the others
retired. But the French pay back in the same coin whenever they have
an opportunity, and they fire with great skill from their excellent
field artillery. Their ammunition, on the other hand, is said to be
less good. Yesterday, for instance, only seven shells had burst out of
thirty-six.
The German soldiers retain their good humour in the face of great
danger. Sometimes, for the fun of the thing, they place a helmet which
has lost its owner on a stick and move it with a nodding motion along
the edge of the trench. In a trice the French bullets begin to rain
around it and the soldiers bet as to the number of hits.
I am told there is no exaggerated cleanliness in these trenches,
although one does what one can to remove anything that does not belong
there. In these parts, I am told, the opposing troops have come to a
mutual understanding, according to which, on certain solemn occasions,
they are allowed to climb out of their trenches and walk one at a time
and unarmed in the direction of the enemy. A soldier leaving some
project of that kind need only raise his spade over the parapet and
swing it three times backwards and forwards. After the signal he may
confidently proceed on his errand and when completed return to his
trench.
On one occasion two grazing cows happened to find their way to the
space between two infantry positions facing one another at a short
distance. How it came about it is difficult to tell, but by the
mysterious code of soldierly freemasonry it was agreed that a French
soldier should milk one cow and a German soldier the other. When the
job was done, they returned quite placidly to their trenches. All this
shows that the French soldiers also are not wanting in humour and high
spirits, even though day and night death is like the breath in their
nostrils.
The different infantry forces, large and small, are also in telephone
communication with our observation post. One of my hosts asked if I
would like to hear how the battalion in the most advanced position of
all was getting on. Why of course I should, I said. I was handed one
receiver and was at once ceremoniously introduced to the commanding
officer of the battalion, who himself answered the call.
“How are things going, Major?”
“Thank you, very well.”
“Have you anything special to report?”
“Yes, there was some firing in the night, but no losses.”
“In what sort of spirits are the men?”
“Excellent, as usual.”
“Have you received the eight machine guns that were to be sent you last
night?”
“Yes, they have arrived and are already in position, but one of them
has no shield. However, we will manage with an earth parapet for the
present.”
“Have you any other wishes?”
“No, thanks, everything else is all right.”
The Major’s voice sounded calm and confident, but I could detect an
undercurrent of solemnity in his answers.
That part of the observation post which lay above ground had been
transformed into a pleasant little arbour or enclosure among the young
trees, visited now and again by cycle and other orderlies. A telescope,
well protected and concealed, stood ready on its tripod. Another had
been mounted in the road outside the arbour. With these glasses one
can see almost everything, right away to the horizon. Thanks to the
vertical position of the tubes, the observer’s head can be protected
altogether by an armoured shield or a wall. From our commanding
position we had an excellent view of the nearest infantry positions.
Colonel Fischer explained everything to me. He focussed the horizontal
cross line on a German trench. I saw it very clearly, it appeared
like a somewhat uneven dark line. I could even see a man getting up
out of the trench, probably after having waved his spade backwards and
forwards the regulation number of times.
Thereupon the telescope was focussed on one of the French infantry
lines. This was not quite plainly discernible, but yet fairly clear.
Still further to the south, about 3550 metres from the point where we
were standing, we saw the burning village of Souain and a few clumps of
trees, behind which we had reason to suspect the presence of cleverly
masked artillery positions.
In the east-south-east, between Souain and Perthes, we could clearly
see a French battery of four field guns and a little nearer towards us
a few abandoned gun ramparts.
Suddenly the Colonel shouts, “_Deckung!_” A French aeroplane, a
Blériot, is approaching. We hurry under the trees so as not to attract
its attention. A few orderly mounts, tethered in a hollow, are likewise
moved to a place offering better concealment. The airman comes nearer.
We hear faintly but distinctly the drone of his motor. He is sailing
along right over our heads. Is he going to drop bombs or smother us in
a shower of arrows? It would be a useful day’s work for him to destroy
an observation post from which the fire is directed and where the
telephone wires of the neighbourhood run together. Some civilian spy
may have conveyed a signal. But the alarm seems needless, the aviator
flies past and there are no explosions. With a feeling of satisfaction
we see the great bird disappear. He is seeking some other target for
his bombs.
Although it was combined with a certain risk, we walked a couple of
hundred metres closer to the infantry positions. The ground sloped
slightly downward in this direction. We follow the road in open order,
keeping to the shadow of the trees, and where there are shrubs we keep
close to them. If we are caught sight of from some French observation
post, the enemy guns will immediately be trained upon us. However, we
safely reach an infantry reserve unit. In this war, where one lies for
weeks and months at practically the same spot, the former open fighting
has gradually given place to a sort of siege war, with its attendant
methods and customs. I here found that every infantry unit was divided
into a number of shifts. The “changing of the guard” usually took place
at about six every morning. A battalion which for twenty-four hours
has occupied the area entrusted to the defence of its regiment, may
then return to the rear after a fresh battalion has moved up into the
position in question.
But even at the point where the reserves are posted it is necessary to
dig oneself in, and above all to be well screened from observation.
These shelters usually take the form of niches or “dug-outs” in the
soil. The openings are covered over with a slender roof of sticks,
twigs and hay. We looked into one or two of these “caves” and saw the
soldiers fast asleep and apparently not lacking anything. I noticed
that all the men were wrapped up in their canvas tent sections. In this
case we had happened to come across a detachment which had arrived
from the firing line in the morning and was now to sleep till midday.
Afterwards there was to be exercise--_drill_. As darkness comes on,
the kitchen wagons are brought up with their comforting hot food. Such
was the life in the German reserve positions on the north side of the
wooded country north of Souain. Nobody cared to advise us to continue
from this point, as in that case we should certainly have been visible
from the French observation posts and should have been exposed to a
murderous fire. Even a kitchen wagon, which does not travel far except
under cover of darkness, was hit the other day by a shell and had four
men killed. Some light or other had probably been seen by the enemy,
and as he had the range to a nicety, he fired a volley. But now it
was day-time and we had open ground before us. I was told on this
occasion--in connection with the advice not to proceed further--a story
of an attack made from the German side a few days previously in order
to capture an advanced French position in the neighbourhood of Souain.
The attack was launched at dusk, but failed. Several Germans remained
on the ground. The lightly wounded were taken prisoners by the French,
but three men had been so badly hurt that they were not considered
worth taking, and were left on the ground. The nearest French soldiers
took pity on them and went out each night in the dark to take them food
and water, and even cigarettes. One fine day a plucky German doctor
with a few stretcher bearers came forward from the German line. They
had brought a Red Cross flag, carried high on its pole. At first a few
shots were heard from the French lines, but as soon as the Frenchmen
realised what was up, they ceased fire, as nobody wanted to interfere
with the rescue work. Thus the doctor was able to carry his charges
into safety.
[Illustration: OBSERVER MASKED BY TWIGS AND BRANCHES]
[Illustration: SCENE ON THE ROAD IN FRONT OF THE OBSERVATION POST]
At another reserve position we chatted awhile with the grey-coats, who
had recently lost a Lieutenant Johannes. The mound which covered his
remains was surrounded by a perfect battery of shells, standing like a
set of nine-pins with the cross for its centre. Young pines had also
been planted as sentries round his grave.
After a couple of hours with these friendly, merry, brave and manly
fellows, we started out on the return journey to the flying station,
where the guard delivered his report to Captain Chamier, adding: “It
was lucky you did not arrive a quarter of an hour ago, for just then an
aviator passed over the station and dropped a bomb which burst close by
here but without doing any damage.” As a memento I was given a splinter
of the bomb, which it was pleasanter to have in one’s pocket than in
one’s body.
From Somme Py we proceeded south-east to Tahure and passed on the way
an ammunition column perched on the fringe of the wood by the side of
its little cooking-pits. Inside the wood we caught sight of numberless
items making up a transport train, such as infantry ammunition wagons,
ambulance wagons, kitchen wagons and spare horses.
In the yards and alleys of the little village there was an incessant
bustle, and it took us some time to thread our way through. A little
way beyond Tahure we left the car once more and proceeded on foot to
another observation post, a little less important than the previous
one, but otherwise on the same lines. We had hardly got there before
shrapnel began to burst around and over us. An officer advised us to
seek cover in a little trench, which, however, had no roof. For my part
I was quite willing to follow his suggestion, and was glad to stop in
the hole until the fire had died away. A few moments later another of
those winged monsters of the air, known by the name of war aeroplanes,
passed over us, without however showing signs of wanting to harm us.
CHAPTER X
QUIET DAYS
On October 2nd I made an excursion to Sedan to replenish a few items
of my equipment. I was offered a seat in Lieutenant Kollmann’s covered
car, which made this journey daily, and we tore along northward through
the thin veil of mist which floated over fields and meadows.
As we reached the bridge at Le Chesne, a Landsturm man stepped into
the road, swinging a white flag. We stopped, and an officer stepped
forward, saluted courteously and asked to see our pass. This is
curious, I thought, this car ought to be pretty well known, and is
manned besides by an officer and two chauffeurs, all in uniform.
However, when our papers had been examined, he explained that the watch
had been made stricter, as it had been found that there were so many
spies about, who were even bold enough to dress up in German uniforms,
so that one could not be too careful.
The railway to Vouziers was clearly not yet equipped with sufficient
rolling-stock to meet the demands made upon it, for the great road on
the lines of communication to the 4th Army were still encumbered with
endless transport trains.
“What do the letters E.K.K. mean, that I see on all these cars?” I
asked my travelling companion.
“_Etappen Kraftwagen Kolonne_” (Mechanical transport trains for lines
of communication), he replied. “They carry food and ammunition like all
the others.”
Thereupon we chatted awhile about this wonderful life which goes on
behind the front, about all these threads by which an army hangs in an
occupied country, and about the many types of armed wayfarers on foot,
on horseback, and in wagons. We talked about the villages, crops, herds
of cattle, and the wretched humans wandering about like strangers and
prisoners in their own land. They are utterly cut off from the outside
world, for there are no paths so secret and so subtle that news from
France can reach them. How the war is progressing, they have no idea.
They have not had a newspaper, not a letter, for close on two months.
All they hear is an occasional rumour spread by some free-lance and
intended to make them put difficulties in the way of the invading army.
“But what on earth do they live on?” “Oh, there are plenty of potatoes
and poultry, besides the corn still ungathered in the fields. And there
are still plenty of cattle, for you can see them yourself grazing by
the roadside. Sheep and pigs are equally plentiful, but the one thing
there is not much left of is wine. For when the French Army passed
through it did not stint itself, and then we came and took the rest.
But we pay for everything and nobody will be the loser by what we take.
Matches and paraffin disappeared long ago, and so there is nothing left
for the inhabitants but to go to bed, like the chickens, with the sun.”
Presently we arrived, drove across Place Turenne, attended to our
business and met again at the Croix d’Or for lunch. Here every room
was still taken up and the restaurant was well filled as usual. The
proprietor was very contented and admitted that he was doing a roaring
trade, provided that his “_bons_” were redeemed after the war. The
town now wears a Prussian air, uniforms, soldiers and patrols wherever
one looks. We were glad to sit for a while by the window and look out
upon the square. Officers are busily walking hither and thither on
the business of the lines of communication of the 4th Army, from the
Base Commander’s Office to the _Palais de Justice_, where the Base
Inspectorate is located, and from the _Palais de Justice_ to some other
public building where some German authority has taken up its quarters.
As they pass the grey-clad sentries with their gleaming bayonets, they
are always greeted with a smart military salute.
I cannot take my eyes from this window, the warlike, active scene
outside fascinates me, and yet everything is done quietly and
deliberately, and the greatest order reigns everywhere. Here is a row
of cars ranged up in single file with carbines fastened to the screen
in front of the driver’s seat, ready for use when wanted. Several of
the cars are provided with a sort of superstructure of two iron hoops
carrying a sharp narrow iron rod which starts from the front of the
car and slopes upward over the heads of the occupants, coming to an
end just in front of the hood. One might think it was the framework
of a tent in case it became necessary to spend the night in the car.
But this was not the case. The object of the contrivance is to cut or
at least deflect telephone wires which might have been maliciously
stretched across the road to injure travelling officers. When driving
at high speed in the dark and coming up against one of these wires, one
has every prospect of being decapitated.
But the most interesting part of it all was to watch the civil
population, the natives of Sedan. Here come two bareheaded girls
accompanied by a boy in a cap and cloak. Walking backwards and forwards
between the hospitals are nurses in white or black head-dress, but
always with the Red Cross band round the arm. A couple of them are
following a stretcher carried by ambulance men, on which lies a
seriously wounded soldier taken from a train. On the other side of the
square a couple of elderly women come plodding along with enormous
bundles--doubtless washing for officers, who pay them well to look
after their wants. I always feel the deepest compassion for these poor
creatures. They have lost their country and their liberty, and the war
has deprived them of their husbands and sons and ruined their homes. It
is the poor who suffer most, the rich and well-to-do have fled in time
and taken their valuables with them, leaving nothing but their empty
and deserted houses. Yet here and there a wealthy citizen has elected
to stop, or perhaps left his servants to guard his house and home. Such
families will find their possessions absolutely untouched. In the house
where officers have lived, not a pin will be out of place. But during
the repeated advances of an army, after the officers have departed from
their quarters and left them absolutely intact, it no doubt happens now
and again that soldiers subsequently billeted there may not treat the
effects with the same respect.
Here come a couple of ladies of the higher bourgeoisie, perhaps mother
and daughter, dressed in black and with long black veils. Are they in
mourning for fallen relatives, or perhaps for the fate of France? As
a matter of fact, the more well-to-do women always wear black. They
_cannot_ but mourn. They understand better than the common people the
position of unhappy France and how unfortunate the policy has been
which brought them into this great, sanguinary war. If one lives for a
few days at the same spot and passes the same houses several times,
and maybe greets the old women standing alone or with their children in
the doorways, one of them may occasionally nod pleasantly and answer
“_Bon jour, monsieur_,” but the next one hardly takes any notice. The
first may be well off and hope to see her menfolk once more, the other
is probably brooding over her grief and sorrow, for she knows nothing,
has nothing, and has lost all hope. Those who cook, bake, wash, mangle
and “do” for the Germans are always contented, at least on the surface.
The storm has already travelled past them. Whatever they do, they
cannot change their fate and must make the best of what is left.
One would have to be of stone, were one not to feel pity also for the
old men. Here come a couple slowly walking across the square. Look at
their wrinkled faces, their careworn features, their sharp profiles,
black eyes and great grey moustaches. They are very plainly dressed and
wear felt hats on their heads. They walk bent after their day’s work,
if they have had any. Look at the corners of their eyes in profile,
with all their lines showing, and watch the moist glance and forlorn
expression of the eye. These eyes have ceased to cry and see no light
ahead. But ask for once the old people if _they_ wanted the war and
if they think it is for France’s good. No, they, the old men and the
women of all ages, bear no blame for the nameless misery that is now
spreading over France.
I cannot tear myself away from the window. The bizarre life outside
is running its even course. In the centre of the square, inside the
lamp-posts and the iron railing stands the great Turenne on his stone
plinth, scarred and green with age. He stands there like a ghost and
an anachronism, and looks down with imperturbable calm on those dim
distant ages whose blood-drenched waves are lapping round his feet.
Everything that has been destroyed by the French in order to render
the German advance more difficult, and everything that has been laid
waste by the ravages of war itself has long since been mended by the
German Army and its organisation. The railways are running, new bridges
replace the wrecked ones, telegraph and telephone lines have been laid
down, water-systems have been repaired and the electric light is now
burning as brightly as ever in times of peace. Times of peace! It seems
as if an eternity had flown since those days. The clocks in the houses
have stopped, there are no French hands to set them going. The great
clocks in the church towers alone denote the flight of time. It is
German time that they show, and it is important that they should be
working, not so that the priests may know their hours of duty, for they
need no clocks, but in order that the transport trains, the soldiers,
the sentries and the green-clad military police posted round Turenne’s
statue and at other points may know when they shall relieve or be
relieved--and last, but not least, in order that the civil population
may know how long it is to nightfall. Anyone found loitering in the
dark is shot if his papers are not in perfect order and if he cannot
show that he is out on a lawful and proper errand.
But the clock-tower strikes its five deliberate strokes and it is
time for us to return to Vouziers, if we mean to arrive before it is
quite dark. I cast a final glance at the houses opposite, where some
windows are open and give me little snapshots into the interior--not
of domestic French life, but of German billeting scenes; other windows
are closed and further protected by green and white shutters. I have
reached this stage in my reflections, when a tall gentleman comes
up to me and introduces himself as Baron Bleichröder of Dresden. He
is wearing a uniform which I cannot quite place within the somewhat
narrow limits of my military knowledge, and I therefore hit upon the
simple question, “What are you doing here, Baron?” “I have brought
with me twenty-nine motor-lorries of _Liebesgaben_ for the troops,” he
answers. “The lorries are filled to the roof with little parcels of
cigars, cigarettes, pipe-tobacco, underclothing, socks, handkerchiefs,
newspapers, chocolate and other things the soldiers like.”
At last we took our leave and proceeded in a south-westerly direction,
with the rapidly setting sun before us on our right. There was
something remarkable about the sunsets at this time. To-night it was
a glowing, burning red, and the sky around was tinted in the same
gorgeous colouring. But it made me think of the long, bloody trail now
stretching from Belfort to the sea in the north-west, a distance of
about four hundred miles. Here the soldiers lie in an unbroken row of
trenches, so closely together that a word of command or a piece of news
can be repeated from ear to ear from Middelkerke to Altkirch; allowing
only one man for every metre, this makes a total of six hundred
thousand men. But the density is in reality far greater, and one is
almost stunned at the thought that Germany, which in the east, too, has
an enormous front to protect and stands in arms at many other points,
is yet always able to fill the gaps with fresh, perfectly trained men.
It is true that, numerically, the Allies are three times stronger than
Germany and Austria-Hungary and that they--the self-conscious British,
and the French, so rightly proud of their cultured refinement--have
instituted a regular import of black and brown human material from
distant continents. But in real soldiers the Germans are superior.
Practically speaking their country is clear of enemies--with the
exception of six hundred thousand prisoners--and they are fighting out
their fight on enemy territory.
Saturday, the 3rd of October, passed very quietly.
It is pleasant to be able to rest now and again, when otherwise one
is always on the move. I dined at one o’clock with Professor Zinsser
and the doctors under him. The table was laid in the garden. Over our
heads we heard the buzz of German biplanes and _Gotha Tauben_. A cheery
and willing Franciscan friar waited at table and joined animatedly in
the conversation. After dinner the distinguished old _pater_ Müller
came to call. Now and again a batch of French prisoners marched
past. A couple of them were carrying a sick German to the railway
station, whilst others were carting coal to the hospitals in barrows.
I photographed a band of eighteen men on their way to dinner. One can
see even in the picture that they are in the best of spirits, well
cared for and sheltered against cold and rain. Some scenes I witnessed
between prisoners and their guards were inordinately comical. On one
such occasion I saw a German gaoler pat his French prisoner on the
shoulder and say in a fatherly, patronising voice, “_Hier hast du
eine Cigarrette, mein Bursch_” (Here is a cigarette for you, my lad),
whereupon the Frenchman gave a friendly nod, accepted the cigarette
with a smile and a _merci_, and lit it from the German’s pipe. Among
the soldiers one sees no signs of national hatred. But in the French
press it glows like a consuming fire. Not to speak of the venom of the
English newspapers!
[Illustration: PATER MÜLLER, PROFESSOR ZINSSER AND A FRANCISCAN FRIAR]
In the evening I spent a few moments with some Jesuits employed in
the service of the Red Cross. They had some sanguinary tales to tell
of places they had recently visited, particularly Rossignol. I might
fill whole books with these horrible stories about streets drenched in
blood, fallen soldiers and hand-to-hand fighting in towns and villages,
where every house has to be stormed whilst death is being rained upon
the attackers from the windows. But this is not part of my task, and I
have made it my duty to speak in the main only of what I myself have
seen and experienced.
In the Argonne forest much blood has flowed, as I myself have seen
in its northern part, both from the east and west, when with the 5th
and the 4th Army respectively. Although the whole of the front has
developed more or less into a siege war with trenches, communicating
trenches, barbed-wire entanglements and _trous-de-loup_, this applies
even in a larger measure to this forest region. Here the engineer
troops have had much work to do, and it is the generals of the
Engineers who lead the advance. To progress quickly is _impossible_.
The forest, so badly kept that it would horrify a northern
sylviculturist, is very difficult to advance in. In certain places one
has to cut one’s way step by step through shrub and undergrowth. This
sort of country is easy to defend, and the French understand their
business well. At night or in a fog, the Germans push forward a thin
line of infantry about fifteen paces distant from one another. After
having advanced as far as the conditions allow, the men dig themselves
in. This gives rise to a chain of pits which afterwards, by continued
digging longitudinally, are united into a continuous trench. When the
men have made themselves at home in this new position and extended
it, a further area in front of the one occupied is cleared by fire,
whereupon the fresh advance is made. In this way the forest is swept
clean. It must be taken step by step, tree by tree, for--as I have
already pointed out--the defenders have organised even the tree-tops
for defence, and have mounted machine guns there. In the gloom of the
undergrowth it is not always easy to distinguish friend from foe. On
the occasion of my visit it was not advisable for anyone to come too
close to the Argonne forest unless his duties called him there. In
certain cases the risk seemed even greater for those behind the firing
lines than for those in the advanced positions, for the French usually
fired too high. Their shots mostly passed over the heads of their
nearest opponents, who, by the way, were remarkably well concealed.
This is not to be wondered at, for when the enemy is almost upon one,
accurate shooting becomes difficult. The parts of the forest which have
already been taken by the Germans look very strange. The ground is
streaked with trenches and communicating trenches joining the former
together, and the trees are often charred and stripped by the fire.
The French are cleverer at artillery than infantry shooting. One of the
doctors here told me that of the 2500 patients he had had to attend to,
not quite ten per cent had been hit by rifle bullets; a few had been
wounded by sword cuts or bayonet thrusts, but all the rest had been
struck by shell splinters and shrapnel bullets. If the ammunition were
better, the effect of the French artillery fire would be appalling.
On Sunday morning, the 4th of October, at 5 o’clock, the kindly
Franciscan friar came to call me. I dressed hurriedly, and accompanied
by a Catholic soldier on orderly duty in von Behr’s house I wandered
off to the “Home for the Aged,” in the chapel of which the birthday
of St. Francis was to be celebrated with mass and song. No daylight,
no moonlight; the heavy hand of night still grips the earth. A damp
mist floats over Vouziers and the stone paving is wet. Here and
there an electric lamp is engaged in an unequal struggle against the
darkness. Now and then a few hurried steps are heard--monks on the way
to mass. In front of a house used for some military purpose tramps a
sentry--otherwise the street is still and silent.
On reaching our goal we step into a tiny garden, and are presently
in the chapel. It is already filled with worshippers. Here sit the
Elizabeth sisters from Essen in their white veils, and the St. Vincent
sisters from Hildesheim in black veils; the Franciscan friars have
already taken their places. Several Catholic soldiers occupy the
galleries, where presently I join them.
At the altar the statues of saints are illumined by tall candles, just
being lit, but the two candelabras are not yet brought into use. It
is still so dark outside that the stained-glass windows shut out all
light and are illumined only from the inside. The features and dress
of the Virgin Mary and St. Helena in their leaden setting are scarcely
discernible.
A friar in a vestment embroidered in white and gold, surrounded by
four other friars equally gorgeously attired, steps up to the altar.
Suspended from long, fine chains they carry censers with glowing
charcoal, on which one of them sprinkles an aromatic powder. Light
blue clouds of smoke ascend to me in the gallery and instantly recall
to my memory similar scenes from the Uspenskij Sobor in Moscow and
Taschi-lunpo in desolate Tibet.
Now begins the Latin altar service. One of the priests chants, and the
congregation responds with the constantly recurring refrain: “_Per
omnia secula seculorum. Amen._” “_Oremus_” comes from the altar, and
again “_Per omnia secula seculorum. Amen_” from the congregation.
Next comes the sermon. The preacher chooses for the subject of his
discourse the life of St. Francis. Prayers coupled with his name are
this day being offered up throughout the world. The congregation cannot
better celebrate his memory than by fulfilling their duties on behalf
of human love and charitableness, and by doing their part towards the
relief of the sufferings of wounded soldiers.
The stained-glass windows begin to brighten. Day is breaking outside.
The congregation sings a German song in honour of St. Francis. A friar
once more steps up to the altar and rings a little bell. I cannot take
my eyes off these friars and sisters, who have come straight from the
battlefields and hospitals, and whose thoughts are now so peacefully
centred round the name of the great patriarch. How moved they seem,
how eagerly they make the sign of the cross to betoken their piety!
In a picture opposite the choir the crucified Christ looks down from
the height of His agony on to the kneeling figures. “_Per omnia secula
seculorum, Dominus vobiscum. Gratias agimus Domino Deo nostro. Unus
est Deus, unus est Dominus._” The bell rings once more, the censers
are swung on their chains, and it almost seems as if the Virgin Mary
and Saint Helena had stepped out of the gloom around the altar and had
approached us.
The attendant friars greet one another by placing their hands on one
another’s shoulders and head. Holy Communion is administered to the
congregation, and once more the eternal refrain is chanted: “_Per omnia
secula seculorum._” It makes one think of all the brave ones dying
out in the trenches and of the flower of the male youth of two noble
nations which is being sacrificed on the altar of shell fire. Maybe
the thoughts of the nuns and monks, too, are more taken up with the
strife now shaking the world to its foundations, than with the peace
surrounding the name of the Holy Francis. Perhaps the thought of all
the soldiers who have died before their eyes is clouding their mental
vision. It cannot be easy to die when one is young and strong, and
has all one’s life before one. But the honour of the country demands
that its men be sacrificed. Their memory shall live “_per omnia secula
seculorum_.” _Coronas decoris meruerunt._
The candelabra on the communion table are now lighted. But they are no
longer needed, daylight once more reigns outside and Saint Helena’s
features now look down clearly on all beholders. Round her lips plays a
smile full of gentleness and goodness. She, the friend of the helpless
and suffering, seems to rejoice to see so many brethren and sisters
devoting their best energies to the relief and care of wounded and
dying soldiers.
But now the devotions are over and my Franciscan friar leads me to
the colonnade, where the sisters give us coffee with beautiful white
wheaten bread and marmalade. Here we spend an agreeable hour together
before parting.
The Protestant field service was held at half-past nine. The worship
took place at a quiet street corner under the open sky, a safer place
than the fields outside the town, where a large gathering of people
would make a welcome target for a French airman’s bombs. A few hundred
soldiers and some fifty officers forgathered here. An octette from the
regimental band began playing a psalm--we Swedes know it well--it has
been sung before the blue and yellow standards of Gustavus Adolphus,
before the Carolins at Narva, on the banks of Vabitj, on the plains
of Ukraine, and has brought solace and comfort to the poor forgotten
prisoners in Siberian thraldom: _Ein feste Burg ist Unser Gott_. The
soldiers joined in with their strong clear voices. Perhaps one ought
to have seen and heard this sort of thing to realise what Swedes and
Germans have in common. At one time we gave each other the noblest
and the best that we possessed. The Lutheran faith preserved by the
sword of Gustavus Adolphus was the seed and life germ which has given
birth to that Germanic culture which to-day is fighting for its
existence. None of us can escape the responsibility for the inviolable
preservation of the common heritage. Our German brethren are now
shedding their hearts’ blood in a cause which in equal measure concerns
ourselves, and for which Sweden’s greatest Kings gave their all and
their lives.
Pastor Marguth of Hessen conducted the service from some stone steps.
He was attired in a black gown and, like all other chaplains of the
Field Army, he wore round the arm a white and violet band. Taking the
Epistle to the Romans as his subject, he spoke on the strength which
the Gospel gives. From that he passed to the stirring world conflict
which now filled everyone’s thoughts. He spoke of the irresistible
power sometimes imparted to a people with the knowledge that it has a
ruler who likewise is a real leader. The Emperor had done all within
human power to avert the war, he said. The Emperor wanted peace, but
when he was forced into the war he knew what his position was and
understood what the people asked of him, and trusting in his people he
did not hesitate to strike a blow for Germany’s existence and future.
He spoke of the nation’s sense of duty, which is the first prerequisite
of victory. The people _know_ what they must do when duty calls. “We
must thank God for His infinite grace in thus making us united and
strong in our time of trial, in our direst but also our greatest hour.”
Then he touched upon the spirit of the soldiers and their firm resolve
to fight to the last drop of blood and not to give way until the last
man and the last horse has fallen. He spoke with simple eloquence, no
flowers and no phrases. He spoke manfully with cheerful confidence
and an unshakable faith in victory, and the German words roused a
ringing echo from the old French houses opposite. “_Vater unser, der
du bist im Himmel._... _Der Herr segne Euch und behüte Euch._” In
conclusion another psalm was intoned. It was sung in swelling, rousing
tones, as if they were on the eve of the triumphal entry through the
Brandenburger Tor in Berlin. Here they stood, these broad-shouldered,
sturdy Teutons, in the hey-day of youth and strength, with eyes
flashing beneath their helmets--eyes whose vision would perhaps be
dimmed for ever to-morrow in the trenches. I thrilled with emotion as
I heard the ringing song, and thought: These men may know the art of
dying, but their nation can never die. And this thought led to the
reflection: I am sorry for the Powers who have combined to destroy it;
what rivers of blood will flow before _they_ learn to understand that
their aim, the destruction of Germany, is unattainable!
“Und wenn die Welt voll Teufel wär
Und woll’n uns gar verschlingen,
So fürchten wir uns nicht so sehr,
Es soll uns doch gelingen.
Der Fürst dieser Welt,
Wie saur er sich stellt,
Tut er uns doch nichts,
Das macht, er ist gericht,
Ein Wörtlein kann ihn fallen.”[20]
[20] And if the world with devils teemed,
All watching to devour us,
Yet are our hearts from fear redeemed,
Not they can overpower us!
And let the Prince of Ill
Look grim as e’er he will,
He harms us not one whit--
For why? His doom is writ;
A Word shall quickly slay him.
(_Congregational Hymn Book_ version, slightly modified.)
Army chaplains almost form a race of their own. They are always
cheerful, always wide-awake, self-sacrificing and dauntless. They are
the soldiers’ priests, they preach for the living and comfort and
console the dying. Creed no longer plays a part, the Protestant and
Catholic chaplains are like brothers together. There is no rivalry
between them, they have all _one_ God and _one_ aim, the welfare of
their country. One often sees chaplains hurrying along on horseback,
a cross round their neck, the black felt hat on their heads and the
white and violet band round the left arm of the field tunic. They not
infrequently wear the Iron Cross. This no doubt means that they have
stood up in the midst of the shell fire and spoken of the Resurrection
and the Life, or that with immovable calm they have remained at their
post and addressed the congregation when enemy aviators were flying
overhead. Or maybe that they have this very night in cold and rain
crept between shrubs and bushes to reach the trenches and celebrate
High Mass on Sunday for their occupants.
Once more my thoughts fly away to our own immortal times of greatness.
Pictures of solemn Carolin chaplains in boots and spurs seem to rise up
before me, men who in strength and fortitude of soul were an example
to the soldiers to be resolute and loyal unto death. I seemed to see
as through a mist the regimental chalice placed upon the altar built
up of silver tymbals, round which kneeling men and haughty officers
throng to listen humbly to the Lutheran confession of faith, and to
vow in ringing tones that in life and death alike they believe in the
forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting.
The battlefields are a sterile soil for atheism. Man is then too near
his Maker and to the threshold of eternity.
Our service ended quietly; no airmen came to disturb us, even the
guns seemed to respect the day of rest. We took a walk round the
town. The Town Hall, which looks on to an open space, has been turned
into quarters for the Landsturm Guard, which is changed at midday.
Officers also come in and out to receive their orders. Close by the
Chief Command has been accommodated in the _Palais de Justice_, whilst
another house has been chosen for the headquarters for the Commandant
of the Lines of Communication. One sees no new or handsome houses. The
streets look dull, with their monotonous, old-fashioned frontages,
not old enough to bear the picturesque impress of antiquity. The only
really attractive structure is the Church of Saint Morille; it looks
old enough, in fact I was told by a native that it dates from the
thirteenth century. Its façade is richly ornamented, but also bears the
marks of bullets from 1792, so I was told. The interior of the church
is gloomy and typically Catholic with its mighty pillars, its figures
of the Virgin, its altar ornaments, memorial tablets and votive tablets
to the Virgin.
Facing the church is a statue of Taine on a pedestal, the front of
which illustrates his genius reclining against a pile of bronze folios.
Over the doorway of a house close by I read the words: “_Hippolyte
Adolphe Taine de l’ Académie Française est né dans cette maison le 21
avril 1828._”
By the side of Taine’s statue stood three elderly citizens, busily
chatting together. What they were talking of I do not know, but perhaps
it was not hard to guess. I greeted them and they returned my greeting.
I asked for some information about the church and about Taine, and
from this we passed on to more practical subjects. It seemed that in
common with many others they had decided to stop at Vouziers. Those who
had left the town, about three thousand, had in their opinion acted
unwisely, for they would find their houses and furniture ruined, whilst
those who remained behind were able to safeguard their interests and
property. Of the coming winter they hardly dared to think. It would
be terrible, and would bring famine and destitution in its wake.
“But the Prussians will have to provide us with our daily bread.”
Their political views practically amounted to this: France cannot
gain anything by this war, but can lose much; but France will fight
nevertheless as long as there is a soldier left. To my question whether
they ever received any news, they replied: “_Non, monsieur, nous sommes
des zéros._” One feels the deepest compassion for these unhappy people
whom God and the world seem to have deserted.
On October 5th I had an opportunity of witnessing the sitting of a
court-martial of the Chief Command of the Army. It had to deal with
five cases of offences. This is not much for a whole army, when one
knows that the slightest theft from a house is punished with the utmost
severity. A more refreshing intermezzo is furnished by pay-day, which
occurs three times a month. Both officers and men receive in war time
nearly double their peace pay. Pay-day happened to come on one of the
days I spent at Vouziers. The money is paid in notes, but also in coin.
The day after, the field post had plenty to do, as from this single
place alone the soldiers sent 250,000 marks by registered letter to
their homes. A very large percentage of the enormous sums swallowed up
by the army thus returns to Germany.
CHAPTER XI
TO BELGIUM
I had now camped long enough among the splendid officers of Duke
Albrecht’s army, and began to long for fresh adventures. General von
Seckendorff passed through Vouziers daily, and had courteously asked
me just to tell him when I wanted to accompany him back to Sedan. But
he always travelled northward at a late hour, and it so happened that
one fine morning I suddenly felt inclined to start off. I went round
and took a few groups at the railway station, such as French prisoners
at work, a few doctors and nurses, an artillery transport train and
a company of railway reserves. The station commander, Lieut.-Col.
Böhlau, accompanied me. At first I thought I should like to take a
military train to Sedan, but abandoned this plan on discovering that
the next train would not start for several hours. The Colonel then
made another suggestion. Since no officer’s car was leaving during
the day I might accompany one of the large motor-wagons which carry
the field post to the postal station at Sedan. An excellent idea! It
was sure to be interesting to see how the field post was managed. The
mail was not starting for a little while, and I even had time to lunch
with my old set: von Behr, von Eichstedt and von Tschammer. I thanked
these gentlemen, took leave with the customary _auf Wiedersehen_ and
hurried away. Two young artillery lieutenants, Müller and Fuchs, had
also been allowed to make use of the mail car. They had been so long
under incessant fire that they needed a rest. One of them had been in
many hard fights and wore his Iron Cross. They were both jolly and
pleasant, and we were all three seated, with none too much room to
spare, behind the mail-bags, which otherwise filled the entire vehicle
up to the roof. We thus had a view to the rear over and on each side
of an orderly standing on the platform. What was happening on the road
ahead of us we could not see, but I had by now become familiar with its
varied life. So off we went, rattling and jolting, towards Sedan.
[Illustration: FRENCH PRISONERS WORKING AT THE RAILWAY STATION AT
VOUZIERS]
[Illustration: ARMS AND KNAPSACKS OF DEAD AND WOUNDED--VOUZIERS]
These wondrous bags, what tales did they not have to tell of the
life at the front! One almost seemed to hear the old refrain: “_Lieb
Vaterland, magst ruhig sein!_” How often had I not seen the soldiers
sitting over their letters home--at the Cuirassier barracks in Vouziers
at tables rigged up with planks and trestles, in streets and yards,
using the mudguards of the cars or baggage-wagon cases as desks, or
in subterranean caves behind the trenches, where they lay on their
stomachs and wrote with their note-books as backing for the paper. If
one were to take out a mail-bag haphazard and make it into a big, thick
volume, and then read this volume from cover to cover, one could not
fail to be impressed with the merry and cheerful outlook of the German
soldiers, their faith in victory and their national vigour. One would
look in vain for a single word, a single suggestion of complaint over
long marches, excessive burdens, intolerable discipline, unnecessary
drill at odd moments in between the fighting, insufficient or bad
food. One would find that those who talk of marches, say that had they
been double as long they would yet have managed them. As to weight of
equipment, it is simply not mentioned. Discipline! If anybody mentioned
it, he would say something like this: “Thank goodness we have officers
who know what they want and take out of us what we can give, who punish
if there is anything to be punished and who dare maintain that absolute
discipline amongst the troops without which no army can win.” “These
qualities,” they would add, “are possessed by our officers, and that is
why we obey them, love them, trust them blindly, and gladly follow them
into the fire.” Germans understand that silk gloves are out of place in
a military education. They demand from their officers that inflexible,
iron severity which is necessary for the proper moulding of an army
into a whole, into an ever-ready instrument, and they do not permit
anti-military agitation to foment that passive resistance against the
leaders which is often discernible elsewhere. The German knows his
power. He knows that it is the military discipline which pervades every
fibre of the country’s body that has given them their strength. But
they are not slaves, they are masters primarily of their own will and
of their own actions.
Does anyone think that this imaginary volume would contain a single
word of fussy and squeamish complaints about food? No, one would
read nothing but humorous and almost affectionate jests about the
_Erbsenkanone_ (“pea-shooter”), the field kitchen, which is always
there at the right moment when the soldier’s belly is empty. Doubtless
there are many who have not touched food for forty-eight hours, if they
have been lying under heavy fire in a trench. But to complain would
never occur to them. They would only say what a wonderful sensation it
was to get the hot pea-soup with its lumps of fat into their stomachs.
Besides, they would probably have forgotten all about their misfortune
by the time they wrote.
[Illustration: A FIELD-KITCHEN OR “ERBSENKANONE” (“PEA-SHOOTER”)]
This is the way they talk in their letters. And probably they write
about the shell fire and the bayonet charges as if they were part of
the routine of daily life. Every letter in the big book would contain
affectionate but never sentimental greetings to father and mother,
to wife and children, to sweethearts and sisters. So we were in
excellent company, Müller, Fuchs and I, as we sat there and shook and
jolted among the mail-bags on the twenty-eight mile journey to Sedan.
That mail wagon carried a few days’ war history, disintegrated into
atoms. I could not help time and again casting a glance at the bags
and wondering what they had to say. I thought of the many farewell
greetings they contained from soldiers for whom the fatal bullet had
been cast and who would write no more field postcards, of the greetings
from the wounded who would soon lose consciousness for ever, to be
carried out to the great common grave in the local churchyard.
My companions had much to tell about these things. But everything moved
so swiftly and the wagon rattled so noisily that I forgot the greater
part as fresh impressions came crowding into my mind. One of my new
friends, after some fight was over, had gone up to a French soldier who
lay on the ground with a nasty wound in the abdomen. He had stopped
to see if he could help the wounded man before the ambulance arrived.
The Frenchman wept bitterly and pulled out of his breast pocket the
portrait of his sweetheart, which he showed the German officer. After
he had looked at it eagerly for a couple of minutes, it slipped out
of his benumbed hand and he sank back and died. Frenchmen also know
how to die, and there are no words to express their bravery and heroic
contempt of death.
For three weeks Müller and Fuchs had shared the rough and the smooth
together in their entrenched artillery position. At first they had
suffered great hardships from rain and wet, but once they and their
men had had time to dig themselves in properly, like moles under the
earth, all had been well--especially when they had found some small
stoves in neighbouring villages and installed them in their burrows.
They soon became so accustomed to the shell fire that they slept like
logs even when the air was filled with thunder and the impact caused
the ground to tremble around them--that is, of course, if it was their
turn to sleep! On Sunday, the 4th October, the day we heard Pastor
Marguth preach, divine service had been held in the church at Cernay.
Müller and Fuchs were there, and they told me that it was one of the
most moving scenes they had ever witnessed. Too much light was not
allowed, and on the altar alone a couple of candles were burning. But
it was full moon and clear weather. The moonlight streamed in through
the windows and illumined the aisle and pillars and the weather-beaten
faces of the soldiers who had come in from their trenches or transport
wagons. Meanwhile French shells were falling in the village, and
there was a horrible rending and roaring from the explosions and the
collapsing houses. But the chaplain did not permit himself to be
disturbed. He seemed not to notice the pandemonium outside. He spoke
without a quiver in his voice of the peace in God and the duty to one’s
country. The soldiers listened immovable, and when the strains of the
last hymn had died away and the lights had been put out they dispersed
down the little streets and alleys, weirdly illumined by the moonlight
and the fire from the burning houses.
Thus the journey to Sedan was greatly shortened, and for my part I
should have liked it to be double as long. But the mail van pulled
up at the railway station, and there I had to say good-bye to my two
interesting companions. On the platform stood Major von Plato at his
post, jolly and cheerful as usual.
“Tell me, my dear Major, is there any decent means of getting to Namur
without having to encumber an officer’s car?”
“There are no direct trains to Namur, but in twenty minutes there will
be an ambulance train which can take you some distance into Belgium,
and once you get so far, no doubt you can get along some other way. Of
course, you must first have permission from the surgeon in charge of
the train.”
Whilst I was waiting for the doctor I went to have a look at a troop
train--an infantry battalion, or something like it, crowded into
third-class carriages. These travellers had come from Königsberg, and
had swept East Prussia clear of the enemy, so they said, and now they
were on the way to Verdun. Every compartment, with normally six seats,
now also carried six men. But instead of sitting they were lying down,
two on the floor, two on the seats, and two in the luggage racks. They
were in the most exuberant spirits, and the din was fearful.
Presently a messenger came to tell me that my surgeon had arrived and I
went to see him. Judge of my surprise when I found it was Chief Staff
Surgeon Dr. Fröhlich, whom I had met at Sedan and Vouziers!
“May I come by your train?” I asked.
“Why, of course, to Breslau, if you like.”
“But, of course, you are going through Belgium?”
“Yes, as far as Libramont, then we turn eastward and in four days we
are at Breslau.”
Dr. Fröhlich had now been travelling for some time between that city
and Vouziers with wounded officers and men. Now he had upwards of three
hundred patients on board, whom he was to drop here and there on the
way until only a few remained to the journey’s end, where they would be
taken charge of at some home hospital. That done, he would return as
rapidly as possible with an empty hospital train to fetch a fresh batch
of wounded. He is therefore constantly on the move with his staff of
doctors and assistants, and he was very pleased to have company for a
while.
Time is up and the train starts with military punctuality, after we
have taken a hearty farewell of the cheery Major von Plato. Presently
we settled down in Dr. Fröhlich’s compartment, which almost resembled a
little study. One wall was taken up by a sofa, the other by a couple of
chairs, and a writing-table decorated with flowers in empty cartridge
cases and still fresh, having been sent from the doctor’s home. Other
tokens of his domestic ties were portraits of his wife and children and
of a son and nephew fighting at Rheims. Here also lay an open diary,
in which the doctor notes the incidents of his good work and enters
such observations and discoveries as he may make in the course of
his practice, together with various suggestions for improvements in
hygienic arrangements in the field, which may be found of use in future
wars--if any!
We speed past a wrecked road bridge and a railway bridge which has
been treated in the same way, and watch an airman ascending from earth
in elegant circles, his wings tinted red by the evening sky. Here is
another troop train--there is seemingly no end to all these soldiers.
Wherever one goes and whatever time it is, everywhere one finds myriads
of soldiers as in a gigantic ant-heap. By degrees twilight descends
upon us, and the pretty scenery through which we pass evades my gaze.
It is now dark. We sit still and chat whilst the train speeds on and
the hours pass. The hours are short in Dr. Fröhlich’s company, but
the train is interminably long--it consists of forty-two coaches. At
Carignan, where the line swings round towards the Belgian frontier,
and where the ground begins to rise, the train is divided into
two sections, each drawn by two locomotives. We felt a tremendous
pulling and tugging in our half. We are now on the “war road,” whose
acquaintance I had made on the journey to Sedan. The wounded, dreaming
about battlefields, bombs, and shells, must think that they have
suddenly been overtaken by an earthquake, to put a finishing touch to
their adventures. The cartridge cases with their flowers came hopping
down from the table and we ourselves get a terrible shaking. But we are
just as cheerful, and there are no pauses in our talk except when Dr.
Fröhlich goes his round among the wounded.
After a plain but excellent supper we retired to rest. At Bertrix the
two halves of the train were put together once more, and the poor
wounded soldiers are brought a stage nearer to the homeland.
It was four o’clock when Dr. Fröhlich came in to call me, and a moment
later we stopped at Libramont. Here our ways parted. But before saying
good-bye we paid a visit to the kindly, cheerful sisters, who had
steaming coffee ready at the station for the many travellers. Then we
asked the station commander whether he could help me to get to Namur.
“No, not the whole way, but as far as Jemelle. Once you get there, you
will have no difficulty in finding somebody to take you the rest of the
distance.”
“Good; when does the train start?”
“Now, immediately. But it isn’t exactly a train, only four coupled
locomotives ordered from Jemelle.”
I have indulged in many modes of locomotion, from the camels of
Takla-makan to the rickshaws of Kioto, but it is a solemn fact that I
had never yet travelled on a locomotive, and I therefore accepted the
offer with the greatest alacrity. So I took farewell of the excellent
Dr. Fröhlich, and was conducted with my baggage by a lantern-bearing
Landsturm man across a few railway tracks to the four locomotives. The
leading engine, which I climbed on to, had the tender in front. I thus
had a clear view of the line and of the landscape which by degrees
unfolded itself before me. But it was a cold and draughty journey.
A thin coating of hoar-frost lay over the ground and its whiteness
was emphasised by the moon, which cold and solemn floated above the
tormented earth.
The driver and fireman were sturdily built fellows, deliberate and
imperturbable. Their sooty faces betrayed no emotion, no anxiety, but
they kept their eyes glued on to the line ahead, ready to stop the
engine on the slightest suspicion. They were not exactly overworked,
for lately their duties had been reduced considerably; but a little
while previously they assured me that they had had to work forty-eight
hours without a break. The firing of _franctireurs_ along the line had
ceased. They could now travel with a certain sense of security, but had
nevertheless to be careful.
The night is calm and still. We meet long military trains, looking
weird and fantastic in the unaccustomed perspective, and the stations,
at Hatrival, at Merwart, are encumbered with endless goods trains,
now empty. Day gradually begins to dawn. Gardens and woods begin to
take shape, and the leafy crowns of trees become more plainly outlined
against the sky and the white ground. We pass over a wrecked bridge
which has been repaired by German _pioniers_. Here comes Grupont with
its arched bridge. It grows lighter and lighter. I begin to long for
the sun and its warmth. The landscape is exceedingly pretty, with its
wavy undulations and its little coppices and meadows dotted about. The
driver offers me a little three-legged stool, and as the fireman opens
the furnace door to throw in a few shovelfuls of coal, he smiles at me
when I take the opportunity of warming my hands a moment.
Forrières! Now the sun rises like a glittering golden ball, and gives
colour to trees, fields and pastures, houses, gardens, and Landsturm
men, now able once more to turn down their coat-collars.
We arrive at Jemelle and step down. I thank my friends for their
excellent company, but a tip is not accepted. On the platform comes
a N.C.O. and asks what my business is. I show him my _Ausweis_, and
he asks me to wait in the station commandant’s office until his
arrival--it is now only 6.30 a.m. Inside a friendly stove is burning,
in front of which I settle in an arm-chair and soon fall asleep.
After a while Captain Haaf, the commandant, comes marching in and
rouses me, mildly surprised at finding a total stranger in possession
of his own office. But we are soon friends.
“When is there a train to Namur?” I ask.
“At 11.30 we have a supply train going through, and if you like to
travel by that I shall be pleased to put on a passenger coach.”
“Good, that will suit me excellently.” The Captain then took me to a
Belgian restaurant close by, where a couple of breezy and talkative
women soon served up a first-class breakfast. The Captain told me that
they did not yet feel quite safe from the attentions of _franctireurs_.
A few days previously a rifle bullet had been aimed at the
station-house in Jemelle. The culprit was seized and court-martialled,
but his fate had not yet been settled. In the neighbourhood of Houyet
a band of Frenchmen had recently attacked some Germans, and a punitive
expedition of 130 men had been sent out after them.
Time is now up and the train steams away through the hilly country, its
little villages and its cattle grazing in the pastures. As yet there is
nothing to remind one of war but the Landsturm men on guard along the
line, the railway troops at work here and there, and the troop trains
halting at the stations. At Marloie one was standing in the station
and we pulled up alongside of it. One of the carriages was taken up by
Red Cross nurses, and as chance would have it, my window stopped right
opposite one of theirs. A couple of the nurses were propped up against
each other fast asleep, another couple were reading, the rest were
knitting. One of them looked out through the open window. She looked
very sweet in her light dress and the Red Cross on the arm.
“Where have you come from and where are you off to?” I asked.
“We come from Berlin and are going to Sedan,” she answered.
“But surely there are hardly any wounded left in Sedan now; most of
them have been taken into Germany.”
“Yes, we have heard that is so, but no doubt plenty more will be coming
down from the front. Where have you come from yourself?”
“From the country south of Sedan.”
“Are you a German?”
“No, I am a Swede.” In the end I could not help introducing myself to
the young lady and her companions. Conversation was soon in full swing
and we had just got to know each other nicely when my train slowly
glided out of the station. I just had time to wish them success in
their charitable work, and in reply was greeted with friendly wavings
from their window--and so that little idyll came to an end.
On the way between Aye and Hogne some men belonging to a fatigue party
made signs that they wanted to come on board. The train slowed down
so that they could jump on to the step and get a free ride with their
picks, spades, and rifles.
To the left the country falls away in enormous flat wooded waves which
die away on the horizon in a haze of dark green, light green, greenish
blue, and bluish grey. Our train takes us through little woods and
shrubs, coppices, clumps of fir and oak, and tunnels blasted through
the solid rock. Now and then we come across a crowd of Belgian workmen
at work on the embankment. The little signal-boxes along the line are
guarded by Landsturm soldiers in pickets of ten to twelve men.
The little town of Ciney boasts an unusually handsome station building,
round which things seem livelier than elsewhere. Sometimes we meet
colossal empty trains with straw in the goods-trucks and benches
piled up topsy-turvy. One wonders whether they have been to carry
reinforcements to the besieging army outside Antwerp. Often one sees
attractive and well-kept kitchen gardens at the stations or between
the fine-looking stone houses in the villages. At some distance from
the railway we sight at length the fort of Naninnes, flying the German
flag. Soon after we cross the Meuse by a _Kriegs-Eisenbahnbrücke_
(war railway bridge), where we get a view of the remains of the old
permanent bridges which were blown up during the first days of the war,
and presently we enter the delightful and prettily situated little town
of Namur.
In order to get the information I needed, I applied to a Captain,
a tall man with snow-white hair and beard, no less a person than
professor emeritus Doctor B. Lepsius, who in spite of his age has gone
out to the war. He is a great friend of Professor Svante Arrhenius, and
looked after me like a father during my short stay in Namur.
[Illustration: A DOCTOR, PROF. CAPT. LEPSIUS AND A FEW SŒURS DE LA
PROVIDENCE IN THE CONVENT GROUNDS]
After my baggage had been stowed away at an hotel by the railway
station, we paid a short visit to the Governor, General von Hirschberg,
who had no objection to letting me see one of the forts of the
fortress. As companion I had, besides Professor Lepsius, Major Hans
Friederich, of the General Staff.
We drove to the northern fortifications and soon arrived at Fort
Marchovelette, now called fort No. 1. Namur is, or rather was,
surrounded by nine forts. In the Belgian days they were known by
definite names, now they are merely numbered. The first impression
that one gets of No. 1 is that the destruction has been less complete
than in the Port Arthur fort where General Kondratenko was killed
during the Japanese siege in 1904. I had an opportunity to visit that
“eagle’s nest” exactly six years ago. It looked like a huge pile of
broken stones and rubbish. But on closer examination of No. 1, one
is astounded at the appalling effect of the fire from the German
heavy artillery. The fort is triangular with one apex towards the
north-east. Its glacis is covered with barbed wire-netting stretched
out to a height of one metre between the iron posts driven vertically
into the clay-bound soil. The netting is close, and covers a belt of
thirty or forty metres. Inside is the moat, commanded by the fire from
galleries in the counterscarp. At length we reach the heart of the
fort with casemates for the garrison, armoured turrets for artillery,
searchlights and fire control, and an infantry rampart like a belt
round the grey cupolas on the summit.
Ten to fifteen metres away, outside the barbed-wire zone, I noticed in
the ground the crater of a 42-cm. shell, 30 metres in circumference
and about 8 metres deep. On the almost vertical concrete walls of
the scarp and counterscarp I saw the marks of shells of more normal
dimensions--streaky scars radiating from the point of impact.
Splinters of shells of various dimensions were still lying about. One
queer-looking fragment of a 42-cm. shell was so heavy that I had to
exert myself to as much as shift it. But then one of these “coal-boxes”
weighs when whole hundreds of kilos. A little splinter which I
took away with me showed that the metal had been expanded to about
one-fourth of its original thickness.
Everything regarding the giant mortars is kept secret. But this much I
was told, that their range is enormous. The vertex of the trajectory
is several kilometres above ground. The ranging is done with great
precision, but of course one must be prepared for not hitting the
target with the first shot or two. “Misses” are, however, very rare.
The most exhaustive calculations and observations are made before the
shots are fired. Observers are posted at suitable points as near the
objective as possible; they are in communication with the gunners and
report the point of impact. When a 42-cm. shell comes pounding down
from a height of several kilometres, there is nothing built by human
hands which can resist it.
In fort No. 1 we saw a good instance of the effect of these gigantic
projectiles. One shot had struck the annular armour round the cupola
of the largest armoured turret, had passed through the half-metre of
metal as if it had been butter and had then continued through a bed of
concrete five metres thick. This shell was also provided with a _Zünder
mit Verzögerung_.[21] If the fuse is set for retarded ignition the
explosion only takes place a couple of seconds after the impact. If one
cannot make sure that the projectile has first penetrated the material
to be destroyed, its effect, at least on armoured concrete, would not
be very disastrous.
[21] Fuse timed for retarded ignition.
The engineers from Krupp’s were now busy repairing the forts both at
Namur and Liège, and a large number of men were engaged in this work.
By repairing the occupied fortresses the Germans are strengthening
their strategical position and can release considerable forces for the
actual fighting line.
The effect of the heavy artillery on the defending garrison will be
realised when it is stated that at one fort seventy per cent of the
complement were killed, whilst the remaining thirty per cent were
severely injured. As we all know, the brave Commander of Liège, General
Leman, was wounded in this way. In another fort were found forty
bodies, which showed no trace of injury. It was evident that these men
had succumbed to the gases of the projectiles or had been choked by the
concrete dust which is said to whirl up in the most appalling manner
and to penetrate everywhere. The air pressure had also flung many
soldiers against the walls of the casemates, and they were subsequently
found with broken skulls.
One of the lessons which may be said to have been learnt in the present
war is that even the most modern fortifications equipped with the
most superb armoured turrets are useless when opposed by artillery of
the calibre of the great German mortars. The circumstance that the
projectile does not burst until it has penetrated into or even through
the concrete bed gives rise to a havoc which challenges all attempt
at description. Everything within the “bomb-proof arch” thus struck
is rent asunder and destroyed without leaving a trace. The projectile
first operates from above downward, and then from below upward through
the explosion.
The 42-cm. mortars are brought up to their emplacements on rails laid
down especially for their conveyance.
From fort No. 1 we returned to the town, which is at its prettiest at
the point where the Sambre falls into the Meuse. South of the Sambre
an exceedingly picturesque road winds its way up to the crest of the
Citadelle height, on the slope of which the Stadion is also situated.
Of the magnificent Grand Hotel Namur-Citadelle, which looked down from
the top of the hill, there is nothing left but a skeleton of iron
girders and brick walls. The proprietor was a German, and the Belgians
suspected that on the approach of the Germans from the north-east he
signalled to his countrymen. The building was therefore burnt down.
But the view is left, and it is nothing short of superb, especially up
the Meuse valley with its innumerable villas and châteaux lining the
banks in the direction of Dinant, which are, or rather were, inhabited
by wealthy Belgians, for most of them have gone away on account of the
German occupation.
The town of Namur itself has only suffered slightly from the ravages
of war. The Hôtel de Ville has become a ruin, like many houses in its
neighbourhood. But it is estimated that only about twenty houses in
all have been wrecked by shell fire. The Germans have been blamed for
the destruction they have wrought among human habitations, churches,
public buildings and objects of artistic and historic value. Such
losses are, of course, exceedingly regrettable. But neither attacker
nor defender can pay any attention to such considerations when the
fate of his country is at stake. If it is noticed by an armed force
advancing to seize a place serving as a _point d’appui_ to the enemy,
that the church tower is being used as an observation post, the church
tower is shot down. When the Belgians suspected that Marche-les-Dames,
the château of the Duchess of Ahrenberg, near Namur, famous for its
priceless art treasures, was used for signalling purposes, they burnt
it down. When it is a question of rendering the position of an invading
army more difficult or of delaying its advance or cutting its lines
of communication, the defender seems to shun no material sacrifices,
even though he himself is the principal sufferer. Of the numberless
bridges blown up by the Belgians in their own country, all in order
to delay their enemy, there must be many which were of no importance
whatever to the Germans. By so doing, the defenders brought upon
themselves a treble loss, namely, the loss of the bridge itself, the
cost of removal of débris, and the building of a new bridge after the
end of the war--all this caused by a single blasting charge. But the
defending army, which is always inferior, is nevertheless compelled,
in a far greater measure than the attacking army, to effect wholesale
destruction, more especially of buildings of architectural or historic
value, whilst as often as not it lies in the interest of the attacker
to preserve them. The blowing up of bridges is in itself a vandalism,
but is fully justified if it is thought that strategic advantages
can be obtained thereby. The destruction wrought by the Germans in
their advance has partly been involuntary, and has partly had its
cause in the conduct of the civilian population. But the Germans have
never destroyed simply for the love of destruction. Assertions to the
contrary are intended to create false notions, and it may be assumed
with tolerable certainty that if the enemy armies had the opportunity
of penetrating into Germany, they would, to say the least, bring about
as much destruction as has been wrought in the countries now occupied
by German armies.
During the first period after the capture of Namur all windows facing
the street had to be kept alight after dark, whilst the streets
themselves were not lighted. The consequence was that people out
of doors were not clearly discernible, but that if anyone were to
fire from a window, he would be discovered immediately. At first all
doors facing the street had to be left unlocked. But after a time the
inhabitants, out of fear of the soldiers, asked to be allowed to close
their doors, and this request was granted. At the time of my visit,
that is to say on October 8th, Namur wore a very animated aspect. As
late as half-past seven in the evening most shops were still open and
the streets were well filled. Even the young ladies, who at first
did not dare to go out, began to show themselves on the pavements.
But the prohibition against being out of doors after 9 p.m. without
special permit was still in force. On account of the many uniforms,
military motor-cars and transport trains Namur looked more like a
German garrison town than anything else. And yet this appearance was
belied by the many white flags floating from the windows, especially in
the principal streets, which indicated that the inhabitants of those
particular houses had agreed to accept the new order of things. When
one travels through Belgium one must harden one’s heart, for at every
step one is reminded of the misfortune of having lost one’s liberty in
one’s own country. And one thinks with horror of how it would feel to
be placed in the same situation. A moral judgment is now being passed
over Europe. Woe to the people which has not in time put its house in
order, or which relies on paper treaties and declarations when force
sits in the judgment seat and when none but the strong and wakeful
inspire respect in _all_ directions.
In the evening there was some sort of festivity at the officers’ mess
of the 87th Landwehr Regiment. It was attended by the officers of the
Higher Command who happened to be in the town. I also had the honour to
be present, and spent a couple of very agreeable hours between Generals
von Hirschberg and Rathgen.
On the 9th October I made an excursion by motor-car to the magnificent
and wealthy convent of Champion, founded in 1834 and now the home of
180 _Sœurs de la Providence_. Its great hall was gorgeously decorated
in white and gold, and had stained-glass windows. Many wounded warriors
had been housed here, and we paused more especially before two Belgian
soldiers from fort No. 1, who had been badly burnt on face and hands,
but were now on the road to recovery. After some considerable
hesitation I was at last allowed to photograph a few of the charming
and hospitable nuns in the convent garden.
We thereupon looked in for a while at the really magnificent _Hôpital
Militaire_ with its one hundred and fifty wards and rooms, its seven
hundred wounded, its twenty-three doctors and one hundred and forty
male and female ‘sick’ attendants. Right from the beginning there
have only been eighteen cases of tetanus, most of them attended with
fatal results. All possible nationalities were represented amongst
the patients. But from England there was only one patient, a handsome
youth, badly wounded by several bullets. He seemed to be in a deep
sleep and his face was pale and drawn with suffering. A couple of
days before he had lost a chum, and one of the nurses told us that he
had felt dreadfully lonely after his friend’s bed had stood empty.
He seemed indeed terribly alone amongst all these strangers. I could
not take my eyes off him, and it was touching to see how he lay there
waiting--for what, I wonder? He seemed to lie there as the innocent
incarnation of a policy which is doomed to die, and for which he
himself had laid down his life.
A band was beating an old Hessian tattoo in the square between the
cathedral and the Government building when at half-past two, after
dining with the Governor, I stepped into the car which he had kindly
placed at my disposal. I was going to Brussels _via_ Waterloo, and was
to arrive before dusk. Of Major Friederich I obtained an excellent
map of Belgium, and after saying good-bye to the venerable but still
youthful Professor Lepsius and my other new friends, I soon left
the town behind me. I had with me a chauffeur and an orderly, both
armed with carbines. The car was a little grey monster with flag and
streamer. As regards speed, there seemed to be no limits to its powers.
We drove, nay, we flew, at over fifty English miles an hour when
travelling at our fastest. I wondered whether the object was to make
the aim of _franctireurs_ more difficult by presenting them with a more
swiftly moving target.
Villages, gardens and fields tore past, and the pace was too great for
careful observations and notes. But it is a delightful and exhilarating
sensation; one becomes intoxicated with the sensation of speed, and
any feeling of danger vanishes with the desire to drive on faster, and
still faster!
On the left we first pass fort No. 4, the repairs to which have now
been practically completed. The high road is in excellent condition,
and there is a little traffic in the shady avenues. Life seems slowly
to be returning to its old grooves. In front of farms and houses by the
roadside we notice German soldiers engaged in more or less laborious
but always friendly and often jocular conversation with Belgian women,
or playing with their children after the fashion of uncles. The
country is flat, with hardly noticeable undulations. In the fields,
which make a pleasing picture with the farm hands busily at work, the
crop has been piled up in enormous cylindrical stacks crowned with
shallow conical hoods intended to keep the water off the corn. At
Gembloux--with its memories of 1815--a Red Cross flag almost fills the
entire street, with the armed Landsturm men keeping watch below in
their shining helmets.
The stone houses in the villages look very substantial, but are far
less picturesque and pretty than our own red cottages with the dark
pine forest as background. At Wawre a house has been wrecked here and
there. By the roadside is the lonely grave of a dead soldier. In front
of it, on the road, an old woman is driving a barrow drawn by a dog.
And so one impression succeeds the other.
After Overyssche the road turns off sharp to the left and runs through
La Hulpe and a number of other villages, until at last we reach the
famous battlefield of Belle Alliance.[22] This spot is one of the
sights for those who visit Brussels. In peace time there are on an
average 450 visitors a day to the great hall erected outside Waterloo,
in which a gigantic panorama, measuring 110 metres in circumference,
gives an excellent idea of one of the most dramatic moments of the
battle. Attention is especially directed to the group representing
Marshal Ney’s furious onslaught with the French Guards against
Wellington’s artillery and infantry positions south-west of Mont St.
Jean. The foreground is strewn with soldiers and horses lying dead
amongst the grass and lumber, and the whole has been carried out in
natural size, with detached life-size figures gradually merging with
bewilderingly telling effect into the painted canvas and its excellent
perspective. Some way off one sees Napoleon on his white charger,
attended by his Staff, and in the far distance the old Hussar General
Blücher with his Prussians, who on that day saved England from
perdition. One sees the burning villages around, the roads with their
avenues of trees and the shady groves at Ohain and Château de Goumont.
[22] The German name for the battle of Waterloo (Translator).
But reality itself is after all more interesting. I walk up to the
crest of the hill, some sixty metres high, on which stands a lion
of colossal dimensions, unveiled ten years after the battle by the
Netherlands Government. The lion is cast from captured French guns,
and its base merely bears the inscription: XVIII June MDCCCXV. It is
not the conquered Titan who is symbolised by this pompous lion, but
the united powers who made an end of his career. The wounded bronze
eagle on his piece of rock, recently put up by the French in memory of
the battle, illustrates in a dignified manner the glorious but unhappy
struggle of Napoleon and the French arms. But the lion remains at his
post and looks out defiantly upon the historic landscape.
Around us we now see the actual panorama with its shaded roads, its
villages and church towers, its gardens and fields. Some of these are
green--where clover or sugar-beet is grown; others blend in brown and
grey--where the crops have been brought in and the plough has furrowed
the soil afresh, and harvesters, ploughmen, grazing cattle, and other
rural scenes form a picture which seems to speak only of peace and
tranquillity.
Dusk is descending over the tormented, blood-drenched earth and the
wind sweeps dismally over fields and hills where the echo of the
ancient guns and the rattle of harness and stirrups, crossed lances,
and doughty sword-thrusts died away just on a hundred years ago. A
feeling akin to reverence steals over the wanderer on this battlefield,
still marked with the monuments put up by those who wished to honour
their dead. Everything recalls his name, that great name still living
as vivid and as fresh as ever, and undimmed by the dark nights which
for wellnigh a hundred years have clothed in their shadows the country
between Mont St. Jean and Planchenois.
Now German soldiers are on guard at the battlefield of Waterloo and
its historic monuments. Once more the Prussians have taken charge of
the spot where the bravery and loyalty of their ancestors under the
iron will of Blücher broke Napoleon’s strength and gave the British
general a victory which he alone would never have been able to achieve.
Wellington’s country followed the policy which had been its lodestar
ever since the time of William of Orange. All that can jeopardise
England’s supremacy on the high seas must be crushed--if possible
by foreign arms. When the powers of the Continent have weakened one
another with war, England has stepped in and reaped the harvest.
Her position in the world has been gained more through felicitous
combinations of circumstances than through any efforts and sacrifices
of her own. It is only when Belgium has seemed near to falling into the
hands of some strong continental power that England has felt obliged to
put her hand to the plough, for her own skin has then been threatened.
But the intervention has then been effected under the cloak of the plea
of defending the minor states against the enemy’s violation of the
rights of nations. At the beginning of the nineteenth century France
was too great and powerful for England. Its Emperor must therefore be
crushed for all time. Hence the vanquished monarch was placed in a cage
on a crag in the ocean, and his gaoler obeyed but too promptly the
orders he received from London. Now the centenary is to be celebrated
with the crushing of Germany. But the success of a hundred years ago is
not being repeated.
Hush, is not that the thunder of the guns of Antwerp? We listen. No,
all is still. My chauffeurs, still with the poor captive lion, cannot
understand what has happened. Daily for the past two weeks they assure
me they have heard the guns, and now all is suddenly still. We do not
even see the glare of burning houses northward. Perhaps it is the wind
and fog. My companions have been told that during the previous night
1500 shells had been flung into the unhappy city, where the destruction
must have been appalling. However, I say to myself, even the German
artillery will need some time to take a place like Antwerp, which,
according to English and French sources, is the world’s strongest
fortress and absolutely impregnable.
We jumped into the car once more and quickly covered the remaining
eleven English miles to Brussels. The road is paved with stone, and
seems one long street lined with continuous rows of houses. The
electric tramways are running and entire trains pass us filled with
Germans and Belgians. Villages and suburbs here follow one another
in endless succession, and the traffic becomes livelier. Grey-clad
sentries with fixed bayonets are everywhere to be seen, but all is
quiet and peaceful. Yet we almost feel the covert hatred in the glances
directed on our military car and its German flag. We meet proud women
with heads held high and faces set, old ladies in mourning and frowning
elderly men with fists clenched in their pockets.
The shadows of night were falling when we reached the capital of the
German Governor-General of Belgium. But the streets were well lighted,
as were the windows of shops and restaurants. There were plenty of
people about, but we saw no vehicles which were not occupied by German
officers and men.
We drive up to the corner of _rue de la Loi_, where we are stopped by
a double sentry. I show my paper, they step aside, and we drive up to
the Palace of Ministers. “Where does the Governor-General live?” I ask
my chauffeur, and he answers that we shall be there in a minute. He
stops outside the _Ministère des Sciences et des Arts_. In the gateway
stands a strong guard. I am taken across a courtyard and into a long
corridor with German name-plates on the doors. On one I see the name
of Lieutenant Massebus, and it is him I want to see, for he is one of
the adjutants. He told me that the Governor-General had spent the day
outside the beleaguered city of Antwerp, but that he was certain to
return by nine, if I would renew my visit then.
I accordingly proceeded to the _Palace Hotel_, the 400 rooms of which
were nearly all occupied by German officers. At the appointed time
I was back in the vestibule leading to the reception rooms of the
Governor-General. Several officers were waiting there. Amongst them I
made the acquaintance of a man whose name I had already heard, namely,
Captain Dreger, engineer at Krupp’s and joint designer of the 42-cm.
mortars. This subject was, of course, taboo, but instead, Captain
Dreger told me that he had arrived in Bombay in October, 1908, a week
after I had left that city, and that he had literally pursued me via
Colombo, Penang, Singapore, Hongkong, and Shanghai--with hardly a
week’s interval.
“Who is in there just now?” I asked.
“It is Frau Martha Koch, of Aleppo,” an adjutant tells me; “she and
her husband and children have lived there for thirty years. The
Governor-General is an old friend of the family from the time he lived
in Turkey. Now she has come to offer her services for the Red Cross.”
An officer who had spent the day with the Governor-General shook
his head as he said: “It’s a wonder that we still have him with us.
Every day he exposes himself to the most appalling risks. The other
day a shell came sweeping along a few metres over his head, but he
only smiled.” “Yes,” declared another officer, “he seems to delight in
danger. He always picks out the most dangerous spots--one is almost
tempted to think that he wants to be shot. It would be a nice ending
to a brilliant career. But whilst the bullets avoid him, they are not
so kind to those in his vicinity. He even goes as far as to walk up
to the firing line, where he lies down and jokes with the soldiers.
Of course, his presence is in the highest degree encouraging to them.
One day, accompanied by a soldier, he walked up to one of the enemy’s
trenches, and although it had been quiet for some time there was no
knowing whether it was empty. Fortunately it proved to be so. When
his Excellency returned, we reproached him for his daring. ‘But there
was no one there,’ he answered innocently. ‘No, but it might quite
well have been occupied by enemy soldiers.’ ‘True, but in that case
I should probably not have gone.’” Just as we were standing there
and talking about him, who should come out into the vestibule but
his Excellency himself, who kindly asked me to walk in. I knew him
from the _Deutsch-asiatische Gesellschaft_ in Berlin, where under his
chairmanship I had lectured about my last journey. He, too, greeted me
as an old friend, and wanted me to begin with to meet Frau Koch.
The Governor-General of Belgium, Field-marshal General Baron Colmar von
der Goltz, formerly in Turkish service, and now once more sent by the
Emperor to the Sultan’s side, is a man of seventy-one years of age, but
he retains his vigour and energy undiminished. He was now thoroughly in
his element. He is a powerfully built man, thick-set, and rather below
the medium height; he looks out from under his spectacles in a friendly
and jovial way and seems to me more like a professor than a general. As
a matter of fact he is a very learned man, who has published many books
on military history which are ranked very high, especially about the
Franco-German war of 1870-71, in which he took part.
When we were alone, he told me the great news of the fall of Antwerp
on the same day and of the entry of the German troops at three o’clock
in the afternoon. So it was not to be wondered at that we had heard no
sound of cannonading from Waterloo. I seized the opportunity of asking
at once whether I should be permitted to visit Antwerp, the sooner the
better, as it might be interesting as well as instructive to know what
a large city which had just capitulated looked like. Why, of course I
might! I should be allowed to see practically all I wanted, and if I
liked I could return the next morning directly after seven o’clock and
would then be told whether I could proceed at once without undue risk.
After we had discussed the situation a few minutes longer I went home.
It was then ten o’clock, German time, which, by the way, had been
made the standard time after the occupation and was an hour ahead of
Belgian time. At nine o’clock all shops and restaurants were closed
and the streets were silent and still. Across the square outside the
Palace Hotel and _Gare du Nord_ I was not allowed to go, in fact anyone
attempting to do so was politely stopped by a Belgian policeman or even
Belgian civilians. The reason was probably that the square must be kept
free for military cars, of which there were always a great number lined
up outside those buildings.
The tramways cease running at ten o’clock. After that the city is empty
and deserted, its population having gone to bed.
CHAPTER XII
ANTWERP THE DAY AFTER ITS FALL
For manifold and obvious reasons I will refrain from any attempt to
describe the progress of the German army’s advance on Antwerp and of
the operations which culminated in the conquest of the city on the 9th
of October. Still less does it become me to pronounce judgment on the
manner in which the Belgians and the English defended this city which
the allies thought impregnable, especially since certain parts of the
country south of Antwerp had been placed under water. All this will, in
due course, be described in the minutest detail by the German General
Staff, and also in a more popular form by Germans who took part. For
me it is sufficient to say a few words by way of preface to what I saw
myself.
To a layman it would appear a hopeless proposition to capture an
“impregnable” fortress whose environs have been inundated and whose
forts and interior area are defended by considerably over one hundred
thousand men, but when that layman learns that the Germans not only
achieved the conquest but completed it in thirteen days with almost
insignificant losses, he is constrained to admit that the German army
evidently possesses qualities which make it greatly superior to the
allied armies and which mark it as the most consummate instrument of
war of our time. German generals of fortifications themselves admit
that Antwerp, if not _the_ strongest of the world’s fortresses, may
nevertheless be said to be one of the three strongest, the other two
being Metz and Paris. But before the new heavy artillery even this
bulwark of Belgium’s and Britain’s hope was doomed. Nevertheless, after
the officers of the German General Staff, Artillery and Engineers had
thoroughly examined the equipment and resources for defence, they were
emphatic in asserting that had it been _their_ task to defend Antwerp,
the city would not have capitulated in thirteen days.
On its two lines of defence, the outer and the inner, Antwerp possessed
forty-nine forts and redoubts, all equipped with the latest appliances
and devices of modern technological science. The outer line had a
circumference of ninety kilometres, and for complete investment
would have compelled the attacking army to operate on a front of 120
kilometres. But for a regular siege, carried out according to the
accepted rules and canons of warfare, the Germans had no time--they had
better use for their troops in other quarters. It is always endeavoured
to shorten the attack as much as possible. From the artillery positions
in a line with the village Heyst op den Berg the Germans proceeded to
bombard the great southern forts--with what effect I will show later.
Their resistance was entirely broken. But in order to reach the inner
girdle of defence as well as the city itself, it was necessary to force
the passage of the Nethe and silence the British artillery on the
northern bank of the river. The new line was marked by the towns of
Malines, Duffel and Lierre. The Nethe was crossed by soldiers swimming
through the ice-cold water with ropes between their teeth in order
subsequently to be able to haul the pontoons across. When once this was
achieved, Antwerp’s fate was sealed. At eleven in the evening of the
7th of October the bombardment of the city itself began. By an express
order of the Emperor all buildings of great historic and art value,
such as the cathedral, the other churches, the town hall, museums,
etc., were to be spared. The zoological gardens were also on the list
of items which were not to be bombarded.
The bombardment continued the whole of the 8th of October and fire
broke out at several points. In the evening and in the night these vast
conflagrations were visible from a great distance and threw their ruddy
light against the vapours rising from the sea and the whirling smoke
clouds. During the night preceding the 9th October the bombardment
increased in violence and continued until the forenoon. Then suddenly,
at eleven o’clock, the firing ceased. At three the victorious German
troops entered the city with bands playing and colours flying. There
was no fighting in the streets and no shooting from windows by
civilians. Antwerp suffered no damage beyond that sustained by the
bombardment.
This, as I have said, happened at three o’clock on the 9th of October.
It was now seven in the morning of the 10th, and I was on the way
to the _Palais_ of the Governor-General in the _Rue de la Loi_,
opposite the Park. At the entrance I was met by three cheerful young
officers, who greeted me as if we had been boys together. They had
been instructed by the Field-marshal to accompany me to Antwerp. “If
it pleases you, we will start at once, the car is ready.” “Excellent.”
The chauffeur immediately started the engine and took his place at
the wheel. At his side sat a soldier and inside the open car were the
three officers and myself. All the Germans carried revolvers. We had
also three carbines conveniently at hand. It was plain that the road
was considered unsafe, and that the visit to the conquered city was not
altogether without danger. As yet we had received no information to
show the mood of the inhabitants of the captured city during the night
and early morning. “To me it is quite the same whether I am shot now
or later, one has to die in any case,” said Lieut. Classen, who was a
great philosopher and full of comical fancies and stories. My other two
travelling companions were Lieut. Dr. Hütten of Stettin and Lieut. Dr.
Walter Kes of Steglitz. The latter was on the active list even in peace
time, and yet a doctor of philosophy, a combination which I am told is
very rare.
The moment we were ready we started off. The pace from the first was
terrific. The journey was exciting and remarkable in every way. It must
not be wondered at that my notes were few and scanty--the blame must
be put on the speed at which we were travelling. We sat in a state of
tense excitement. To my travelling companions the northern portion,
at all events, of this road was unknown, as was the city itself, and
a road over which an army has just passed is obviously full of tracks
and ruts. Merely to take in what one sees under such circumstances
is no bad achievement, and demands, from a layman at least, a
certain quickness of perception. Before one had heard the end of the
explanation of one phenomenon, something fresh has to be noted, which
in a trice cuts off the previous train of thought. The whole becomes a
chaos of fragments which leave a confused and dazed general impression.
But to follow certain threads from their inception to their logical
conclusion is impossible. I will, therefore, give the fragments as they
were impressed on my mind, leaving it to the description of subsequent
visits to Antwerp to dwell more fully on the most interesting points.
Before we knew where we were, the great city of Brussels, whose
streets at this early hour were silent and empty, had been left behind
and we were out in the open country; here and there a house or a
village, a clump of trees or a haystack, would peep out of the fog
still struggling against the morning sunlight. Through a glorious old
gateway between two round turrets we tear at the same reckless pace
into Malines, or, in German, Mecheln, the seat of the Archbishop and
famous for its magnificent cathedral, which traces its history to the
latter part of the thirteenth century and whose mighty towers, dating
from 1452, had been intended originally to surpass in height all other
cathedral towers of Christendom. Yet the height of ninety-seven metres,
at which the builders stopped, suffices to impress the beholder. On
misty days such as this the cathedral is not visible until one is upon
it, but when the air is clear it becomes a landmark for miles around.
The tower clock, with its face measuring thirteen and a half metres in
diameter, has ceased to mark the fleeting hour. The Germans had found
that this point of vantage had been used for observing their artillery
positions and the effect of the defenders’ fire, hence the tower was
bombarded, an adventure which did not suit the sober habits of the
clock.
[Illustration: MALINES CATHEDRAL, SOUTH ASPECT]
Presently we come to the south portal beneath the giant windows,
through the lower part of which a shell has made its way into the
church. A couple of projectiles have struck between the window and the
pillars of the south aisle. From the north the cathedral has also been
fired upon, but this damage was done by the retreating Belgian troops,
who were anxious to prevent the Germans from reaping the desired
benefits of the capture of the city.
From the outside the damage does not seem to be extensive, as my
photograph shows. It can easily be repaired. But we have now no time to
give to the interior of the cathedral, we merely cast a hasty glance
at the destruction which the shells have wrought. Blocks and chips
of fallen stone lie everywhere. A layer of limestone dust covers the
archiepiscopal tombs. But the statues of the Apostles, which adorn the
columns between the aisles, are untouched, and the precious pictures
of van Dyck, Verhaghen and other masters had been saved before the
bombardment began. Wondrous silvery tones descend to us from above,
caressing the mighty arches. No doubt a bell-ringer or watchman is
testing the carillon--a welcome music--perhaps a thank-offering that
the cathedral has not been more severely visited by the havoc of war.
The little town lies still and empty, and its streets are lifeless
except for the troops and transport trains marching through, and the
number of stray dogs, half wild, who are sniffing for their lost
masters among the ruins. The main street leading to the cathedral
recalls in a horrible manner the ravages of war, the relentless
destroyer of peaceful homes. On the left we pass a house the interior
of which has been laid completely bare by a shell, reminding one of
the geological section of a piece of rock blasted for railway work.
The ground floor is a pile of wreckage and lumber. From the first
floor a tangle of draperies, curtains or mats is dangling down towards
the street, like shreds of red flags, and the joists and girders
between the first and second floors have collapsed, creating a perfect
scrap-heap of wrecked furniture. On the second floor, however, a part
of a room has been left intact, revealing a cupboard, a child’s cot,
and, strange to say, a looking-glass which still hangs perfectly
uninjured on its hook.
[Illustration: A HOUSE OF MALINES “LAID OPEN” BY SHELL FIRE]
Leaving on our right the _Grand’ Place_ with the town hall and other
old-world buildings, and the pretty statue of Margaret of Austria,
we cross another canal and debouch on the main road to Antwerp. Here
we proceed between the important forts of Waelhem and St. Catherine,
surrounded by their evil-looking belts of barbed-wire entanglements and
_trous-de-loup_, and tack cautiously between the immense craters formed
in the middle of the road by shell explosions. Some of these shells had
dealt very roughly with the electric tramway lines running into Antwerp
from this point. One projectile, which had struck close to the track,
had merely succeeded in twisting the rails slightly upward, leaving
them suspended over the pit by their sleepers. There was room for Dr.
Hütten to stand upright under them, an experiment which we made later
on when we could better afford the time.
Onwards we fly through this country, levelled by the alluvial mud of
rivers almost to the flatness of the sea outside. It is fertile soil
and every inch almost is cultivated, and we were almost startled to see
a puny little clump of pines standing lost and forlorn by the roadside.
Otherwise there is nothing but parks and ploughed fields, kitchen
gardens and nurseries. But many of the farms, châteaux and villas
dotted about the country have been wrecked by German shells, whilst
others have been levelled to the ground by the defenders themselves in
order to clear the line of fire. On both sides of the road we observed
some excellent field fortifications, which the Belgians had thrown up
on retiring northward, and we noticed that bowl-shaped recesses have
been excavated at the sides of the ditches for protection against the
rain of shrapnel bullets. On the left, great tracts of country are
still under water. Rafts made of barrels, used by the Germans to cross
certain waterways, are still floating about.
The population seems to have vanished into space. It is but rarely
that one sees a forlorn-looking peasant or other mortal who had chosen
to face the hurricane of battle. Yet the life on this great highway
almost beggars description and the traffic increases the further
north we get. It is the same familiar transport trains in the same
endless columns, looking exactly as they did on the southern roads
and travelling in the same exemplary order. Again we see the same old
Landwehr troops, halting beside roads and trees, with rifles piled and
coats, life-belts and cartridge pouches slung over the bayonet. And
here we have entire regiments of Landsturm, with men well into the
forties in the ranks, plodding on their way towards Ghent. There is no
lack of cheery humour and everyone is in good spirits; the men march
along with the light-hearted step of young soldiers and sing as if
they were going to a harvest festival, with flowers tied to the rifle
barrel and more flowers in wreaths round their necks. After five days’
uninterrupted railway journey they are now marching the last forty-five
kilometres to reach their post, where they are to guard the German
lines of communication in western Belgium, an important and hazardous
task, for even here the Fatherland may claim the sacrifice of their
lives. That is why they sing so gaily. Yet wives and children have been
left behind. It is for _their_ liberty and happiness that they fight
and fall at their post. They _know_ what is at stake. The greater the
progeny they have given their country, the more they have to defend and
the more important it is for them that Germany’s liberty and future
greatness shall be assured.
[Illustration: BELGIAN PRISONERS AT MALINES]
At some of the aristocratic villas and châteaux lining the road we
take the liberty of paying a visit. A few of them are guarded by some
faithful old retainer, others are empty and deserted. In none of them
the owner seems to have remained behind, which perhaps is not to be
wondered at. The houses which we visited were quite untouched and bore
no trace of burglary or despoilment. We were among the very first to
proceed along this road after the occupation, and may therefore be
accepted as trustworthy witnesses. As I have already had occasion to
mention, the soldiers are punished very severely for theft or wanton
destruction. But as such crimes are exceedingly rare, there are but few
occasions for such punishment. No doubt an army of a million men must
comprise a few undesirable characters. However strict the discipline,
a commander cannot be held answerable for all that his men may do when
he is not personally present, especially so when both he and his troops
are worn out from violent exertions. It must also be remembered that a
seaport town like Antwerp, one of the centres of international trade,
must contain a certain proportion of cosmopolitan riff-raff who at such
times are let loose upon society and steal and pilfer where they can.
It is therefore not to be wondered at if private property is found to
have been pillaged at the end of the war. But up to now, as far as I
could see, no such excesses had been committed. The wealthy homes which
we visited were, as I have said, in the state in which their owners had
left them. One house had, judging from a military cap which had been
left behind, been occupied by a Belgian colonel. Outside the library
on the first floor was a balcony looking on to a well-kept park, where
the trees were now turning yellow. In another house we found a bedroom
which had not long since been occupied by its master and mistress, but
now they had abandoned their house and home and fled. Over the beds
hung pictures of Christ, the Virgin Mary and Pope Pius X. I was touched
on catching sight of the portrait of a beautiful boy in his coffin,
with a wreath on his brow. Evidently many tears had been shed and much
sorrow had dwelt in this still, deserted home.
As we drive on we pass more ruins and naked, jagged walls. We cross the
Nethe by a temporary wooden bridge guarded by an ordinary Landsturm
patrol, the permanent bridge having been blown up by the Belgians. In
a village, I don’t remember which, the church had been badly battered
by the bombardment, and in the square fronting it stood a statue of St.
Kilian--headless. Along the edge of a tomato field a venerable couple
toiled along with their pitiful odds and ends on a wheelbarrow and
two goats on a lead. They had clearly, to escape the fighting armies,
retired to some quiet spot in the neighbourhood and were now returning
to see whether there was anything left of their cottage. The population
here is Flemish, as are most of the inhabitants of Antwerp.
The trenches now become more numerous and have been constructed with
admirable care. The underground passages have in many cases been
enlarged into rooms, with walls of match-boarding. At one point in the
town we found traces of barricades across the road. They had been built
in the form of stone walls, but seemed harmless enough and easy both
to destroy and to outflank. Here and there we come across dead horses
lying on the road and in the ditches.
Presently we pass a troop of Uhlans, fine men of superb bearing on big
horses and looking splendid in their complete and yet handy and smart
field kit, with their long slender lances surmounted by streamers.
Near the inner girdle of forts with their belts of wire entanglements
we meet a couple of heavy mortar batteries, now no longer needed here.
They are evidently on their way to Ghent and to western Flanders. On
the other hand a bridging detachment with upturned pontoons resting on
long, narrow carriages is travelling in our direction, evidently for
use on the Scheldt.
[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO GHENT AND THE CHANNEL]
The town itself is encircled by a wall broken by several gates and by a
moat crossed by bridges. German flags are now flying over the gateways.
Through the _Porte de Malines_ we enter the Berchem quarter and then
follow the _Chaussée de Malines_ north-westward. The whole street is
crowded with transport trains and resting troops. They are evidently on
the point of starting off for fresh adventures. Now and again we pass
a house which has been struck by shells, and in some places the stone
paving has been torn up by the same agency. The broad and aristocratic
_Avenue des Arts_ here and there has had a tree trunk severed by
fragments of shell. The _Place de Meir_, a large and handsome street
in the very centre of the town, is likewise crowded with ammunition
columns and troops, looking bright and cheerful in the sunlight, but
with a bearing and an air as if it were the simplest thing in the world
to contribute to the conquest of Antwerp.
There are no women and children about, and the men out looking at
the troops might be counted on the fingers of both hands. Most
of the population has fled to Holland, the wealthy to England or
the Riviera. All shops are closed. The banks are guarded by German
soldiers. Yet the town, conquered but a few hours ago by the iron force
of arms, is decorated as for a triumphal march. The whole of Antwerp
is beflagged--and the flags are Belgian! How is it possible that they
can have been allowed to remain? The reason is evident, the town fell
yesterday and it was for the Belgian army and the British auxiliaries
that the bunting had been hung out. But during the next few days the
black, yellow and red emblems gradually disappeared.
Over the houses at the western end of the _Place de Meir_ we notice
brownish-black pillars of smoke whirling upward towards the sky. On
arrival at the _Marché aux Souliers_ we find that a whole block is
burning brightly, but now the fire spreads no weird glare around it,
for the city is bathed in sunlight. The tongues of fire issue from
the windows like as many yellow flags agitated by the breeze, and we
can see from the street the furnace within. Several houses have been
levelled to the ground. From the timber and the lumber of the ruins
the smoke rises in dense, dark clouds. There are no curious crowds
thronging to watch the terrible spectacle. One fire more or less means
little in a time so filled with fearful happenings. German soldiers are
on guard at the entrances to the street in the _Place Verte_ and _Place
de Meir_, but there are few people to keep in order in a city all but
emptied of its entire population. “Why is nothing done to quench the
fire?” we ask. “The waterworks at Waelhem have been destroyed,” we are
told, “and all that can be done is to watch the fire and to see that it
does not spread. If necessary the adjoining houses must be pulled down,
but it looks as if the fire had worn itself out.”
[Illustration: MARCHÉ AUX SOULIERS A FEW DAYS AFTER ANTWERP’S FALL.]
No part of the interior of Antwerp has been so gutted as the _Marché
aux Souliers_--and yet only the houses on the north side of the street
have been touched. Without a doubt the damage was originally done by
only a shell or two. The shells usually ignite on bursting, and the
flames had then no doubt spread to the adjoining houses. But the block
in question is surrounded by open spaces and trees, and thus it has
been possible to limit the spread of the fire. Yet the streets are very
narrow. In the _Marché aux Souliers_ a protracted squabble had been
going on between the private individuals who owned the houses, the
commune which owned the pavement and the city which owned the street,
and the fight had been about the widening of the latter, for it was too
narrow for this busy neighbourhood. But nobody would give way. In the
end no doubt the house-owners would have lost the fight. But then came
the German heavy artillery and solved the difficulty, as King Solomon
might have done, at one mighty stroke. Now the street is broad enough
for anybody.
We fly through the _Avenue du Sud_, yellowed by the falling leaves,
but here we hardly see any trace of the bombardment, barring possibly
a very occasional shell hole. At the south harbour we pass the
interminable rows of sheds, warehouses and offices, whose brass plates
bear the familiar inscriptions: Hamburg-Amerika-Linie, Norddeutscher
Lloyd, Compagnie Maritime Belge du Congo, Nippon Yusen Kaisha, Red Star
Line, Peninsular and Oriental and others. But now the harbour, usually
so teeming with life and filled with a roar and bustle unequalled by
almost any other seaport town, lies still and silent. Huge sheds were
filled with railway wagons, with or without valuable loads. A whole
trainful of petrol in tanks was a find which particularly gratified
the German officers. Another train had brought in colossal piles of
compressed hay, covered over with tarpaulins. A warehouse had been
found to contain considerable stocks of colonial produce, oats, flour,
coffee and other supplies, which in due course would be examined
and made use of. Some sheds were filled with about a thousand motor
vehicles of all kinds, mostly lorries and taxicabs. We made a tour
of inspection and soon found that they had all without exception
been destroyed with axes, hammers and other implements, and were now
perfectly useless. They must have represented a value of about £450,000.
As yet there had been no time to post sentries. The entire harbour lay
absolutely at the mercy of robbers, yet there were none to be seen.
The silence among the deserted warehouses was almost uncanny. A couple
of steamship offices and the offices at the South Railway Station had
been left in excellent condition. Everything of value had been removed,
nothing but receipts and accounts were left. The coats of clerks and
officials were still hanging on their hooks as if the owners had just
gone out to lunch.
What attracted more than anything the attention of the visitor to the
harbour was the colossal petroleum tanks, which now formed a perfect
sea of fire and smoke. The Anglo-Belgian army had not forgotten to
set fire to these supplies before retiring. If the enemy cannot be
prevented from entering, then the next best thing to do is to deprive
him as far as possible of the fruits of his conquest. That was why the
motor vehicles had been destroyed and the petroleum supplies had been
given over to the flames. They were a wonderful sight, these jet-black,
weltering, rolling clouds with their rims of grey and brown, writhing
and whirling up into the sky. We could hear the hissing and seething
inside, and now and again the blood-red flames succeeded in forcing
their way through the smoke. Occasionally there was an explosion. It
was clearly not advisable to go too near this inferno. At one or two
points, wreathed in smoke, we caught sight of the American flag still
flying on its pole, soon to be reached and devoured by the flames. The
only signs of life seemed to be ownerless cows and dogs roaming about
in a dazed, bewildered way.
On the river, opposite the _Fort de la Tête de Flandre_, a couple of
large lighters were burning briskly. They were clearly anchored and had
served as pontoons for an emergency bridge used by the allied armies
when retiring across the Scheldt and continuing their retreat to Ghent.
Certain defensive preparations at the harbour on the way to this bridge
showed that the Anglo-Belgian army had intended to defend itself to
the utmost. In some places barricades of thick iron-plate had been
constructed beneath the gigantic sheds, and by the side of one of these
stood three guns with shields, the fire from which was intended to
cover the more open portion of the harbour. Here and there barbed wire
had been put up. Judging from their arrangement, it seemed that it had
been intended to electrify the wires, but this scheme had never matured.
In the course of a walk round the town we came upon the _Rue Karel
Ooms_. Within an iron railing lay a large villa, and in the grounds
we found an old lady walking about, supported on the arm of a younger
woman. As it was unusual to see any of the wealthier inhabitants who
had decided to remain in the town during the past fateful weeks, we
walked in and greeted the old lady, who told us in simple and dignified
words that she could not bring herself to leave Antwerp in its hour of
trial, and that at her age--she was now seventy--she had not cared to
venture upon the vicissitudes of a journey. Her garden had been struck
by five shells, but the house had been left untouched. Yet, as may be
imagined, she had lived in mortal terror. Now she was out for the first
time to take the air after the anxiety and strain of the last few days.
Her nearest neighbours had been less fortunate, for of their houses
nothing but the naked walls was left. No doubt they were away, but she
believed that they had left servants behind, for she thought that she
had heard cries of anguish from that direction when the shells were
falling. Before parting, we learnt that the venerable lady was no less
a person than the widow of the celebrated Belgian historical painter,
Karel Ooms, and that she had lived in the villa since her husband’s
death in 1900. The street had, in fact, been named after him.
After a plain luncheon we paid a visit to the northern parts of the
harbour, and had a hasty look at the steamers still lying in basins
and docks. We went on board one of them. It was a German steamer, the
_Celadon_, and the fore-part of the deck showed signs of an explosion
having taken place. We learnt later that the boilers of all the vessels
in the harbour had been destroyed, so as to make the ships useless to
the Germans.
In the afternoon we came across the long bridging train which we had
passed on the way to the city; it was now marching past the cathedral
on its way to the nearest part of the harbour quay used for crossing
over to _Tête de Flandre_. No doubt a bridge was to be thrown across in
place of the one which had been blown up.
It was interesting to notice that the inhabitants were already showing
signs of returning to their city. There were not many of them, but here
and there we saw men and women with bundles on their backs opening the
doors from the street. One man was pulling two old women along on a
barrow which, besides, was crowded with packages and odds and ends. A
couple of cafés and hotels were likewise on the point of opening, and a
few shops, especially provision shops, soon followed their example.
It was now time to break up and we turned back towards Brussels. We
had not got very far before we met three reserve battalions with
colours flying and headed by a band playing cheerful military music.
In accordance with their pleasant custom, the soldiers had adorned
their rifles with little sprays of flowers, and their faces shone as
usual with cheerful determination and high spirits.
Once more we looked in at a château by the roadside. I shall never
forget the impressions which thronged into my mind as I wandered
through its dim, desolate rooms. In the bedrooms and guest-rooms on
the first floor the beds were still in the state in which the masters
of the house and their guests had left them. Quilts and sheets had
been pulled aside, towels carelessly slung across the backs of chairs
and basins were still half-full of dirty water with the pieces of
soap beside them, stuck to their dishes. On the ground floor was the
large, lordly-looking dining-room. The table was laid. A large dish
still contained the remnants of the course last served, an omelette.
Some ten persons evidently had partaken of the meal. Some plates were
empty, others still contained scraps of omelette. Knives and forks
lay pell-mell among the bits of bread by the side of the covers.
A couple of empty champagne bottles stood on the table, whilst a
third still contained a few drops of the joyous wine, which had now
lost its sparkling freshness. A few serviettes lay crumpled on the
table, others on the chairs and a couple had dropped on to the floor.
Everything testified to a hasty and panic-stricken departure. Perhaps
the thunderous music of the guns had come unpleasantly near, or maybe
a shell had dropped close by? Or perhaps a messenger had dashed in
to report that the Germans had punctured the outer girdle of forts
and were now rushing in through the opening? Who were the guests, I
wondered, whose meal had been so unceremoniously disturbed? Was it the
people of the house themselves, who had waited until the last moment,
or was it officers spending the night there on their retreat?
The château was dead and deserted. One heard no sounds but the hollow
echo of one’s steps and now and then the creaking of the furniture.
Yet in the hall, on the ground floor, we found a living being--a
white dove--it sat alone and frozen on a table. The white dove is the
symbol of innocence and purity, of divine sanctity, but here it seemed
curiously out of place. Yet the open window did not tempt it to seek
the liberty of the château grounds.
At another villa the grounds had been occupied by a column of open
ammunition carts containing Belgian shells with the fuse screwed off.
The projectiles had not been used, and had been allowed to fall into
German hands in this mutilated state. It now became impossible to drive
quickly. The road was filled to overflowing with transport columns and
Uhlans. They were on their way to Antwerp and were later bound for
Ghent. In the west we heard the roar of cannon in the distance. The
Germans were giving themselves no peace. Impregnable Antwerp had fallen
in the course of a few days, yet the conquerors were swiftly hurrying
westward, ever onward towards the sea. England had wanted war, and
England was to have her fill and was to get more than she had bargained
for since the days of Wellington. Entire companies of marines came
marching on, magnificent specimens, all of the true Germanic type. Here
and there they halted in villages, where they dragged out chairs and
placed them along the house walls to get a good and convenient view of
the ever-changing, never-ceasing life on the open road. At a corner in
the badly ravaged village of Waelhem stood a clownish figure, beating a
cracked drum. He wore a crazy-looking top-hat on his head and had drawn
sooty lines on his face to represent moustache, imperial and eyebrows.
He sang a Flemish song, twisted his body into extraordinary shapes
and looked indescribably comical and jovial. The soldiers were beside
themselves with laughter, and we could not help sharing their merriment
as the performer broke off his song for a moment to greet us with a
whimsical salute.
As we again swung round the cathedral at Malines, where we stayed in
the morning, Kes dropped the remark that it seemed to him as if several
days had since elapsed. And he was right, for we had indeed seen and
experienced much on this remarkable journey. We had come armed as if
for battle, but everything had passed off peacefully, and a rumour
that what was left of the Belgian army intended to attack the western
bank of the Scheldt, had not yet been borne out by events. We had seen
none but German soldiers amid the quaint old-fashioned and lavish
architecture of the streets and market-places surrounding Antwerp’s
venerable cathedral. The few people remaining out of Antwerp’s civil
population were very peaceable citizens and seemed resolved to accept
their fate. But in Brussels, whither we returned in the gloaming, we
found nobody who would believe in Antwerp’s fall, for had not the
allied leaders nourished the belief that this city could _never_
be taken? So when the Germans posted up proclamations in French and
Flemish announcing the fall of the city and how it had come to pass,
people gathered in little knots in front of them and read them, but all
were fully convinced that the whole story was an invention.[23]
[23] In his recent book, _War and Culture_--a work which I warmly
recommend to all and sundry who wish to sound the depths of the
socio-psychological labyrinths of the world war--Professor Gustaf
F. Steffen gives the following quotation from the Swedish newspaper
_Göteborgs Handels- och Sjöfartstidning_ of the 9th October, the day on
which Antwerp fell:--
“In its first leading article in the number published the 1st inst.,
_The Times_ states that it seems as if the noise made by the German
batteries outside Antwerp were not commensurate with the importance of
the operations. _The Times_ goes on to say that they appear, in fact,
not to be doing very much damage and it is very unlikely that the
German Landwehr troops still in Belgium can achieve anything against
the outer fortifications, seeing that the Belgian field army is so
strong. Even if all the forts were destroyed, it was still doubtful
whether the Germans would be able to take Antwerp, for the important
factor in the defence of the city was not so much the forts as the
field entrenchments.
“The Belgians were said to hold one of the strongest fortresses in
Europe, they had at least 120,000 troops at their disposal and an open
harbour, whilst opposed to them were only second line troops; their
outer works were the newest and most formidable of all, and they knew
that the French and British armies in the north of France were on the
verge of victory and must come to their rescue.
“‘We do not therefore think that there is any need to worry about
Antwerp,’ writes the paper in question (_The Times_). ‘Doubtless the
graceful spires of the Antwerp churches will make the mouths of the
Huns water; the city presents incomparable opportunities for the
destructive side of German “Culture.” We can imagine the pretexts which
will be gleefully invented for pumping petrol into the “Plantain”
Museum. Every German regiment in Belgium seems to possess a special
machine for squirting petrol into buildings and to include a squad of
methodical incendiaries trained in the specific arts of the higher
civilisation, as taught at the University of Berlin. Apparently,
too, every German column has attached to it a number of mobilised
cinematograph actors, who upon suitable occasions impersonate civilians
firing on the soldiers.’”
This is a sample of _British_ culture and of the “specific arts of the
higher civilisation.” This is the sort of fare put before the neutral
countries, especially America, by the English newspapers.
In the evening, at nine o’clock, some thirty officers were assembled
round the Field-marshal’s table. Here I met once more Prince Waldemar
and Captain Dreger, and made the acquaintance of the Governor-General’s
Chief of Staff, Lieutenant-Colonel Scheerenberg, and Surgeon-General
Doctor Stecho, who spoke Swedish and who has many friends in Sweden.
Afterwards we had a _Bierabend_[24] in the upper apartments, which was
honoured with the presence of the Minister of War, Lieutenant-General
von Falkenhayn. The talkative old Field-marshal von der Goltz saw
to it that there was no lack of animation and favoured us with many
interesting items about the fall of Antwerp and its past history,
besides being inexhaustible in anecdotes and tales of the incidents of
the last few days.
[24] “Beer evening,” that is to say, a social evening enlivened by the
consumption of beer (Trslr.).
CHAPTER XIII
MORE DAYS IN ANTWERP
It might be thought that the war had dealt Antwerp and its commerce
their death blow. But the city is merely asleep and there is no one who
can tell how long its torpor will last. Just as the fall of the city
was an event in the world’s history which brought German power within
striking distance of Great Britain, so the city itself will in coming
times of peace acquire a status of world-wide importance and become
perhaps still greater than ever before. Both from a strategical and
commercial point of view Antwerp is bound always to remain one of the
nerve-centres of Europe. It was therefore interesting to have seen this
great mercantile metropolis at the inception of its fateful crisis, and
it is obvious that I could not have been content with my first short
reconnaissance. Hence I obtained permission from the Governor-General’s
office to return, and, if I wished to do so, to remain in the city for
several days.
I accordingly planned another trip with Lieut. Dr. Hütten, to take
place on the 11th of October. Just as I was starting out from my hotel,
I met an old friend, Professor Georg Wegener, one of my chums from the
time I was cramming with Richthofen at the University of Berlin. We had
not many minutes to spare, but exchanged nevertheless a few impressions
of the war.
Hütten drove the car himself and I sat at his side. It had been my
intention to take a few photographs of the military life on the road
and in the town, for the sights which were now to unfold themselves to
our vision would soon vanish and make room for more tranquil scenes.
The further we travelled northward, the slower we had to go, for the
road was encumbered by an unceasing stream of marching troops and
transport columns, Uhlans and Hussars, guns and ammunition wagons.
Little contingents of marines were interspersed here and there amongst
the other troops. They had their own amusing little train, consisting
of a barrow drawn by a donkey and laden with an odd-looking contrivance
of sheet-iron which might simply have been a stove with its pipes.
“What are you going to do with that thing there?” we asked. “It’s going
to be a field kitchen,” replied a stout, jovial fellow who was driving
a couple of calves behind the donkey-barrow.
[Illustration: MARINES WITH A “FIELD-KITCHEN” AND A COUPLE OF CALVES]
Farther on we passed a bivouac with its shelter-tents still up and the
breakfast boiling in its caldrons. Another war picture, or perhaps I
should call it a picture from the boundary line of peace and war, was
furnished by an entire caravan of carts piled high with trunks, bags,
bundles, bedclothes and what not, accompanied by a group of men, women
and children. They were fugitives returning to Malines. But if it was
their misfortune to live just south of the cathedral, they were doomed
never to see their homes again.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF FUGITIVES]
[Illustration: FUGITIVES RETURNING TO MALINES FROM THE SOUTH]
Near Eppeghem we saw on an unpretentious wooden cross by the roadside
the following inscription: “_Hier ruht ein tapferer Belgier von
seinen deutschen Kameraden begraben._” (Here lies a brave Belgian
buried by his German comrades.) The fallen hero has stuck to his post
up to the last, and by his courage had evoked the admiration of his
opponents.[25] Now we drive once more through the ruined street in
Malines and stop outside the cathedral. Here are a couple of hundred
Belgian prisoners guarded by a few marines. They wear little black caps
with a red stripe and tassel, short tunics or greatcoats; some of them
have water-bottles, bundles or bags carried on the shoulder by a strap.
A herd of cattle is just being driven past by some German soldiers.
“Quick march!” orders a German N.C.O., and the prisoners quickly
disappear down one of the narrow alleys.
[25] Dr. Fr. Klefberg, when in the same neighbourhood, had come across
the following inscription: “A brave Belgian soldier buried by German
comrades. 4th Company, 26th Regiment of Field Artillery.”
We continue northward past the outer fortifications, with the German
naval ensign floating on the crest, and meet fresh groups of returning
fugitives, fresh marching columns, amongst them a field telegraph
detachment, and fresh swarms of horsemen. And so at length we come once
more to the long _Chaussée de Malines_, which in a car takes but a
couple of minutes from end to end.
[Illustration: IN FRONT OF THE TOWN HALL AT ANTWERP]
[Illustration: INFANTRY HALTING IN FRONT OF ANTWERP TOWN HALL]
But it was chiefly to take photographs that I had planned this day’s
excursion to Antwerp, and what could after all be more attractive for
the camera than the _Grand’ Place_, the noble little square by the
Townhall with its quaint gable façades? In the middle of the square
stands a piece of sculpture not long since erected, illustrating the
legend about the boy who throws the giant’s hand: “_Hand werfen,
Antwerpen_.” A house close by is the birthplace of one of the
greatest painters of all time, as is shown by a plate over the door,
“_Geboortehuis von Antoon van Dyck, Kunstschilder 1599-1641_.” Van
Dyck’s models and their progeny have disappeared, and the setting
of the _Grand’ Place_ now consists of German troops. It is marines
we see marching in with their knapsacks on their backs, rifles on
the shoulder, cartridge pouches on the bandolier and bayonet and
water-bottle by the side. A dog faithfully plods along beside a private
in the ranks--one constantly sees German soldiers who have adopted
ownerless dogs. Next come a few batteries of 6-cm. naval guns, pulled
by their respective crews. One wonders whether horse teams have not
been procured for marine artillery used on shore. In front of the
Townhall itself a company has piled arms and is resting. Some soldiers
are content to take a nap on the stone paving and use their knapsacks
for pillows. Here we see food columns with canvas awnings over the
carts and wisps of hay in front of the horses. Marine cyclists are
moving about everywhere on their silent wheels. By the side of a car
stands the great engineer, Captain Dreger, looking at a map of the road
to Ghent, which Lieut. Dr. Hütten has just shown him. But the scene is
kaleidoscopic in its variety and there is a coming and going, a rushing
to and fro of animal and motor traffic, a tramping of horses’ hoofs and
a rattle of artillery wagons which baffles all description. We had some
singing, too, for as the marine troops crossed the square they broke
into the swelling tones of _Die Wacht am Rhein_.
[Illustration: FOOD COLUMN CROSSING THE GRAND’ PLACE]
We drive on and reach the land of ferries below the cathedral. Here the
scene is still more changing, and there is a literal crush. The car is
left in charge of our orderly and we thread our way between horses,
carts and closely packed columns of troops. The street leading down to
the harbour is thronged with double marching columns. They mark time,
move on and mark time again. Belgian (Flemish-speaking) policemen in
black coats with silver buttons and black helmets help to keep order
in the thoroughfare. “Where are all these troops and vehicles off to?”
I asked. “They are going to be ferried across the Scheldt to _Tête de
Flandre_; that is, where the road to Ghent begins. They are off to the
coast to throw a glance across to England.”
[Illustration: A BELGIAN GUN IN THE HARBOUR]
It is difficult to get along. Everything seems in such a jumble. I
am just on the point of snapping some kitchen wagons when a Uhlan
perched on a baggage wagon shouts to me: “Neighbour, it is forbidden to
photograph the field kitchen!” “Good,” I answer. “I have no need to,
I have pictures of them already.” The salutation “neighbour” was, I
thought, an excellent touch.
At the quay and bridges, built to allow for the considerable
differences in level between high and low water, the ferries are in
full swing. The bridging train we saw yesterday has not yet had time to
throw a bridge across. Instead it has devoted its energies to building
a species of ferry, consisting of a platform mounted on three pontoons.
A tug took two of these contrivances in tow and three river steamers
were busy conveying a double ferry of this kind across with troops,
ammunition, ambulance and food wagons, field kitchens, field telegraph
equipment and horses. Among the troops I noticed an Austrian artillery
train belonging to the 30.5-cm. mortar batteries now stationed in
Belgium.
[Illustration: FOOD COLUMN ON THE WAY TO THE FERRY, WITH THE CATHEDRAL
TOWER IN THE BACKGROUND, FLYING THE GERMAN FLAG OVER THE CROSS]
“Drive up,” orders an officer. Immediately a column of vehicles moves
forward and halts on the brink of the quay. The horses are taken out
and the vehicles are pushed on to the ferry by the marines. Then the
horses are led across the gangway. They stamp, snort and rear, for
evidently they dislike the look of this queer-looking craft. But all
to no purpose, on board they have to go. When two ferries are full,
the steamer casts off and tows them in a twinkling across the Scheldt
to _Tête de Flandre_. Here another gangway is thrown out, the vehicles
are pulled on to the quay by hand, the horses are put to and the column
proceeds on its way to Ghent.
[Illustration: HORSES AND VEHICLES BEING BROUGHT ON BOARD ONE OF THE
PONTOON FERRIES. THE VESSELS ANCHORED IN THE FAIRWAY WERE USED AS
PONTOONS FOR THE BRIDGE WHICH THE ANGLO-BELGIAN ARMY THREW ACROSS FOR
ITS RETREAT. WHEN THE LAST MAN HAD CROSSED THE BRIDGE WAS BLOWN UP]
[Illustration: THE TRANSPORT ACROSS THE SCHELDT]
As soon as the first load had left the east bank, another river steamer
with its two ferries came alongside and took another contingent on
board. So it went on all day and so it was to continue throughout the
night by the light of electric lamps. The same programme would be
repeated the next day, and so on as long as there were any troops,
horses or vehicles left to ferry across the Scheldt; everything
is done with the rapidity, efficiency, order and discipline which
distinguish the doings of the German army down to the minutest detail.
[Illustration: A GERMAN MARINE ON THE PONTOON FERRY AT ANTWERP]
The ferries do not return empty from _Tête de Flandre_, for enormous
groups of returning fugitives, men, women and children with their
carts, bicycles and barrows, bundles and packages are now gathering on
the opposite bank. They form a picturesque and motley crowd, such as
one is accustomed to see by the side of emigrant ships on the way to
America. Most of them are Flemings. A remarkable order seems to reign
amongst them. They do not squabble, do not shout, and do not push to
get past one another on to the ferries, but wait quietly and obediently
until the soldiers show them the way. The military and civilians seem
to be on the best of terms. We saw the former, to the accompaniment of
jest and laughter, exert themselves to the utmost to make themselves
understood, and the result was a bewildering medley of German, French
and Flemish.
When the Germans entered Antwerp, they found on the eastern quay
in question enormous piles of Belgian uniforms, caps, helmets and
knapsacks. None of these had yet been touched. Presumably all this kit
had been intended for recruits recently called out.
In the course of our wanderings we also visited the northern parts
of the harbour. Here one almost loses oneself in a gigantic maze
of docks, piers, quays, basins, warehouses and sheds, and enormous
stacks of timber and stores of ironware and colonial produce. Here
is a profusion of customs sheds, office buildings, loading gear,
cranes, railway wagons, wheel-less motor-cars, packing cases and
sacks containing I don’t know what. “_Verboten te rooken_” (Smoking
prohibited) is posted up everywhere in gigantic letters. As I saw it
I could not help thinking that “_Verboten te bombardeeren_” would
have been, if anything, a more fitting injunction. Without a guide it
would have been impossible to find one’s way, and we were glad to get
hold of a queer-looking fish sniffing round amongst the merchandise,
who subsequently took us in hand. To-day there were a few more people
about, amongst them Germans who were making the round of the harbour
precincts to note the names of all the vessels lying there. I asked
them if they had seen any Swedish boats, but the answer was in the
negative. Barges, lighters and fishing boats were lying closely packed
together in certain parts of the harbour. Here also we came across
barricades of iron girders and barbed-wire entanglements, and behind a
parapet close by stood a Belgian gun with the breech-block missing.
_Comte de Smets de Naeyer_ was the name of a fine-looking Belgian
training-ship with light grey hull, white masts and spick-and-span
rigging, but there was nothing on board to arouse our interest. We
also paid a little visit to the great Australian liner, _Tasmania_. In
the officers’ cabins all drawers had been pulled out and everything of
value taken away. Nothing but books, papers and a quantity of accounts
and other objects of no value remained. But on a writing-table in the
captain’s own cabin stood a portrait of a woman and a photograph of
a group of bonny children. In the dining saloon a table stood laid
with a silver coffee-pot, half-full, cups and a box of cigars which
had more or less been ransacked of its contents. All the passenger
staterooms were empty and deserted. As we wandered through the endless
corridors our steps gave off a hollow and eerie echo, and we actually
stopped once or twice to discover whether it was really the echo of
our own steps we heard, or whether someone was following us. One
might believe almost anything in such times as these. Fugitives might
for instance have hidden themselves on board. We shouted, but the
sound of our voices died away in the abandoned ship and there was no
answer. We looked into the forecastle, but nobody now slept in these
bunks, so often rocked by the ocean swell. The same grave-like silence
everywhere. It was quite uncanny to walk about this ghost-ship, this
“flying Dutchman” with its crew of invisible spirits who seemed to eye
us from every nook and cranny.
At half-past six we returned to the capital and it was pitch-dark
before we arrived ninety minutes later. At first the road was fairly
clear, but later on we drove past incessant columns marching on their
way to Ghent. As so many times before, a kaleidoscope of horses, riders
and wagons were brought into successive relief by the light of our
lamps. The men, otherwise singing and joking, were now still and sat as
if moulded in the saddle. Once again we heard this eternal clatter of
iron-shod hoofs against the stone paving, this endless tramp, tramp,
tramp which is the music of the marching columns. The rattle of the
wagons, the creaking of the iron-tyred wheels, the jingling of the
chains, the chafing of the leather and the tramping of the horses’
hoofs, these sounds seem still to haunt my ears as I write. Like a
slow and irresistible tidal wave, like an implacable necessity, this
train is rolling towards its goal. It is Germany’s train of victory.
On hundreds of other roads similar streams are flowing to and from the
greatest battle lines maintained by a single country ever since Noah
left the ark to people the earth with human beings, for, as everyone
knows, the continuous fighting line from Nieuport on the North Sea
_via_ Rheims and round Verdun to the Vosges is an accomplished fact.
We see eyes gleaming at us through the darkness. It is the light from
cars we meet, but what can their business be on the road to Antwerp
at this late hour? From under the shadow of the trees fresh packs of
horsemen, square-set, sturdy men on well-fed powerful mounts constantly
emerge into the circle of light from our lamps. Later on comes a gun
team, no longer needed here, on its way to other places where the guns
will resume their music for the benefit of the _entente_ legions, and
here and there among the trees the figures of soldiers preparing their
evening meal are silhouetted against the ruddy glow of the bivouac
fires. Their pipes are glowing in the darkness and one can see the
gleam of their teeth as they break into a peal of laughter at some
comical remark.
* * * * *
At the Banque de Paris and a couple of other banks they shook their
heads over my Swedish letter of credit: “_Toutes les lettres de crédit
sont annulées_.” I should certainly have had no difficulty in getting
money by appealing to the Governor-General, but when I explained my
unsound economic position at the Swedish Legation, Herr Pousette, who
was _chargé d’affaires_, said that he would be very glad to lend me a
thousand francs against the despatch of a telegram to _Skandinaviska
Kreditaktiebolaget_. When this difficulty had been overcome, I took
a trip to Löwen, which is German for Louvain. My friend, Lieut. Dr.
Hütten, still acted as my guide. We had under our charge the energetic
and charming Frau Koch, henceforth to be named Sister Martha, clad in
cap and spotless white dress with a red cross on the left arm. The 12th
of October turned out a brilliantly fine day. We passed out of the city
under the triumphal arch between mirror-like ponds and yellowing trees.
The _Chaussée de Louvain_ soon developed into a stone-paved road lined
with a close beech wood, where hardly a ray of the sun penetrated to
the ground and where cool shadows reigned over a bed of fallen leaves.
We saw no German soldiers in this direction, nothing but the hand of
autumn over this unhappy land which had lost its independence. There
were no transport columns to be seen. The only vehicles on the road
were civilian carts. The aristocratic carriages of the _grand monde_
had disappeared without a trace, after their owners had removed to
other climes.
We have eighteen kilometres to go. Ruins do not meet the eye until we
have travelled some distance into the precincts of Louvain. The whole
city is not wrecked by shells as one had been led to believe. Hardly
a fifth has been destroyed. But that fifth contained many precious
and irreplaceable buildings, and the loss of the library with its
collection of manuscripts, unless by some happy chance some remnants
are still intact under the ruins, is regrettable in the extreme. But in
the midst of the desolation, like a lonely crag in mid-ocean, stands
the Townhall, that proud monument from the middle of the fifteenth
century with its six slender fretwork turrets. I walked round the whole
building, and with the best will in the world I was unable to detect a
single scratch in its gorgeously decorated walls. There may, of course,
be an occasional scar from a shell, but if so it escaped my attention.
The German artillery had given a magnificent proof of its unerring
accuracy of aim. It had hit everything round this building but without
injuring as much as a cornice of any of the six turrets.
[Illustration: LOUVAIN TOWN HALL]
The reason of the German bombardment of Louvain is well known. On
entering the town the German troops were fired on from windows by the
civil population, and as there was no other means of checking this
outrageous proceeding, a few houses were set fire to. When afterwards
the German soldiers used every means in their power to extinguish the
fire in the buildings nearest the Townhall, the _franctireurs_ lay once
more in wait from their ambush. Then things grew serious. Any other
army in the world would have acted in the same way, and the Germans
themselves greatly regretted that they were compelled against their
will to adopt such measures. From Louvain we proceeded to Malines, a
lengthy trip along the canal joining the two cities, where we were
startled to see the masts of fishing-smacks bob up amongst the trees
of parks and alleys. We arrived just in time to witness the burial
of a marine who had fallen at his post. The body of the dead man was
carried to the grave on a Belgian hearse with a silver cross on the
roof and drawn by one horse. Behind the hearse followed some hundred
soldiers from the army and navy. After the funeral three rifle volleys
were fired over the grave, which was then filled in. There were several
German graves in the little churchyard, decorated with wreaths and
helmets, and also two common graves containing the men who had fallen
in some fight.
[Illustration: SOME HOUSES ONLY HAVE THE WALL LEFT STANDING]
On a country road near by a battery of Austrian 30.5-cm. mortars stood
posted. A single one of these batteries of two guns requires a train
of forty-two vehicles. The barrel requires a lorry to itself, likewise
the gun carriage. Then there are wagons for the men, the ammunition,
accessories, tools, provisions, kitchen gear, etc.
In conclusion, we paid a visit to the great military hospital at
Malines, where the surgeon-in-chief and another staff surgeon showed
us round everywhere. The operating theatres more especially of this
Belgian hospital seemed to meet all aseptic requirements. At the
present moment there were only 140 wounded on the premises. Over every
bed hung a metal frame to which an arm could be bandaged when it needed
stretching, and other contrivances with weights and pulleys had been
installed for stretching injured legs. Several interesting cases were
explained to us. A soldier had received a bullet through the back of
the neck, but the spinal medulla was uninjured and the patient could
walk about although it was only six days since he was wounded. Another
had been struck on the left side of the lower jaw, which had been
crushed, the bullet having found its way out on the right side. By an
ingenious arrangement of gilt brass wire fastened to the teeth, the
doctors had succeeded in giving the necessary support to the lacerated
jawbone. The patient could even move his lower jaw and speak. A third
man had been struck by a bullet in the head and had lost the power of
speech, but understood what was said to him and nodded yes and no.
A Belgian soldier had received a nasty wound in the head. He seemed
unbalanced, was delirious and spoke of his wife and children. If anyone
asked whether he had heard from them or knew where they were, he merely
answered: “Look there on the right,” and turned his head in that
direction. In his delirium he described confusedly the fierce struggle
at the Nethe, where he was wounded. Later we stood beside the bed of a
little Belgian boy of twelve, who had happened to get too close to the
firing lines and whose left arm had been cut off by a shell. Yet he
was in good spirits and was looking at a book with coloured plates; he
smiled pleasantly when the German doctor patted him on the head. They
had succeeded in tracing his mother and she was to visit him daily for
a little while.
The corridors were lined with solid-looking iron-hooped wooden
cases inscribed: _Nicht stürzen_ (Not to be upset). They contained
photographic apparatus and plates. There were separate rooms for X-ray
photography and some photos shown to us clearly revealed where the
projectile had lodged and what damage it had done on its passage. As
a rule wounds from rifle bullets are far less malignant than those
occasioned by shrapnel or shell splinters.
Soon we were on our way back again along the familiar road to Brussels
and we were just in time to get ready for the Field-marshal’s
supper-table. There were several interesting guests present. Grand
Admiral von Tirpitz, regally tall and straight, was there. It is he
who, after the Emperor, has worked hardest for the creation of the
German Navy. Lofty forehead, frank and merry eyes, fair beard, resolute
and manly bearing, in fact a real Teuton. It was like a draught of
sparkling wine to speak to him. To such men nothing is impossible, and
with them there is no trace of anxiety about the final issue of the war.
I also met here Herr K. F. von Siemens, head of the firm of Siemens and
Halske, also a very robust-looking man of the Teutonic type and of a
temperament in which humour and gravity are agreeably blended. Talking
about the German losses, he estimated them at 250,000, of which,
however, the great majority were slightly wounded and had already
returned or would soon return to the front, and would then possess the
advantage over the new-comers that they had already been under fire and
had personal experience behind them. We discovered that we possessed
a common friend in the charming Sir Walter Lawrence, one-time private
secretary to Lord Curzon when he was Viceroy of India. Probably he was
now lost to us as a friend, as this war has proved capable of sundering
the closest bonds of friendship.
Another guest was Privy Councillor Kreidel, head of the commissariat
department of the Governor-General of Belgium, and seventy-five years
old. He had recently been subject to attacks of dizziness through
overwork and was now on the point of returning to Germany to get
strong again. The new Governor of Antwerp, Infantry-General Baron von
Hoiningen, whom I had met in Karlsruhe, was also present. General of
Fortifications Bailer, gentle and charming lecturer on æsthetics, was
one of my special friends. He was in very good spirits to-day because
he had seen his son of whom he had not heard for a long time and who
served with one of the armies in France. Lieutenant Bailer had made the
long journey through the air and was just on the point of returning in
his aeroplane. We also talked about Ghent, which had fallen the same
day after severe fighting in the open country. The General was now
proceeding thither to study the Belgian field fortifications; the town
itself is not fortified. From Ghent the German army was to continue to
Bruges and Ostend. Finally we talked about the 300,000 volunteers who
had just arrived at the front, where the youthful undergraduates with
their merry pranks had greatly enlivened the older Landsturm men, who
in turn had taught them their very best drill.
The next two days I rested, wrote, visited the Swedish Legation and
spent my evenings with the Governor-General. The weather was by no
means suitable for excursions. The rain poured down and heavy clouds
from the Atlantic floated over the town. As a lady whom I overheard in
a shop rightly observed, life was quite dark and sad enough without
the heavens adding their share. But to the soldiers there is no
difference between fine and foul weather, and the troops and transport
trains passing through the city seem no fewer than usual. But for
the German uniforms and military cars, one would scarcely have known
what was going on. Apart from these phenomena, a stranger arriving
in Brussels would have noticed nothing, unless it be the absence of
Belgian motor-cars and the rarity of horse-drawn vehicles; for both
cars and horses had been requisitioned by the Belgian army. He might
perhaps also have wondered where all the _beau monde_ and all the rich
and well-to-do citizens had got to, for those who could afford it
had preferred to betake themselves elsewhere, rather than to remain
under the foreign yoke. It is only the poor and the less well-to-do
bourgeoisie who have to remain.
As regards the town itself, it is true that the stranger would notice
that the theatres were closed and that a German sentry was posted
outside the _Palais de Justice_ and other public buildings. But he
would have seen no signs of destruction, no smoking ruins, no naked
walls black with soot and smoke. The population of Brussels remained
perfectly quiet when the Germans entered. There were no ambushes and
there was no firing from windows. Therefore all the houses remain
untouched and the town has been spared the fate which overtook Louvain
and Dinant. And the population acted wisely. They would never have
been able to inflict an appreciable check on the Germans, but would,
on the contrary, have suffered enormous economic losses. The war
requisition of fifty million francs imposed upon the town would in case
of resistance have been multiplied over and over again.
I could not refrain from making another inspection of Antwerp, more
thorough than the preceding ones.
Antwerp! The city of the dead! Lou-lan, the desert city, given over to
destruction and oblivion when the sea of Lopnor wandered southward,
was not harder hit than Antwerp. For have not the oceans retired and
left high and dry this great hub of commerce which not many days ago
was in close contact with all the earth’s continents and islands! These
gigantic harbour installations now lay dead and idle, and there was
not even an apprentice to be found in all the twenty-two ships which
lay forgotten by the quayside when the blow fell. The whole city was
paralysed. One of the things I wanted to see was whether in the course
of the next few days there would be any signs of an awakening from
this torpor. Of course, one realised that life in the harbour would
remain dead as long as the sea outside was full of mines, and would not
perhaps reawaken until the end of the war. But I thought it possible
nevertheless that the city itself might rouse itself and that many of
the unhappy fugitives who had fled across the Dutch frontier would
return.
So on the 15th October I started out for the third time for Antwerp.
I had been invited to join in an excursion, and we drove out in five
cars. I was with my friend General Bailer and a couple of other
officers. The participants included no less a person than the Imperial
Chancellor, Herr von Bethmann Hollweg, as well as His Excellency
von Treutler. We quickly reached Malines and stopped as usual outside
the cathedral. In view of the Chancellor’s visit the interior had been
cleaned up. All blocks of stone, dust and lumber had been removed.
St. Rombaut’s fane now looked quite neat and tidy, and it was evident
that it would not cost much, either in time or money, to restore it to
its former condition. A tombstone, crushed by blocks of stone which
had fallen from an arch between the middle and the north side-aisle,
will, however, be difficult to replace. The effect of the shell fire
was demonstrated by artillery officers, and it was made clear that the
Belgian fire directed from the north had only consisted of shrapnel
intended to drive the German observers away from the tower.
[Illustration: THE INTERIOR OF MALINES CATHEDRAL BEFORE THE REMOVAL OF
THE DÉBRIS]
From Malines we proceeded north-east to Fort St. Catherine, one of
Antwerp’s strongest forts, constructed, like the others, by the great
Engineer-General Brialmont and equipped with nine modern armoured
turrets. Most of these had been horribly knocked about by the heaviest
German artillery, _die dicke Bertha und die schwarze Marie_ (“fat
Bertha” and “black Maria”) as the 42-cm. mortars have been playfully
dubbed by the soldiers. One of the turrets had been struck plumb by
a shell which had flung its 40-ton cupola some ten metres to one
side, where the gigantic structure had alighted on its side and
eaten itself into the earth. The cupola having been removed in this
somewhat energetic manner, we were able to get an idea of the interior
construction of the turret. Another turret had merely been struck at
a tangent by a smaller projectile and yet the effect was such that
the metal of the cupola had been rent as the soil is torn by the
ploughshare. Another shell had penetrated through a bed of concrete
several metres thick and upon detonation it wrought the most appalling
havoc.
[Illustration: DESTRUCTION WROUGHT BY “FAT BERTHA” IN FORT ST.
CATHERINE]
At Antwerp the Chancellor was received by Admiral von Schröder, whom I
shall have occasion to mention later on. He was a powerfully built man,
with white head and beard, a thorough sea-dog. He also was renowned for
his astounding energy.
In the afternoon I drove with General Bailer, Colonel Müller and Major
Elert round the grass-clad slopes of the fortifications round the town,
the innumerable gates of which were now guarded by German soldiers.
It was really an initial tour of inspection that these officers were
engaged upon. Among the discoveries made were several searchlights
and old guns and a couple of excellently constructed barricades of
cobble-stones and sheet-iron. The garrison seemed to have been prepared
for street-fighting in the town itself, but things had never got thus
far. Huts built of boards, tarpaulins and other materials had been put
up for the defenders of the barricades.
We had taken rooms at the Terminus Hotel, close by the Central Railway
Station. The German officers paid with _bons_ which are redeemed after
the war, I in ready cash. The dining-room was filled with officers,
naval surgeons and civilian German engineers who had come to repair the
waterworks, gas-works, telegraphs and telephones. The shortage of water
had made itself felt very disagreeably, but at least one could now get
tea and soup, which had been an unobtainable luxury during the first
two days, when we had to remain satisfied with wine and beer. No doubt
it was distilled Scheldt water, or perhaps well-water which now figured
in our soup tureens and water-jugs.
The streets with gas-lighting were pitch-dark at night, whilst
the electrically lighted main streets were bathed in their usual
brightness. Many shop windows were now also brilliantly lit, especially
the tobacconist establishments, which attracted crowds of German
customers. In the restaurants we saw the soldiers seated round the
tables with their girl-friends, drinking beer or coffee. In the large
avenues the traffic was almost animated. As long as daylight lasted
we saw little knots of fugitives returning from the Dutch side. Their
unkempt appearance, unwashed hands and faces and uncombed hair showed
that they had been lying out of doors in the rain and cold and suffered
great privations. Now they were returning with their bundles, their
children, basket carriages, gramophones and other peculiar furniture,
carried on the back or in little barrows drawn by dogs or donkeys. All
looked calm and resigned. What else, indeed, could they do? In Holland
they had been treated with great kindness and hospitality. In Antwerp
they were to find that paralysis had seized upon all industries that
gave them their livelihood. Doubtless they have a hard winter before
them, but the Germans will, I subsequently heard, do all in their power
to lessen the distress, and a special commission has, in fact, been
nominated with this object. It may also surely be taken for granted
that England, who says that she began the war to save neutral Belgium,
and who can now afford to sacrifice £350,000,000 to encompass the
destruction of Germany, will be able to offer a thousandth part of this
sum to save the destitute in Belgium from that very fate.
CHAPTER XIV
STILL IN ANTWERP
The 16th of October--an anniversary! Nine years ago I left Stockholm
for Tibet. How quiet and peaceful the world seemed then, how different
from the thunders now re-echoing from pole to pole. The Russo-Japanese
war had just ended. Now the Russians and Japanese are friends. Then
Count Benckendorff had frowned on Lord Curzon’s Tibetan policy. But
when the storm was preparing against Germany, and when it broke loose,
Russia and England suddenly became friends--like Pilate and Herod in
their day!
The 16th of October broke with a leaden sky, and the German flag hung
limp and motionless from the spire of the cathedral, 123 metres above
the ground--where it had now been fluttering for a whole week. At the
entrance facing the _Place Verte_ stood a middle-aged janitor, with an
unspeakably sour mien. He scarcely deigned to glance at me when, in my
most courteous accents, I asked him whether the cathedral was open.
“The cathedral _is_ open,” he replied, “but only to German soldiers.”
“All right, my boy,” I thought, and drew forth my _open sesame_,
General von Moltke’s pass. The janitor read the paper and his face grew
longer at every line. When he had finished he removed his cap and said:
“Is that really true? If so I may tell you, Doctor, that I am a Swede,
a native of Visby, resident in Antwerp for thirty years, and my name is
Dahlgren.”
Thereupon, the cathedral was open even to me, and honest Dahlgren took
me round and explained everything. “Baedeker” does not know one-tenth
of what he knew. But I will pass all this over, for this book deals
only with the war. All that I will mention is that only one shell, or
more likely perhaps a fragment of a shell, had struck the wall near the
lower part of the great window above the entrance in _Place Verte_.
The damage done is insignificant, and can be repaired in a day. If the
shell had been maliciously inclined, and if Rubens’s famous pictures,
“The Crucifixion” and the “Descent from the Cross,” had been in their
usual places in the transept facing towards _Place Verte_, where the
shell struck, they would have been in a perilous position. But they
were removed before the bombardment and stored in a place of safety,
like all other valuable pictures and art treasures in Antwerp. The
only trace which the shell has left in the interior of the church is a
scratch in one of the pillars.
From the chancel one has a splendid view over the seven aisles and
the majestic vaulted roof which was lost from view in the deep gloom
above. It is a forest of mighty pillars presenting an ever-varying
perspective--the nearest columns faintly illuminated from the windows,
the more distant ones gradually merging into the sombre tint of the
waning twilight. It is dark enough at the best of times in St. Joseph’s
Chapel and St. Anthony’s Chapel, where windows four hundred years
old represent the Father, Virgin, and Holy Child, side by side with
St. George and the Dragon. “_In hoc signo vinces_” is inscribed on a
reliquary, in which a splinter of the Holy Cross is kept.
In the centre of the northern side-aisle, on a portable framework,
stands an image of the Holy Virgin, richly arrayed in a long robe,
with a golden crown on her head. Each year on the Sunday following the
15th of August she is carried in procession round the town. But this
year, when her aid was so badly needed, she was not carried through the
streets of Antwerp. This year they contented themselves with lighting
tall votive candles before the Queen of Heaven. Yet she seemingly
remained deaf to all prayers! But a stained-glass picture in the third
window from the left on the northern side shows a portrait of Emperor
Charles V., who severed his Netherlands from their connection with the
Germanic Holy Roman Empire, leaving the keys of Antwerp in the charge
of this very image of the Virgin. The keys of Antwerp! It was “Black
Maria”--and not her white namesake--who had the handling of them!
The pulpit was carved by van der Voort in solid oak. It is exactly 200
years old, but perhaps the oaks were 500 years old already when their
wood was dedicated to the preaching of the Word of God. One likes to
pause before this handsome work of art. The pulpit steps, with their
carved crowns of trees and birds, leave us unmoved, but the four female
figures which support the pulpit itself are noteworthy. They represent
the four continents--Australia being then almost unknown. Three of the
figures are light enough, but the one with the thick lips and the flat
nose--Dark Africa, the negro continent--is wrapped in deep shadows.
Four continents uphold the platform from which the gospel of God’s
eternal love to mankind is preached throughout the earth--a pretty
conception of van der Voort! “Go ye therefore and teach all nations.”
The artist, no doubt, believed that the world would make progress
during the centuries to come after his days. But now there are five
continents--supporting the gospel of war and hatred. The two Western
powers of the _entente_ bear the responsibility for having caused the
Dance of Death to involve the whole globe, for they are bringing into
the fight masses of men raked together from all parts of the world:
Canadians come in their ships from America, Turcos and Senegalese
negroes from Africa, and poor Hindus and Ghurkas, bronzed by the sun
of India, lie freezing in the trenches--these are the representatives
of Asia--and lastly, Australia and New Zealand are sending their
contingents, over land and sea, from the Antipodes. And what is the
purpose of which the attainment is thought worth such a world-wide levy
of warriors? Why, Germanic culture is to be uprooted from the earth.
And it is the bearers of this culture, the people of Luther, Goethe,
Beethoven, Helmholtz and Röntgen, that are called barbarians and
Huns--a danger to the future and civilisation of the white race! It is
therefore fit that Ghurkas and Senegalese should come and save us from
relapse into the dark ages. The artist who hereafter may be bold enough
to immortalise the “levy of all races” of 1914, should not forget that
he will find a promising idea for his leading motive in van der Voort’s
woman--with the thick lips and the flat nose.
On _Place Verte_ outside stands a bronze statue of Rubens, bareheaded,
with a cloak over his shoulders. Its background is formed by the
cathedral which he himself has adorned with some of his choicest
masterpieces. There he stands, with extended hands, freely offering to
the world the gifts his genius has created! The night before the town
fell he stood there illumined by the glare of burning buildings--the
_Hôtel d’Europe_ and _Taverne Royale_. The picturesque groups of
warriors which were seen there five days ago, have disappeared for
ever from the _Grand’ Place_. Now, only a long queue of civilians
stands outside the Townhall, desiring to obtain, from the German
military authorities, passports and permits for some purpose or other.
As I sauntered through the old town, I looked at the people returning
from their flight--in most cases merely a trip to the Dutch
frontier--and who were now opening their doors and rearranging their
shop windows. In a side street a group of marines had assembled round
a half-starved cat whom they were treating to milk and meat; “the cat
will be as fat as a porpoise in a week,” they assured me. Then my ears
caught the sound of cheerful strains of music floating through the
misty streets, and I followed the direction of the alluring sound. It
turned out to be the band of one of the marine battalions playing in
front of the Townhall--surrounded by a large crowd. At four o’clock
every afternoon a band played here, at the Central Railway Station
and outside _Hotel Weber_. Order was maintained by Belgian police
constables. I addressed one of them and he told me various things of
interest.
[Illustration: FUGITIVES RETURNING TO ANTWERP FROM HOLLAND]
He knew for certain, he said, that five British marines were taken
prisoners yesterday in the town. Then he suddenly passed on to other
topics. In the night of August 25th, a Zeppelin had flown over Antwerp,
and dropped some bombs, one of which had hit three policemen; two were
killed, one was still alive and likely to recover. The police force
of Antwerp numbered 800 before the war. Of these, 260 had been called
out for active service, 140 had fled when the bombardment commenced,
the others had remained and were still doing duty. On account of their
small number, even the higher police officers had to do street duty.
He computed the strength of the Anglo-Belgian army which had been in
Antwerp at 120,000 men, and he expressed himself in very drastic terms
as to its mode of defending the town. He did not know where the army
had gone to; at any rate it disappeared just when it was most needed.
According to his computation, one-tenth, or at most one-eighth, of the
population had remained during the bombardment. They had taken refuge
in cellars, and stopped up the apertures with sandbags. Of course,
men of his service were obliged to stay out of doors. Thus he had
seen a cyclist struck by a shell and literally vanish on the spot. On
returning home he found that his wife, like all others, had fled and
taken their child with her. She had not yet returned, nor had he had
any news of her. Further, he had seen the ferries in Antwerp cast loose
and allowed to drift down-stream towards Flushing, to prevent their
falling into the hands of the Germans. He believed that, in a month’s
time, most of the inhabitants of the town would be back. The young men
only hesitated to return for fear of being compelled by the Germans to
serve in their army against Russia. And according to rumours which had
been spread, the Russians were standing near Berlin with immense armies.
Clearly, the defenders of Antwerp had feared that an attack would also
be made from the west, from the region of Termonde, for one day General
Bailer and his officers observed entrenchments, several kilometres
in length, thrown up at the cost of at least a couple of weeks’ hard
toil, and with much skill. The material was earth and timber, which
had been dragged there by the civilian population from the surrounding
districts. But even this labour was in vain, and they did not even make
an attempt to defend these entrenchments.
On October 17th we commenced with a visit to the Zoological Garden, one
of the foremost of its kind in the world. Dr. Hütten, in his capacity
as a German officer, was admitted free; I paid the usual admission. The
Indian elephants, hippopotami, rhinoceroses and giraffes were just as
unconcerned as the chimpanzees and the other simians, about the radical
change which had recently taken place in their immediate surroundings.
One of the elephants was gravely shaking his head, but otherwise the
bombardment did not seem to have made the least impression on the
animals; no doubt they mistook the roar of the guns for an approaching
thunderstorm.
But the most remarkable circumstance was that all beasts of prey had
vanished. This is the only way in which the Zoological Garden has
been affected by the war. The splendid large summer cages were empty,
and so were the indoor winter quarters of the animals. An old keeper,
who, grave and bent, was raking the paths in the park, explained the
cause--shaking his head all the while just like the Indian elephant.
“All beasts of prey were shot,” he said. “Four splendid lions, five
fine tigers, all the leopards and panthers, all land bears and
polar bears were killed. They were driven out into the summer cages
and shot--the muzzles of the rifles were thrust through the bars.” He
sighed, and no doubt he thought that this was the most grievous loss
the war had caused, for both he and the other keepers of the wild
beasts had become attached to their protégés.
“But why, in the name of common-sense, were the poor beasts shot?
Surely they were not suspected of espionage?” asked Lieut. Hütten.
“Indeed not,” the keeper replied, “it was simply done by order of a
general. They feared lest the cages might be struck by shells, when the
beasts might have escaped and created a panic in the streets. That’s
why they were shot. But now the bombardment is over, and the cages
stand empty. Not even a splinter has fallen in the Zoological Garden.”
It would be interesting to know what kind of shell it could be that
would break a lion’s cage without killing the lion!
Lastly I took a snapshot of the combined Asiatic and African landscape,
in which my old friends, the Bactrian camels and the Tibetan yaks, were
associated with dromedaries from Egypt. One might have imagined oneself
far away from the turmoil of the war of nations when standing on the
borders of their peaceful retreat!
But before reverting to the war, I will interpolate here a few details
gleaned in Antwerp as to what occurred in the town just before and
during the bombardment. Most of these I obtained from a gentleman who
on my return from the Zoological Garden was awaiting me at the entrance
to the _Hôtel Terminus_, and introduced himself as Harald Petri,
Swedish Consul in Antwerp. He was an uncommonly amiable, courteous and
hospitable man, and as he had stayed in the town during those critical
days, he could give me a great deal of perfectly reliable information.
On Wednesday, the 7th of October, the Commanding General had published
through the press a proclamation warning the inhabitants that the
town might be bombarded at any moment. In consequence of this warning
one-half of the population took flight. The warning had come none
too soon, for the very same night at 11 p.m. the shells began to
burst. During the night and on Thursday morning further crowds fled
in a continuous stream. They went on foot, as no cars and no horses
were to be had. They took with them their valuables and a good many
domestic animals--I dare say also provisions. There were weeping
women, screaming children and excited men. Many of them, perhaps, had
seen shells falling near them. The number of these fugitives might be
computed at over 150,000. They made for the Dutch frontier village of
Putten, and thence for Bergen-op-Zoom, but many got as far as Esschem
and Rosendaal by other roads.
By 10 a.m. on Thursday the town was almost deserted, 10,000 having
perhaps remained out of nearly 400,000 inhabitants. Nearly all of
these sought refuge in the cellars under the houses which, with very
few exceptions, stood empty. Among those remaining were nearly all the
Swedes, Norwegians and Danes residing in Antwerp; in fact, many of the
Scandinavians who had already taken out their passports, nevertheless
remained behind.
The bombardment continued all Thursday, and the town was set on fire by
shells in several places. It was a terrific din, what with the roar of
the guns and the crash of falling walls. The bombardment increased in
intensity during Thursday night, and the fire spread. But at 11 a.m. on
Friday, the 9th of October--the day before my visit--all became quiet.
Consul Petri had disdained to seek shelter. In common with other
officials, he had been invited to take refuge in the Townhall, but
he preferred to stay at home. From time to time he went out into
the streets to see the effect of the bombardment. As soon as it had
ceased, he went to the Townhall, and then for a long stroll. The
streets were deserted and silent; there was scarcely a soul to be seen.
But suddenly, he saw a host of people. This was the German vanguard
marching in from Berchem, to be followed later in the day by the main
body of the besieging army. The public buildings were taken possession
of, the artillery drove up to the quay, and the St. Anne’s quarter of
the town was bombarded for two hours. Then all was quiet.
Another informant in Antwerp told me that certain prominent persons
would have left the town on October 3rd, if the Belgian Government had
not ordered them to remain. This was done at the request of the British
Government, who had promised to send troops to relieve the town. On
the same day, at 2 p.m., Mr. W. Churchill arrived in a motor-car
and had a consultation with the civic and military authorities of
the city, in the course of which he promised to send 30,000 men to
relieve the town, a force which, in conjunction with the Belgian
army, should be sufficient for the defence of the city. As a matter
of fact, only 15,000 men arrived, of whom 2500 were bluejackets. They
had heavy artillery with them and are said to have fought bravely. On
October 6th, late at night, Churchill left the town and drove off in a
motor-car to the west, no doubt to Ostend.
As the inhabitants during the nights heard, and in day-time saw,
troops marching through the streets, they could not but believe that
a vigorous resistance would be offered. They were therefore greatly
surprised when the town surrendered without a fight and the defenders,
at 6 a.m. on October 9th, withdrew over the pontoon bridge, built six
weeks before, across the Scheldt, and then blew the bridge up. The
British are said to have been the last to cross it.
On October 17th, eight days after the fall of Antwerp, the number of
inhabitants was estimated at fifty to sixty thousand. Probably even
the young men fit for military service would soon return when they
learnt that the Germans were paying well for work done and did not
compel them to join their own ranks. Besides, the Governor had issued
an order to the effect that all private property should be respected
and that no private house should be entered by the soldiers. The three
neutral Consuls--of Sweden, Holland and America--had also conferred
with the Governor on the measures to be taken to restore normal life.
In consequence, the Dutch Consul had advised his countrymen resident
in Antwerp, numbering up to 20,000, to return. The German colony was
estimated at 18,000, including many wealthy merchants. These also had
commenced to return. The neutral Consuls most positively denied that
any atrocities had been committed against Germans at the outbreak of
the war.
The material damage caused to the town itself by the bombardment is
very small. Consul Petri calculates that there are 40,000 houses in
Antwerp. Out of these, about 300 have been damaged by shells, and 100
burnt down--hence no more than 1 per cent. He valued the buildings that
had been burnt down at something like £500,000, and those damaged by
shells at about £150,000.
Consul Petri’s chauffeur had fled, and when we made a tour through the
town the Consul drove the car himself. He was familiar with all the
spots in the southern parts of Antwerp where shells had struck. The
northern part had escaped damage altogether. We saw several yawning
rents at the street level, where shells had laid open the cellars,
leaving large gaping chasms. The Argentine Consul, who, like most other
people, had taken refuge in a cellar, had been killed by one of these
shells.
In other places the shells had struck the roof, carrying away the whole
garret floor, and leaving here and there nothing but the tattered
shreds of girders rattling in the breeze. Frequently a shell had struck
in the middle of a house-front without causing any damage visible from
the street, beyond tearing a huge hole in the wall and shattering all
the panes and window frames. Black streaks on the walls showed that
fire had broken out. On closer examination we found, as a rule, that
the principal havoc had been wrought on the side away from the street.
We also saw how the shells had struck the roadway and burst, ripping
up the stone pavement and throwing large mounds and fragments against
adjacent houses, where cavities biting into the brickwork gaped red
out of the white plastering. In one place we could see how a shell had
carried away a roof and some ten yards of coping, and had then crashed
into the opposite house on the other side of the street.
All rubbish and brickwork which had tumbled into the streets and on
the pavements had already been piled up in heaps, but had not yet been
carted away for want of horses and vehicles. Among the heaps of ruins
at the _Marché aux Souliers_ the gas was escaping from burst pipes and
burning with blue wavering flames, presenting a weird spectacle at
night.
Our run also brought us to _St. Jacques_, a magnificent church, rich
in works of art representing subjects from sacred history. The candles
burning in front of some images of saints were inadequate to dispel
the gloom. The features of the Saviour on a Crucifix revealed abysmal
depths of pain and sorrow; it seemed as if darkness had descended for
ever on the earth and overpowered him. The worshippers were easily
counted. Among them I noticed a few young women confessing their sins
in the confessional chairs, giving the listening priests an insight
into some of the most secret recesses of human life.
St. Paul’s can boast if anything a still greater ecclesiastical
splendour. The interior was brightly illumined with electric light,
but the church itself is jealously hidden in the midst of a dense
cluster of houses.
As it was still daylight, we decided to cross over to St. Anne’s on the
western bank of the Scheldt. The ferries were still plodding steadily
to and fro, but were now only bringing refugees back to Antwerp. One
of the ferries was just lying to, and a broad gangway was thrown out
to bridge the interval of one yard between the ferry and the quay. A
restive grey horse shied at the gangway, reared, backed and fell into
the river. “He is lost,” cried the marines, “he will find no place
where he can get ashore.” The horse swam out into the Scheldt, but
soon turned back. Meanwhile it was caught in the swirling current
and disappeared. A boat went out to its aid, and towed it to a steep
stairway. The horse was now spent and no longer attempted to swim.
Ropes and lines were passed round its body and with united strength
they pulled it up to the pavement. Here the horse lay as if dead. They
rubbed it with straw. Presumably it revived, for when we returned from
the other bank it was gone. It was only a horse! And yet it had caused
men’s hearts to beat faster for a good half-hour!
Yet, strangely enough, all the dead cavalry and transport horses whose
swollen bodies lie on the road between Brussels and Antwerp, failed to
move us deeply--not to speak of the graves with the small white crosses
which we pass so heedlessly on our road.
A last gleam of daylight was still lingering when we drove up to the
imposing _Hôpital Militaire_, where I wished to call on Sister Martha
for the last time. She was the only German among a number of Belgian
Sisters. The medical staff consists partly of German naval surgeons,
partly of Belgians. The surgeon-in-chief, whom I had met in Kobe, had
been in Stockholm in July, just before the war broke out. The hospital
had 700 beds, most of which were now occupied by Belgian soldiers, a
few Germans and seventeen Englishmen. I talked to six of the latter
in one of the pavilions. When I asked what they thought of the war
they all replied: “Sir, we had got our orders, all we had to do was to
obey and do our duty!” One of them admitted: “I suppose we could not
well look on idly when the Germans were capturing the world’s trade.”
Another thought it was absurd that men should go out and kill each
other, and he declaimed about “this horrible, this terrible war.” All
were longing for home, and asking whether we thought they would get
there by Christmas. I was unable to reassure them on this point. “If at
least our relatives knew that we are alive!” they said. They were all
serene and dignified, and greatly appreciated the kind and solicitous
care they received. What a pity that they should be lying there,
counting the lingering hours! Nevertheless one feels greater pity
still for the Belgians who have been left in the lurch by their great
tempters and “protectors,” and who have lost their country and their
independence. After all it is best to stand on one’s own legs and to
follow the watchword of the boy scout: “Be prepared.”
We had no time to visit Rubens’s house, standing in the street bearing
his name. It has been on fire repeatedly since his time, and is
entirely changed. But we entered Mrs. Osterith’s house. The Governor
had taken up his quarters there. He is a refined and humane man, who
is doing all he can to infuse new life into the dead town, and wishes
to see its industry and prosperity flourishing afresh under the new
forms which the inexorable necessities of war have brought forth. Mrs.
Osterith herself was an old acquaintance of mine. In 1903 I had been
to a great reception at this magnificent house, which might almost be
called a palace. The noble lady is seventy-four, and full of humour.
She had remained in Antwerp during the bombardment, and together with
fifty-eight persons, members of the household and acquaintances,
taken refuge in the vast cellars under the house. Her bed had stood
between bins of old wine, and she slept there while shells crashed
over the burning town. Once the Spanish Minister paid her a visit,
and she received him in her “bombardment dress,” a peignoir. At last
came the hour of release, and she returned with her household from her
subterranean captivity to the realms of daylight.
Finally, we made for the _Hôtel Terminus_, where we supped in the
company of General Bailer, Colonel Müller, Major Elert, Captain
Lamprecht, and a couple of other officers. Our company was also joined
by Lieutenant-Colonel Schaubode, who had commanded the siege artillery
and had been rewarded for his merits with the Iron Cross of the first
class. He was so used to fire that he slept soundly while shells were
whizzing around him. He told us various instances of the strange
freaks of fate which occur in this connection. During an engagement,
a General and a Major stood talking on the high road. A shell fell
near them. The Major was sent away on some errand, and had scarcely
moved away when there came another shell, which struck the General so
effectually that he literally vanished from sight.
On another occasion two officers were living in the same quarters in
a town which was being shelled. When the house was struck by a shell,
which, however, did no damage to speak of, one of the officers thought
that they might consider themselves safe, as surely the same house
was not likely to be hit more than once. The other, however, sought
new quarters and induced his friend to follow him. As soon as they
had left, the house was totally destroyed. It turned out that it was
a public office, where the enemy took it for granted that the German
commanders would take up their quarters.
Thus, chance often seems to play a great part. To live in a bombarded
town is like a game of chance, as no one can tell where the shells will
strike. The wisest course is to discard all calculations and to trust
one’s life to God’s hands. We have already seen how the Swedish Consul
in Antwerp, who exposed himself to danger, came off scot-free, while
his Argentine colleague, who took refuge in an apparently safe cellar,
was killed.
During my stay in Antwerp I had an opportunity--though only once--of
meeting the Rev. Börjeson, Seamen’s Missionary, a son of the great
sculptor. Börjeson told me various things about the refugees, and the
hardships they suffered. They had camped out in woods and pasture
lands, but in Holland they had been well received, and the Dutch had
helped them all they could. In this connection I expressed a wish to
see one of the high roads leading north, and Consul Petri, with his
usual hospitality, placed his car at my disposal; accordingly, on the
18th of October, we started on the road leading to Bergen-op-Zoom.
On our drive through the town we observed, to our pleasant surprise,
that some of the railways were already working--a new sign of
reawakening life, even if of no great significance. At the bridge
across the town moat our papers were carefully examined, whereupon we
proceeded through the suburb of Merxem. West of this is the fort of the
same name. This had been surrendered without a fight, though surrounded
on all sides by barbed-wire entanglements; a number of trees had been
felled to clear the range, and houses had been pulled down, all--so it
seemed now--needlessly!
The road was stone-paved and shaded by fine oaks and beeches; it passed
through the villages of Donck, Eckeren, and Cappellen. Quite close to
the frontier we passed between a couple of the extreme fortifications
on the northern front. These, too, were surrounded by barbed-wire
entanglements and an area of demolition, which had not been caused by
the attackers but by the defenders. In one place a barricade had been
erected right across the road--all to no purpose.
Dryhoek is the name of one of the northernmost works, where we made
a brief inspection, accompanied by a young German lieutenant and a
Belgian merchant, a friend of Consul Petri. Dryhoek has been totally
demolished, but the destruction was not wrought by German artillery.
When the Commander recognised that the fortifications would fall into
the hands of the Germans, he decided at least not to leave them to the
enemy in undamaged condition, and ordered the garrison of about two
hundred men to march off, whereupon he set fire to the powder magazine
and blew himself up together with his fort. The great concrete blocks
now lying scattered on the site form a monument over his grave. Even if
nothing is won by such an act one cannot but recognise that it requires
rare fortitude and resolution.
[Illustration: OUTWORKS AT DRYHOEK, BLOWN UP BY THEIR COMMANDANT]
The German lieutenant told me that several minor after-explosions had
taken place on the site. Yesterday he had found among the ruins the arm
of a man, evidently the Commander’s, unless one of the men had remained
to die with his chief.
The fort was crescent-shaped, with four turrets for 12- and 15-cm.
guns, having a range of 8-10 kilometres, and one turret for 7.5-cm.
guns, intended for short-range fighting. This turret faced north,
and was the only one which remained intact besides the breastwork of
sandbags for the defending infantry.
All along the road we passed returning fugitives. At the village
of Putten the frontier post is in the middle of the street, where
the Dutch and the German flags float side by side, and where Dutch
soldiers guard the frontier. All passports are scrutinised here. As
for ourselves, we had no difficulty in being passed through, and we
proceeded some distance to the north through a rather sparsely
cultivated tract, where young pines were growing on both sides of the
road. Scattered paper, rags, empty bottles and other vestiges marked
the spots where the fugitives had camped. They had fared very ill in
the chilly autumn nights. Some had got separated from their dear ones
and were searching for them. They had sped on by night as well as by
day on this _via dolorosa_, and it was not surprising that they lost
each other in the darkness. The Dutch mounted police patrols could not
help them, they could only maintain order. Many a woman gave birth to a
child prematurely by the roadside. Indescribable scenes were enacted in
this fleeing caravan, distracted with fear and anxiety. But even they,
perhaps, could not forbear a smile when for instance they saw a big
stout matron laboriously dragging an easy chair on which she sat down
to rest at every fiftieth step! And grateful, indeed, they must have
felt, when the Dutch regaled them with bread, soup, and other food!
[Illustration: THE DUTCH FRONTIER STATION AT PUTTEN ON THE WAY TO
BERGEN-OP-ZOOM]
But now they were returning in endless procession, which however, was
far more sparse than it had been a few days ago. They came on foot,
on bicycles or guiding dog-drawn carts and pushing wheelbarrows. Many
were riding in solid vehicles with or without springs. I had scarcely
expected to see that so many Belgian horses had got over whole-skinned
to Holland. Now they were returning to their old stables.
As one tarries by the roadside awhile to watch this procession of
poor half-starved and frozen people deprived of livelihood, home and
country, one cannot but ask: “_Whose is the fault?_”
I have on various occasions witnessed scenes of Belgian misery and
distress, which nearly broke my heart. I felt glad that there are
charitable souls in the world who are collecting means to alleviate
this distress.
* * * * *
Jesus said to his disciples: “Take heed that no man deceive you.... Ye
shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled;
for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For
nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and
there shall be famine and earthquakes in divers places. But all these
are only the beginning of sorrows. Then shall they deliver you up to be
afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated of all nations
for My name’s sake. And then shall many be offended and shall betray
one another, and shall hate one another. And many false prophets shall
rise, and shall deceive many. And because iniquity shall abound, the
love of many shall wax cold. But he that shall endure unto the end, the
same shall be saved.... When ye therefore shall see the abomination of
desolation, spoken of by Daniel the prophet, stand in the holy place
(whoso readeth, let him understand): then let them which be in Judæa
flee into the mountains: let him which is on the housetop come not down
to take anything out of his house: neither let him which is in the
field return back to take his clothes. And woe unto them that are with
child, and to them that give suck in those days! But pray ye that your
flight be not in winter, neither on the sabbath day: for then shall be
great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to
this time, no, nor ever shall be....
“Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.
But know this, that if the good man of the house had known in what
watch the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have
suffered his house to be broken up. Therefore be ye also ready: for in
such an hour as ye think not the Son of man cometh.... Heaven and earth
shall pass away, but My words shall not pass away.”
CHAPTER XV
_VIA_ GHENT AND BRUGES TO OSTEND
During the time I stayed at Antwerp news kept reaching us almost daily
of the rapidity with which the Germans were approaching the sea. “Ghent
is taken,” “Bruges is taken,” and finally, “To-day our troops have
entered Ostend.” On my return to Brussels it looked as if the Allies
were going to do their utmost to drive the Germans out of Ostend, and a
rumour was in circulation that the British had bombarded the town.
Accompanied by the ever-charming and delightful Consul Petri and his
Belgian friend, who took charge of the steering wheel, I proceeded
on October 20th to Ostend, equipped with a special pass from the
Governor-General. The weather was dull and rainy and dark curtains of
heavy clouds hung over the bleak landscape. We drove through avenues of
elms along a road paved with Swedish granite, so it might be said that
we were travelling on Swedish, Belgian and German ground. Every inch of
the country is cultivated or built upon, nothing but houses and farms,
hop-fields, corn-fields and kitchen gardens. The draught dogs are very
busy, since the war has taken all the horses. One sees remarkably few
German uniforms, but a good many natives walking along under their
umbrellas. As in Malines, the people wear wooden shoes, and we still
come across great numbers of returning fugitives.
At Alost we cross the Dendre by a bridge. Here we find numerous marks
of shell fire. At Quaterecht many houses have been destroyed. From
Melle the road is lined with an uninterrupted string of nurseries
and flower gardens. Horticulture has here reached a high pitch of
perfection and potted plants are exported to the United States to the
tune of millions.
In Ghent nothing has been destroyed. The town retains its customary
appearance. The tramcars are running, all shops are open and there are
crowds of people about in spite of the weather. Yet the many German
uniforms tell their tale. We stopped to have a look at the magnificent
cathedral. We found here an image of the Virgin Mary surrounded by
burning candles and by it was a notice that anyone offering up prayers
before the image would receive fifty days’ absolution. What the many
people kneeling on the praying stools were praying for, we could
readily guess.
In the palace of the Counts of Flanders we wandered through
subterranean crypts and along crenelated walls. From a commanding crest
we had a remarkable view over the red-brick roofs and grey church
towers of the town, all dripping with rain.
I had been invited for supper by the charming and friendly war
historian, Major-General Friederich, where I met several officers
belonging to his staff. The General was now in mourning. His only son
had fallen on the field of honour for his country. But the General had
other sons, to wit: his Landwehr soldiers, sturdy, strong, willing
and lusty fellows. The rank and file was composed of workmen, privy
councillors, cobblers’ apprentices, barristers, brewers’ draymen,
high court judges, blacksmiths and mayors. Differences in rank, party
contentions and class distinctions all disappear in the field without
leaving a trace behind them. War levels everything. There is but one
rank: that of the warrior who fights for the honour of his country and
the freedom of his people.
At nine in the morning of the 21st October we continued our journey.
The rain clouds still hung heavy over the narrow streets and the
weather did not brighten until we had left the town behind us. At Eclo
a company of German cyclists were resting. Bridges span the canals
here and there and the latter in turn intersect the country in all
directions to carry the many lighters to and fro. There is not much
traffic now. Now and again we see large wagons which serve as homes for
itinerant families moving from place to place to buy up the tresses of
peasant girls, to sharpen knives, to do tinkering and so forth.
Bruges is one of the most celebrated cities of Europe on account of
its old-world air, its picturesque houses, its trees and bridges over
the canals and its mighty city gates with rounded turrets. I felt I
should like to remain to enjoy the repose which seemed to dwell over
the many waterways. But now there is no time. We go on through a beech
forest and over open fields and reach the village of Ghistelles; a
few kilometres further on towards the south-west and we come to a
crossing, where we are stopped by an infantry picket. As we halt we
hear a violent cannonade within a short distance. Our papers are
examined, and we are told that an artillery duel is going on at
Middelkerke and that the German positions are on the near side of the
long canal connecting Ostend with Nieuport and Dunkerque. A squadron
of British warships is said to be lying off the coast and bombarding
the German positions, which are also attacked from the land side by
Belgian and French troops. But the road to Ostend, which runs first to
the north-west and later to the north-north-east, was said to be free.
The soldiers thought that we were practically, if not entirely, safe
from shells on that road. The most dangerous point was the bend on the
other side of the canal, where the road changes its direction. We met
coming from Ostend several ammunition columns on the way to the troops
at Middelkerke, where numbers of wounded soldiers were returning to the
rear.
[Illustration: The Belgian Coast between Blankenberghe and Nieuport.]
We got safely past the dangerous corner and arrived safe and sound in
the handsome and aristocratic town by the sea, to which Baedeker has
given the following testimonial: “Ostend is perhaps at present Europe’s
most elegant watering-place.” We drove on to the avenue along the front
with its rows of big hotels facing the sea. Most of them are only
open during the season, which ends on the 15th September, and during
which some 45,000 visitors reside in the town. But Ostend is also
the terminus of one of the passenger routes between England and the
Continent and this traffic goes on all the year round. Travellers held
up by gales or by fatigue can find hotels of a less pretentious kind,
but they are situated in the interior of the town.
[Illustration: A PETTY OFFICER WITH A FEW MARINES AT A STREET-CORNER IN
OSTEND]
It was two o’clock when we arrived. I had never been to Ostend and
knew none of the German officers, but I had my pass and felt I ought
to report myself to the commandant, who was said to be stopping at the
_Hôtel Littoral_ facing the sea, so we proceeded there and lunched
immediately in the restaurant, for Consul Petri’s time was nearly
up and he had to be back in Antwerp before nightfall. I accompanied
him and his Belgian friend to the door, thanked them for their
companionship and saw them drive off with a little Swedish flag in
front cracking in the breeze.
It looked strange, this grey and dreary sea, as one cast one’s glance
westward. One seemed to feel the hot breath of war blowing in over the
land. The rain had ceased, the weather was clearing, but the sky was
still overcast. In the west, at a distance of nine or ten kilometres,
we saw plainly and clearly the outlines of thirteen British warships,
of which a couple were cruisers and the others large destroyers of
the older type. They were firing against the German positions on the
Belgian coast and were themselves under fire. One could see them
constantly on the move so as to render the German aim and fire more
difficult. Yet on the whole they retained their positions and their
black hulls were sharply silhouetted against the light horizon. Huge
black clouds of smoke rose from their funnels and were blown across the
horizon, giving the sky a peculiar streaky appearance.
The swell rolled in, dull and sleepy, over the fine smooth sands of the
_plage_. The road facing the sea was open to traffic, but the spacious
promenade outside, separated from the sea and _plage_ by an iron rail,
was reserved for the German troops. At high tide the sea ascends to the
foot of the stone wall of the promenade, whilst at low water it recedes
some distance, leaving a wide belt of sand high and dry. This was now
occupied by German horsemen who rode out into the water to refresh and
harden their tired mounts.
I called upon the commandant at Ostend, _Kapitän zur See_ (naval
captain) Tägert. He was staying on the first floor of the _Hôtel
Littoral_, and from his balcony we once again observed the British
warships. He told me that he and his brother naval officers had arrived
at Ostend early the same day, the 21st October. They had gone first to
the _Majestic Hotel_, which was supposed to be the best in the town.
The proprietor declared that he had no rooms available, which was not
true, as the season was long since over. Possibly the name of the
hotel explained why there was no room--for German officers. Instead
of availing themselves of their right to insist on accommodation, the
Germans, anxious to avoid a fuss, went to the _Hôtel Littoral_, which
was placed at their disposal from top to bottom. They subsequently
found that they had no cause to repent the change. The army officers
and doctors, on the other hand, were less amenable and settled down
without further ado at the _Majestic Hotel_, where kitchen service and
attendance were quickly working at full pressure.
[Illustration: MILITARY POLICEMEN INSPECTING THE DAMAGE OUTSIDE THE
“MAJESTIC” HOTEL]
Captain Tägert, a refined and conscientious man, immediately ordered
that a room (by the way, the last available at the _Littoral_)
be placed at my disposal forthwith. I took possession at once.
The corridor on the second floor led straight into the apartments
overlooking the sea, the inner doors being already furnished with the
name-plates of the German naval officers occupying them. The outer
glass doors led to balconies with comfortable basket chairs. From these
balconies we had an uninterrupted view of the sea and could watch the
British squadron and its movements.
From my splendid point of vantage I could enjoy at leisure the varying
phases of a wonderful sunset. In the west the great ball was shining
with a curious pink glow now and then running into yellow. The fleecy
clouds near by were fringed with gold reflected in the glittering sea.
The rest of the sky was overcast and a thin drizzle fell fitfully,
whilst the windows on the front gleamed as if the houses were on fire.
The British ships lay in the centre of the patch of sea turned golden
by the rays of the setting sun. They had been bombarding the German
positions all day and I could see the flashes from the guns, followed a
long while after by the roar of the report. Now, at 5.20 p.m., German
time, the thunder from the guns was so loud and insistent that the
windows of the Kursaal shook and rattled. Half an hour later the firing
ceased. We assumed that the squadron had gone north to replenish its
ammunition. By this time the beam of light had shrunk and the golden
tint had faded from the water. Twilight descended upon the sea and the
blinking of a couple of gas-buoys began to assert itself. They are
there to guide the shipping, but now the fairway was empty and deserted.
During the day I had seen many civilians about, but towards evening
they gradually disappeared. Nobody was allowed out after 9 p.m. or
before 5 a.m. The streets themselves were not lighted, but several
shops were kept with their lights burning until the former hour. On
the promenade at the front there was not a single lamp alight--here
one wandered in darkness among the German soldiers. Light issued,
however, from many windows facing the sea. This was not thought risky,
as the enemy vessels well knew their bearings in any case. It was not
thought that the British ships would bombard Ostend, as the killing of
a hundred or two of Germans and the evacuation of the place would not
make up for the loss of the considerable British capital supposed to
be invested in the town.
I had been invited to regard myself as a member of the German naval
officers’ mess for dinner and supper at the _Hôtel Littoral_. When
therefore we assembled at eight o’clock in the restaurant for the first
time, I made the acquaintance of them all. Among my special friends,
apart from the chief, were Captain-Lieutenant Bess, Lieutenant Haak,
Staff-Surgeon Schönfelder and Doctor Kübler. We kept together during
the next few days and went through many experiences which we shall
never forget.
Whilst we were sitting at table a report was handed in that light
signals had been made from a church tower, clearly addressed to the
British warships. The instructions issued to deal with this matter
ordered a very thorough investigation of the circumstances. The day’s
bombardment from the British ships had done no damage beyond killing a
few horses. Apart from this the shells had found an “empty billet.”
We sat up late talking, and Captain Bess told us about the sinking of
the old “tin box” _Ariadne_, a cruiser of 3000 tons, by the British on
August 28th. Bess was navigating officer on board and he assured me
that it takes some time before one’s nerves recover their equilibrium
after the shock of such an experience. The _Ariadne_ had been doing
patrol duty in Jade Bight when in the morning of August 28th she was
ordered to scour the sea north-west of Heligoland. The weather was
misty and it was impossible to see far ahead. Suddenly a huge grey hulk
loomed up through the fog. It was a British “Dreadnought,” and her
heavy guns at once began to play. The first “coal box” flew right over
the _Ariadne_, so close that several of the crew were flung against the
deck by the air pressure. After that the shells kept raining over the
doomed little cruiser, which immediately headed for the Jade Bight, her
guns returning the fire as best she could. One shot after the other
struck the _Ariadne_. After a while her stern was on fire and there
was no possibility of bringing the powder magazine under water so as
to avert a catastrophe. The fore-part of the ship also caught fire,
but not in the bows, where the wounded had been taken and where it was
still possible to make one’s way. Next the steering apparatus was hit
and the ship seemed to want to make for the British vessel, but somehow
or other it was put right again. Words cannot describe the appalling
noise which denoted each hit. A deafening crash resounded through the
entire hull when the projectile struck its sides. The fire soon spread.
Presently it became impossible to serve the guns. In the end the flames
reached the parts of the ship where the ammunition was stored. Now
began a terrible crackling and hissing as one projectile after the
other exploded and shells and splinters poured out in every direction.
Another “Dreadnought” dived through the fog, but did not take part in
the fight, uneven enough already. The _Ariadne’s_ commander and Bess
were on the bridge, the plating of which was perforated from beneath
by the exploding ammunition. The heat was unbearable, everything was
wreathed in smoke, the deafening detonations followed closer and closer
and the final catastrophe was clearly approaching. When the crew saw
that the end might come at any moment they broke into a rousing cheer
for the Emperor and another for the _Ariadne’s_ commander. Then they
sang the
“Stolz weht die Flagge schwarz-weiss-rot
An unsres Schiffes Mast
Dem Feinde weh, der sie bedroht,
Der diese Farben hasst!
Sie flattert an dem Heimatstrand
Im winde hin und her,
Und fern vom teuren Vaterland
Auf sturmbewegtem Meer.
Ihr wolln wir treu ergeben sein,
Getreu bis in den Tod,
Ihr wolln wir unser Leben weihn,
Der Flagge schwarz-weiss-rot. Hurra!”[26]
[26] Black, white and red our noble flag
Up at our masthead flies--
Woe to the foe who scorns that flag,
This ensign who defies!
It gaily flutters in the breeze
Upon our native strand
And out on many storm-tossed seas
Far from our fatherland.
Beneath it firm and true we’ll stand,
Our blood we’ll gladly shed,
And to our last breath will defend
The black and white and red!
Hurrah!
But salvation was near at hand. The two cruisers _Danzig_ and
_Stralsund_ showed up through the mist. The crew jumped overboard from
the red-hot, burning ship. The British disappeared. The commander and
Bess would have been roasted had they remained longer at their post,
and they too dived into the sea. As regards the latter, he did not
recover consciousness until he found himself in a comfortable berth on
board one of the rescue ships. The _Ariadne_ had lost close on seventy
men out of her full complement of three hundred.
Thus ended the first day which I spent with the German naval officers
at Ostend, that glorious watering-place, at other times the rendezvous
of _la haute volée_ and “the upper ten,” that pleasure-ground of
innumerable good-for-nothings, where dissipated diplomats bathe their
jaded bodies in the pure salt sea, where namby-pamby dandies flirt
with idle, fascinating women. Now German imperial power stood like
an impenetrable iron wall on the brink of the sea, with its spear
pointed at the heart of England. The first goal had been reached,
England--fearful of her world supremacy on the sea and jealous of the
rapid commercial and economic rise of Germany--had made up her mind to
join in the fight and had declared war on Germany. Now, if ever, was
the opportunity to get at a hated rival--without too great a sacrifice
of her own resources. But already German forces had reached the ocean
shore. Antwerp had fallen, the city which Mr. Winston Churchill, like
the Duke of Wellington of old, had wished to convert into a British
base for operations on the Continent, a point from which the Belgians
could be put to rights should they perchance become less patient and
show less interest in the sacred cause. Yes, Antwerp--the city which
was to be saved for Great Britain even if the rest of Belgium went
under--had fallen, in spite of Britain’s protest and in spite of
the showers of abuse which the proud British had poured over their
honourable enemy. The greatest drama of the world’s history was in
full swing. Were the Teutons to go under and the culture of the German
“barbarians” to be wiped out? No, never! Such a purpose would require
other means for its fulfilment than those hitherto tried by the Allies.
The military position of Germany is too strong, and all attempts to
crush her people are and must be hopeless. But woe to those who bear
the blame for the agony of the vanquished!
It was with a queer feeling that I went to bed in a room where I could
look upon a sea from which British warships had only a moment ago been
bombarding the coast a few miles away. The fire might easily have been
directed on Ostend itself. But this did not come to pass. At least I
heard nothing, for I slept like a log. When I awoke war had resumed its
thunders in the west.
22nd October. The British bombardment of the coastal zone south of
Ostend continued throughout the morning and was still more severe than
on the previous day. The window-panes in the hotel restaurant shook in
their frames. We wondered whether the deeper sounds emanated from newly
arrived German heavy artillery or from British naval guns.
Two German infantry detachments were occupying a line running from
north-west to south-east of the north-eastern side of the Yser Canal.
On the south-west side of the canal the Belgians and British had
entrenched themselves firmly; they also held Nieuport. The immediate
German object was to command the crossings of the canal, which in
itself formed a very valuable defensive work in the hands of the
Allies. The villages of Leffinghe and Slype and the road between
them, running south-east of Middelkerke, had been bombarded by the
enemy. Leffinghe was only six, Slype nine kilometres from Ostend. The
positions of the Germans were enormously strong. They clearly did not
intend to let go the advantage they had gained, although encircled
by fire from the north, north-west, west, south-west and south, both
from the sea and from the land side. The Allies on the other hand
realised that every German advance west-south-westward, that is to say
towards Nieuport, Dunkerque and Calais, was, to say the least, fatal
to themselves. Hence the remnants of the Anglo-Belgian Army, which
had thought fit to leave Antwerp before it was too late, had halted
in its retreat after receiving considerable reinforcements both from
France and England, and had offered a desperate resistance in fortified
positions in the western sector of Belgian Flanders, intersected by
canals and waterways. It will readily be understood what important
British interests were at stake. As soon as England herself was in
danger, the famous phlegm was transformed into unbridled hysteria.
Captain Tägert now suggested an excursion to Middelkerke, situated
on the coast, eight kilometres from Ostend. Captain-Lieutenant Bess
and his adjutant were to accompany me. We drove in the covered car of
the former, following the inner sea-road parallel with the shore, but
separated from it by intermittent rows of houses. Towards Middelkerke
the life and traffic increased. Long food and ammunition columns were
being brought up to the rear of the troops. In a street in the little
town the men were busy hiding the light canvas awnings of the provision
wagons with twigs and branches, and the vehicles looked like so many
leafy bowers. Yet I was unpleasantly impressed by the sight of this
kind of leafy bower, for in my mind it was too closely associated with
impending danger. As I have said before, this sort of disguise is
necessitated by the enemy’s air scouting.
We asked a picket where the General-in-Command von Werder had his
quarters, and were directed to a modest little house. The General was
busy at the moment receiving details of the situation in this part of
the theatre of war. A report on the subject had to be sent to Main
Headquarters. As soon as this matter was disposed of, we were shown in.
The General received us with the greatest kindness. He was in brilliant
spirits and possesses in a high degree that immovable equanimity
required in difficult situations. Lieutenant-Colonel Wittisch was told
to lend us an officer familiar with the field of battle, who would
take us to a point of vantage from which we could obtain a view of the
situation without too much exposing ourselves to the enemy’s fire. The
Colonel asked whether he might not undertake this job himself, and so
we promptly seated ourselves in his open car and continued on our way
along the sea-front under cover of the only row of houses separating us
from the sea. These houses are, however, intersected by several narrow
streets like the openings in a gallery, through which we caught sight
of the sea and two destroyers which had detached themselves from the
British squadron and were now two kilometres away. They were clearly
out to observe what was passing on shore, but did not fire, at least
not at the moment.
On reaching the last of the stone houses at the western end of
Middelkerke we alighted from the car and proceeded on foot some
distance south to the crest of the highest dune in the neighbourhood.
At this point we were only a little over seven kilometres from
Nieuport, which was in the hands of the Allies. We had with us a map
of the neighbourhood and commanded a wide radius of the blood-drenched
country. Below the crest of the dune, to the south-west, stood the
nearest German batteries. They were just on the point of hurling
their messengers of death into the allied positions. At every shot we
heard that peculiar whining, whistling sound of the projectile, and
presently a puff of smoke indicated the point of impact at the other
end. All life in the vicinity of this target is destroyed. A hit can
kill twenty men and wound as many or more. Yesterday British shells had
been raining down from Nieuport and they had reached the spot where
we now stood. It is difficult to avoid a feeling of excitement, and
one’s attention is strained to the utmost when witnessing an artillery
duel over a large area and hearing the incessant heavy dull booming of
cannon.
With the map in his hand and with really impressive calm Colonel
Wittisch explained everything that was passing in front of us; now and
again we stole a glance at the destroyers outside, wondering whether
they would soon begin to shoot. In the south-west we noticed the little
white puffs of smoke which denote the bursting of shrapnel shells.
When everything had been fully explained to me, the Colonel thought
that it was not advisable to remain any longer. There were four of us,
and we were within range of all commanding points in the vicinity. If
we were noticed from the south side, it would be assumed that we were
directing the German artillery and the enemy’s guns would be trained
on us. It is a peculiar sensation to know that one may at any moment
become a target.
So we walked down from the dunes and back to the car. From the mouth
of one of the little streets running down to the sea we observed
the two incredibly impudent destroyers, which we were told had been
stealing along the coast for the last three days. They had gradually
come nearer and nearer, since they noticed no evil intentions from the
coast at Middelkerke. Through our glasses we could see the officers
on the bridge and the crew moving about on deck. They on their part
could see us with equal clearness, but I suppose they did not think
us worth powder and shot from a revolving gun. After a while they
seemed to make a large sweep, one to the south-west, west, north-west
and north-north-west, and the other to the north-east, north and
north-north-west, gradually approaching the remainder of the squadron,
no doubt to report what they had seen. Of the squadron itself only five
ships were discernible through the mist.
Now we could proceed without any risk on our return journey along _La
Digue_, the broad, hard road skirting the shore, with its excellent
view of the sea. Here all civilian traffic was forbidden and no lights
were allowed in the windows. In the evenings and at night the darkness
was complete.
After supper, at ten o’clock, I was sitting once more on my balcony,
the two gas-buoys were burning and the swell was breaking drowsily
upon the shore, drowning the steps of the sentries in the street. But
I could see the soldiers by the light from the windows. They moved
mostly in pairs, whilst other soldiers stood chatting in little groups,
leaning against the iron railing of the promenade and watching the
sheaves of fire from the British guns. In the course of ten minutes
I counted 141 shots; probably there were more, as several might have
coincided. In ten hours this meant 8500 shots, an expensive business.
So I went to bed at Ostend for the second time. I left the balcony
doors open--it was too tempting to lie awake awhile to watch the clear
sky and listen to the harmonies of the ocean swell and the booming
guns. Gradually I drifted into a deep and refreshing sleep.
CHAPTER XVI
OSTEND BOMBARDED
On Friday the 23rd October I was called by Dr. Kübler, who suggested a
walk to the lighthouse and to the old fortifications. So we wandered
off to the new outer harbour, where a sailor rowed us across the canal,
whereupon we continued to the flying station, where we arrived just in
time to watch the elegant ascent of a _Taube_, which circled up to a
considerable height and then disappeared towards the south-west.
The lighthouse rears its white minaret fifty-eight metres above the
ground. Tempting as it was, we refrained from climbing up to the light
to have a look at Nieuport, Furnes and Dunkerque, which can be seen
from the top.
Instead we traced our steps to the ancient fort and its moat, its
earth-clad slopes and its five guns dating from 1862. We returned by
the electric tramway. The car was filled with soldiers and civilians.
The former included an old Landsturm man, who told us that he had three
sons in the war, but where they were and whether they were still alive,
he had not the faintest notion. “I don’t grudge their dying,” he said,
“one must sacrifice all for the Fatherland.”
On returning to the promenade, we settled down on a bench by the
Kursaal and examined the British squadron through our glasses. The sky
was exceptionally clear, the weather radiant; even the sun came out to
have a peep at us.
Just before half-past twelve Captain-Lieutenant Bess came to fetch me.
He had just returned from Middelkerke, where he had been with Admiral
von Schröder. He told me that the road in which yesterday we had seen
the foliage-enshrouded wagons was now anything but safe, and that in
fact a couple of shells had been dropped there. Even the soldiers
were forbidden to show themselves on the front. Bess dissuaded me,
therefore, from attempting a second visit to Middelkerke.
He had another suggestion, combined with less risk, namely to visit
a couple of his companies of marines and inspect their quarters.
A company and a half had been billeted in the theatre, which was
only a few steps away. Outside stood a couple of 6-cm. so-called
_Bootskanonen_ (boat guns), neat-looking little guns of the same grey
colour as the armoured ships. Their ammunition wagons were lined up
along the pavement.
We stepped into the large, handsome foyer. The men had rigged up their
beds along the walls--mattresses and pillows had been requisitioned
from the Mayor of Ostend. Their arms and clothes were hanging on chairs
and coat-hangers and the tables were littered with their cups and
crockery.
The first-tier boxes had also been converted into sleeping berths or
armouries. The whole of the corridor was filled with beds. We had a
look into one or two boxes where the marines were sitting cleaning
their rifles, patching their clothes or polishing their accoutrements.
In front of us we had the handsomely decorated well of the theatre.
Only three months ago this had been the scene of every conceivable
extravagance from Paris, Brussels and London. From the box where we
were standing we would have been gazing down on row upon row of elegant
ladies intent on displaying their charms and jewellery. Not long ago
coquettish, languishing glances had been exchanged across the stalls
which now stood bare and empty. Then life was a whirl of dissipation
and excitement. The days had been spent in bathing and in lounging
in the high-backed basket chairs or basking on the sun-baked sands.
Excursions, dinners and festivities had followed close upon one another
and the evenings had been spent in the theatre in careless idleness.
Then suddenly the curtain was rung down for the last time, and the war
broke out.
We could not resist the temptation to pay a visit to the theatre
kitchen. Here stood the fat, jovial, naval cooks in their long white
coats and caps and sleeves tucked up. The caldrons were on the boil
and appetising fumes filled the atmosphere. Needless to say I was
made to taste the dishes, and a gigantic portion of _goulash_ in a
soup plate was put in front of me--stewed meat, potatoes, vegetables
and broth. “Excellent! This is even better than the food we get at
the hotel,” I thought to myself. I ate my dish with great gusto. No
wonder that German soldiers are so strong, fresh and contented-looking
when they are fed like this. If I were to be put on field diet for a
long while and could choose between officers’ and men’s fare, I would
unhesitatingly take the latter. It is wholesome, nourishing, and tasty
food, and does not encumber the soldiers’ stomachs with unnecessary
ballast. That the state of health in the German Army is as good as it
is, is to a great extent due to the excellent and ample hot food.
But it is now five minutes to one and we must not be late for dinner at
the officers’ mess, for which I, for my part, had thoroughly spoilt my
appetite. We walked up the _Rue du Cerf_. At the corner of this street
and the _Digue de Mer_, the road fronting the sea, stands the _Hôtel
Littoral_. The former street lies a few metres lower than the _Digue
de Mer_, which is perched on the dune skirting the sea. The streets
are paved with granite slabs. The last bit of the _Rue du Cerf_ forms
a slight rise. Up at the corner of the _Hôtel Littoral_ a group of
officers were standing in animated conversation, pointing to the west
and busily using their glasses. We went up to them wondering what was
up. The British squadron lay in its accustomed place to westward and
west-south-westward, perhaps a little closer in than usual--about seven
or eight kilometres away.
A destroyer had just detached itself from the rest and was making at
full speed for Ostend, parallel with the coast, as close as possible to
the shore. Presently another destroyer appeared, following in the wake
of the first. What could they want, these ruffians? Strong language was
heard--it was a piece of consummate impudence to come steaming right
under our noses like this. Evidently they were reconnoitring--but what
insolence, they must have known that we had occupied Ostend! Aha! they
suspect that there are submarines and destroyers in the inner harbour,
and want to see whether they can detect anything from outside!
Well, whatever their intentions are, we may as well go upstairs and
get ready for dinner. I stepped on to my balcony, feeling convinced
that by this time the destroyers would have turned back or gone out
to sea again. But no! They kept on the same tack as before, and at a
speed which made the foam break over their bows. My neighbours, Bess,
Haak and Kübler, were also out on their balconies with their glasses.
“Astounding insolence,” I heard them mutter. There will be something
doing presently, I thought to myself, and went in to stow away my
diaries, sketches and photographs in a handbag. Once more I cast a
glance at the bold destroyers outside. Beneath my balcony I heard an
officer shouting out orders in a stentorian voice to the effect that
the street was to be cleared and that not a man must show himself on
the front, except the sentry at the _Littoral_, but a moment later, he,
too, was called in for _Deckung_.
My friends had disappeared; I looked into their rooms, they were empty.
Then I took my glasses and hurried downstairs. Bess had warned his
colleagues against remaining on the balconies, and he thought that I
had gone down already.
In the elegant, carpeted vestibule of the hotel, where sofas, tables
and chairs stood in little groups between the huge green plants,
officers hurried to and fro, and it was plain that something unusual
was pending. “Are they going to shoot?” I asked Bess. “Oh yes, they
are going to shoot all right,” he answered with stoical calm. Through
the glass doors of the vestibule I could see clearly what was going on
at the end of the _Rue du Cerf_. Admiral von Schröder was in command
and I caught sight of Captain Tägert and his men of the naval brigade,
hurrying to bring up the two 6-cm. naval guns and their ammunition
carts which we had seen a moment ago at the theatre--there was no
other artillery available in the town for the moment. The street had
been cleared of civilians, and there were no military visible save
those required for serving and directing the little battery. I was
not allowed outside, of course, but I had time nevertheless to admire
the astounding swiftness and precision with which the two guns were
unlimbered, loaded and the range found: “Load! Ready! Fire!”
The first shot rang out. The report re-echoed down the street and the
window-panes in the hotel rattled in their frames. I went into the
restaurant, whence I had an uninterrupted view of the sea and the
leading destroyer. A moment later came the second shot. The first shell
struck the water right in front of the destroyer, but it was impossible
to tell whether it did any damage. The second shell also struck quite
close to the target.
There were several officers in the restaurant. I was standing with Dr.
Algermissen of Colmar, Lieutenant in the First Naval Reserve. The room
was very large, with eight windows looking on to the sea and two others
on to the _Rue du Cerf_. At the former little tables stood laid, and
on the east side of the room stood the large table where we used to
take our meals. Along the centre line the restaurant was supported
by four solid pillars. Algermissen and I were standing at the second
window from the west.
Directly the German shots had been fired, the two destroyers swung
round to port and at the same moment opened fire. Their guns seemed
to flash out straight at us. _Deckung!_ shouted Algermissen, and we
retired immediately behind our pillar, forgetting that it would have
been blown away like paper if a shell had struck it. Some of those in
the room followed our example, but others contemptuously disdained even
this measure of precaution, which perhaps they considered insufficient.
The leading destroyer was now about 1400 metres away. Its first shell
fell short and dropped into the sea just in front of the _Littoral_.
Tall columns of white spray showed where it had struck. Immediately
we turned our glasses on to the enemy vessel. There is another flash.
Once more we take cover, but only for the body, not for the head, for
one simply _cannot_ take one’s eyes off such a spectacle, whatever the
cost! But it would be vain to attempt to describe the excitement which
we felt between the spurt of flame from the gun and the impact of the
shell. We felt, indeed we were conscious that _we_ were the target of
the sinister monster speeding towards us through the air. It was not
fear, for if anyone had offered to take me to a perfectly safe spot in
the centre of the town, I should not have stirred. It was a mixture
of breathless excitement, intense interest and a fixed determination
not to miss the smallest detail of what was passing. That was why we
kept our glasses fixed, now on the boat, now on the point of impact.
One projectile ricochetted from the surface of the water, sprang
aloft and struck the roof coping, fifty-eight paces away from us, as
I subsequently measured. Another described a most peculiar path--how
it did it I cannot imagine--but in the end it landed on the stone
promenade nearest the sea and buried itself beside the iron railing
without bursting. There it lay for a couple of days, and the guard saw
to it that nobody went up to interfere with the fearsome object. Twice
we saw and heard the shells strike the water, dancing like flat stones
over the surface, and finally crashing into the quay wall. First we
saw the flash from the British gun, then the impact on striking the
water--then came the report. A second or so later a horrible crash
struck our ears, announcing that some house frontage had been hit,
and followed by the clatter of bricks and stones smashing on to the
pavement.
The second destroyer, which I could not see from my point of vantage,
was blazing away as cheerfully as the first. As we could not even see
_when_ she fired, the protection of our pillar was still more illusory.
The two German guns fired five or six shots each. Whether they did any
damage, I do not know. As the street sloped upward towards the front,
the recoil was very severe, and the guns had to be pulled up afresh
for each round. The laying of them was combined with considerable
difficulty. The whole affair was over in twelve minutes. The destroyers
turned almost completely round and steamed with all speed back towards
the west, firing continuously. According to the German officers they
fired about thirty rounds. They also used machine guns. But the
distance grew, and after a while the firing ceased altogether.
One can hardly be in a more dangerous situation than the one we had
been exposed to. We had been right in the middle of the shell fire,
and yet got away unscathed. The shells had struck, some in front of
us, some to the east of us, and the machine guns seemed to be trained
on the lower floor of the house adjoining the _Littoral_ on the left.
Several shots had made their way through its windows. We afterwards
discussed this remarkable whim of fate.
“How is it that not a single shot hit our hotel?” I asked. “The British
ought to have seen that the German fire was directed from our street
corner, and the men serving the guns were the only human beings in
sight on the whole front.”
“Well, it might seem so, but with the rapid movement of the ships it
must be difficult to tell where the fire comes from. Possibly they may
have had their attention fixed on the harbour, in the belief that we
had torpedo-boats lying there. Several shots went in that direction.”
“I hear,” said another, “that the _Majestic Hotel_ was struck several
times, and that one or two officers there were killed. The _Majestic_
is a large white monumental building, and the British no doubt thought
that they were making a good haul.”
“It is very significant,” added a third, “that they honoured us with
their attention just at one o’clock when they knew that all the
officers would be at dinner. Probably they thought that they would get
past unimpeded after carrying out their reconnaissance before we were
ready.”
What can have been the intention of the British? It may perhaps have
been--apart from the general reconnaissance to discover what the
Germans had in the harbour--to tempt the German artillery out of its
hiding-place. Their persistent fire, although the German reply was so
slight, would hardly have any other explanation. They gained nothing
by the affair, and did themselves and their Belgian Allies a certain
amount of material damage.
When all was quiet again we settled down to our meal, after which
Bess, Kübler and I went over to the _Majestic Hotel_. On the way we
passed the house where a shell had lodged in the coping. Some men and
women were just issuing from its gates with a lusty-looking child in a
perambulator. The elders looked frightened and perturbed. “Where are
you off to?” we asked.
“Surely you can’t expect us to remain in a house which has been shot
at,” said one of the men, and added with a touch of sardonic humour,
“these are strong pills for little children--we are going to move away.”
In the 1910 edition of “Baedeker” the _Majestic Hotel_ appears under
the name of _Grand Hotel des Bains_. Since then it has changed its
name and probably its proprietor. Its handsome white frontage had been
badly knocked about by the six shells which we had counted, and which
had torn great gaping holes in the walls. On the pavement outside lay
huge piles of stone, bricks and masonry, and we noticed the fragments
of one of the ornamental plaster angels with wings lifted for flight,
but which nevertheless, by the irony of fate, had ended its days in
millions of fragments on the stone pavement.
We went into the lobby, where cupboards, tables and chairs lay in
picturesque disorder. An hour ago the restaurant had been one of the
most elegant in Europe. Its floor was laid with rich red Brussels
carpets, the walls were decorated in white and gold and mirrors, with
magnificent chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Now the whole room
was a picture of the most ghastly devastation. Two shells had entered
just by the lower part of the long row of windows. Their splinters had
torn gaping holes in walls and ceilings. The plaster ornaments had
fallen down and now lay shivered into fragments, and the carpets had
almost disappeared beneath the thick white dust. The windows had been
smashed to atoms. Mirrors had cracked into all sorts of curious starry
shapes which threatened to collapse altogether if touched. All the
furniture lay about in little bits. The tablecloths had been torn to
shreds. Yet in the corners of the room, more particularly the western
corner, the tables were still standing, but glasses and crockery had,
of course, been smashed. I noticed the bases of claret and champagne
glasses still standing, whilst the bowls had been shivered to pieces,
leaving an edge like an irregular saw blade.
When the bombardment began some fifty officers had assembled together
for dinner in this room, and some of them had already begun to eat.
Most of them had been seated in the western end of the room, and had
thus miraculously escaped death. But at a window in the eastern corner
of the room a surgeon, Dr. Lippe, had sat down with an Adjutant of
the Naval Brigade, and they had already begun their meal when the
bombardment commenced. A shell had burst its way through the lower
half of this very window. Probably the hotel had already been struck
by a couple of shells, and as the two gentlemen had perhaps felt that
they were rather too exposed where they were, it seems that Dr. Lippe
had got up to go away, but he got no further than the other end of the
table when he was literally torn to shreds by the shell, which struck
him right in the back. What was left of his body lay flung forward on
the floor, the head resting on the arms in a pool of blood. All that
was left of the uniform was a few ragged tatters. A piece of one of
his legs was found under a table at the other end of the room, and all
the rest of him, in the form of blood-stains, organs and bowels and
their contents, were spattered about the white walls and ceiling and
the tablecloths. Dr. Schönfelder, who had hurried to the spot, could do
nothing but order the remains of his colleague to be gathered together
in a tablecloth and carried to a mortuary. The Adjutant, who was badly
wounded in the head, was taken to the nearest hospital. A fine-looking
Landsturm soldier, who was in the restaurant together with his son,
told me that all the other diners had got out of it alive, but most
of them had been hurled to the ground by the air pressure, and some
had been cut and bruised by flying splinters. They were dazed for the
moment, but soon recovered.
[Illustration: THE WESTERN END OF DINING-ROOM AT THE “MAJESTIC” SEEN
FROM THE STREET. ONE SHELL HAD CRASHED THROUGH THE UPPER PART OF THE
WINDOW]
Fate is indeed inscrutable. Why should he, who saw the danger and was
on the point of seeking a safer place, be overtaken by death, whilst
we, who stopped to observe the spectacle from another room, were
spared? I was told afterwards that our post had been far from safe. In
a confined space the risk is always far greater than out in the open.
Strictly speaking the gunners at the street corners were far safer
than we. So it came to pass that the visitors at the _Littoral_ had no
reason to complain of the inhospitable treatment they received at the
_Majestic_. If the German naval officers had been well received there,
some of us might well have shared Dr. Lippe’s fate.
[Illustration: A “DIRECT HIT” ON A HOUSE NEAR THE HOTEL LITTORAL]
A great change suddenly came over Ostend with the altered situation.
Counsels were divided as to what to do. Most people seemed to think
that the town would be exposed to renewed firing, but others thought it
unlikely that the night would bring a fresh bombardment. Orders were
issued that nobody, not even the soldiers, was to be allowed on the
front without special permission. All of the frontage looking on to the
sea was to be cleared of people, excepting the guards at the street
corners. In the evening and at night there must be no light whatever
in the windows looking on to the sea. My friends at the _Littoral_
therefore decided to move over to the _Hôtel de la Couronne_ opposite
the railway station, where a room was also prepared for me. Our luggage
was thereupon transferred to our new abode in two baggage carts.
We ourselves remained, however, at the _Littoral_ until the evening,
and some of us sat in the dark to keep Lieut. Haak company, as he had
been ordered to take a battery to the zone beyond Middelkerke. He ate
his supper, smoked his cigarette, bade us good-bye and started off
with his sailors, horses and guns. The rest of us took our supper at
the usual time in the dimly lit lobby, whereupon we said good-bye to
the amiable proprietor and servants, and brought our memorable visit
in the house to an end. From the corner of the _Rue du Cerf_ we cast a
glance westward, where the sky was lit up by the fire from the British
guns. Then we marched off to _La Couronne_ through the dim and silent
streets in a darkness unbroken but for the light from an occasional
lamp invisible from the sea.
CHAPTER XVII
TWO MORE DAYS ON THE CHANNEL COAST
The night was calm and still, and when in the morning of the 24th
October I was called by Dr. Schönfelder’s _Bursche_ (servant), he
assured me that no shells had fallen on Ostend whilst I had been
asleep. But the roar of the artillery duel over at Nieuport was
nevertheless the first sound that greeted my ears--an incessant
hammering at the last remaining little corner of the Kingdom of
Belgium. At midday it was reported that a couple of British ships had
been hit, whereupon the entire squadron vanished in the fog.
The day was spent in visiting the troops and transports bound for the
Yser Canal front, the wounded in hospitals and the Belgian prisoners
in the Kursaal. The latter were but a small contingent of some ten
men. They, too, had been told that the Russians were only a hundred
kilometres from Berlin. What they said _en passant_ about the British
policy in Belgium and its result, I simply cannot repeat.
The proprietor of the _Littoral_, where I looked in for a moment in
passing, gave the following details of recent happenings. When the
Germans were pushing forward against Antwerp, numberless bands of
fugitives kept swarming into Ostend. The hotels were crammed and there
was a life and bustle in the town such as had never been equalled even
in the season. One ship after the other carried the fleeing inhabitants
to England and France. The great majority went to Folkestone, the
better-off to Eastbourne, Brighton and Bournemouth. But at Dunkerque no
one was allowed to land. The vessels arriving there had to continue to
Havre. Any sort of craft was good enough, even sailing boats, launches
and row-boats. The first person who fled to England was a gentleman
from Brussels who had already withdrawn to Ostend with his family. When
a German _Taube_ on September 24th dropped a couple of bombs over that
town, he interpreted this as a message and a warning that the Germans
were on the way. And so he fled precipitately across to London with
his family.
From about that time the number of fugitives increased daily. They
came in ever-increasing throngs from Antwerp, Ghent, Bruges, Termonde
and elsewhere. On October 12th the last shipload of fugitives left the
town, and after swarming with life like a beehive, it now became empty
and deserted. A few members of the Belgian Cabinet remained, but on the
13th they, too, left by a Government steamer, the _Aventi_. They had
been staying at the _Majestic_ and _Littoral_--the latter had also been
the residence of His Excellency Vandervelde.
By the 14th and 15th of October there were no steamers left at Ostend
for the fresh bands of fugitives who kept on arriving, and anything in
the nature of fishing-smacks was eagerly snapped up. The reports of
the advance of the German legions became louder and more insistent,
and the civil population which remained was in a state of the tensest
excitement, expecting to see them march in at any moment. Two hours
before the first Germans appeared the last Belgian lancer, without
helmet or sword, flung himself on his horse and galloped down the
stone-paved road towards Middelkerke. The German “advance guard” was
not formidable--it consisted of two cyclists and a horseman. It was
then half-past ten in the morning, Belgian time. The last fishing-smack
with sixty passengers had just cast off its moorings, but was compelled
to return. The next few days saw the arrival of increasing bands
of German troops, and then came the occurrences which I have just
described.
Now, on the 24th of October, the situation at Ostend was, to say the
least, interesting. Everybody expected with imperturbable calm that
something remarkable would happen. The possibility of an attempted
landing was not overlooked. The Germans were prepared for it, at any
rate. Anyone who had attempted such a step would have met with a
warm reception, for large quantities of troops had been massed along
the coast. At our hotel they realised, it seems, fairly plainly what
was on foot. The stairs were thronged at all hours of the day with
officers and men, and outside my door I heard late at night hurried
conversations about dressings and bandages, ambulances and stretchers,
and fresh batches of wounded who had been brought into the town and
lodged in deserted empty houses.
On Sunday the 25th of October the weather was brilliantly fine and as
warm as a summer’s day, but a thin film of vapour lay over the sea like
a delicate veil.
Captain Bess suggested a motor trip to Haak’s battery among the dunes
beyond Mariakerke. So we started off down the _Rue de Tourout_, dodged
about awhile in the open country and finally found our friend Haak
amongst his guns. His battery, consisting of four _French_ 7.5-cm.
guns, looked a very motley lot. The guns themselves had been taken at
Maubeuge, the horses were Belgian, and the harness and saddlery English.
[Illustration: A MAUBEUGE GUN DOING DUTY AT MIDDELKERKE]
In order, without being seen from the sea, to reach the position--well
concealed behind the crest of the dune--it had been necessary to pass
through a communicating trench which led up to it. We were thus fairly
safe and did not have to expose ourselves to any objectionable missiles
which might be thrown ashore from the English destroyers. The guns
with their grey-coloured shields were also practically invisible from
outside, as there was nothing but a small embrasure in the dune wall to
indicate where they stood.
[Illustration: GROUP BESIDE ONE OF THE GUNS OF LIEUT. HAAK’s BATTERY.
(FURTHEST TO THE LEFT ARE CAPT.-LIEUT. BESS AND LIEUT. HAAK)]
Officers and men had dug out caves for themselves, some covered with
boards, some, for the lack of something better, with sticks and twigs.
It looked quite homelike in their abodes. The sand of the dunes was
soft to lie upon, albeit a little damp on account of the advanced
autumn.
In the ridge of the dune they had contrived a little niche with boarded
floor, where an exceptionally powerful battery telescope had been
adjusted on its stand in such a way that only the lenses showed above
the crest. With the aid of this telescope we were able to scan the
mist-enshrouded sea and the sandy, sunlit coast.
We had just settled down on the edge of the communicating trench,
where we sat as close together as in a crowded tramcar, when suddenly
an officer up at the battery shouted, “_Deckung, Flieger!_” (“Cover,
aviator!”) We looked up, and right above us soared an aeroplane at a
very great height. “An English biplane,” somebody said. “No, I think
I can see the Iron Cross under the wings,” answered another. But a
third, lying on his back, with glasses focussed right on the thing,
said quietly: “I can see the red English streamer.” We were then told
to keep absolutely still. Everyone had to remain where he stood and
no one was allowed to move. Otherwise the airman might have noticed
the movement and bombs might be dropped over the guns. Now and
again he disappeared among the little white clouds; the rascal was
evidently following the coast to see what the Germans were up to in
the neighbourhood of Ostend. When he was at his nearest, we could hear
the droning of his engine. As usual, it was with a certain feeling of
satisfaction that I saw him diminish in size and gradually vanish.
Once more we took our seat on the edge of the trench and were just
being threatened with coffee when Haak, sweeping the misty horizon with
his telescope, reported that a destroyer was in sight. We went up to
have a look. Quite right; the outline of the boat was quite distinct,
though faint. The distance was gauged at three kilometres. Things
suddenly became livelier. One could not tell exactly what might happen.
The coast batteries had fired on British ships earlier in the day and
it was thought that two of them had been hit, seeing that the squadron
withdrew. Perhaps it was now returning at full strength. We had reason
to think that the ships were receiving heliographic signals from the
coast. Yesterday a couple of spies had been caught, who could not give
a satisfactory account of themselves and who, if convicted, would land
in the churchyard.
So the order rang out to man the guns. The men scuttled off to their
posts like as many rats. “Ready to fire!” The first shot rang out, and
the other three followed at short intervals. We could see where the
shells struck from the cascade of spray that formed on striking the
water, but could not tell whether any hits had been scored. In any
case, the destroyer remained where she was. She seemed to take it very
quietly but could not tell where the fire came from, and her crew had
long been inured to the rough music.
[Illustration: GUN CREW GETTING READY TO FIRE ON A BRITISH DESTROYER]
On the way back we stopped a moment at Mariakerke and peered out from
behind the cover of a house. A battery further west had also begun
to fire and the little waterspouts were clearly discernible. But the
destroyer’s guns had not seemed anxious to join in the tune and the
boat soon disappeared in the mist.
This had, however, given me an opportunity of seeing how a coast
battery is worked and what sort of a time the officers and men have of
it. Constant watchfulness day and night! “Ever ready!” That is their
motto. The discipline is of the very strictest and the officers expect
the most absolute and immediate obedience to their orders. The result
is that the understanding between officers and men is always the very
best. Such things as sour faces, grudging steps or disinclination to
obey an order are absolutely unknown. Anyone showing symptoms of this
kind would be regarded with contempt by everybody, and his life would
be made unbearable by his own comrades. The German language has a
special word, _Drückeberger_, for individuals of that type, but the
type itself is extraordinarily rare. It is no secret how disciplinary
shortcomings are punished in war time. But it is not in order to avoid
punishment that the German forces on land and sea do their duty. It is
because they all have a common end in view, Germany’s salvation in this
terrible crisis, Germany’s victory over her enemies in every part of
the world, Germany’s future and honour.
On the way home we met an ammunition column clattering along at full
speed. The drivers were riding at full “manœuvre trot” and the horses
of some wagons had even broken into a gallop. The wagons with their
murderous load rattled heavily and noisily over the stone-paved road.
It was easy to tell that the men well knew there was no time to lose
and that some coast battery was in urgent need of fresh ammunition.
These columns, when really and seriously on the move, are a joy and a
feast to the eye.
A little further on we passed a contingent of fifty French prisoners
who were being taken into safe custody under a German guard. The
fighting had shorn their red and blue uniforms of their lustre, and the
men themselves looked pale and tired. What a contrast to the marines
and gunners we had just seen! But then joyous faces are not to be
expected from prisoners of war.
In the afternoon, accompanied by Bess and Schönfelder, I made another
excursion along the ideal automobile road which skirts the coast
north-eastward, just inside the long line of dunes.
[Illustration: HALF OF CAPT.-LIEUT. BESS AND THE WHOLE OF THE AUTHOR ON
THE WAY TO BLANKENBERGHE]
In the magnificent pavilion of the Royal (Knocke) Golf Club we
inspected a platoon of marine infantry, who seemed to be having the
time of their lives. _Via_ Venduyne we went on to Blankenberghe, where
the sea promenade resembled that of Ostend, except that the population
had remained and in addition had been reinforced by numberless refugees
from Brussels and elsewhere. The hotels had been taken possession of by
well-to-do people, and the beach was filled with a motley crowd of
men, women and young girls; they all seemed more or less to be enjoying
themselves. We met a couple of naval officers, among them a cheery and
amusing corvette commander named Mönch. He told us that no British
warships had been seen in this direction. The sea had probably been
mined in this part. Not far north-east of Blankenberghe lies Zeebrugge,
the port of Bruges. The two towns are connected by a canal, which might
have been laid out with a ruler.
[Illustration: DR. SCHÖNFELDER AND THE AUTHOR ON THE DUNES AT OSTEND]
In the gloaming we drove past the great Belgian hospital on the eastern
outskirts of Ostend. A funeral was taking place in its little cemetery.
Several officers and a number of men were standing round the grave. The
naval chaplain had just finished speaking and the band was playing a
funeral march. The funeral was that of Chief-Surgeon Dr. Lippe, whose
career had been ended yesterday by the shell from the British destroyer.
In due course we got back once more to _La Couronne_ and assembled as
usual for supper at eight o’clock. The restaurant is neither as large
nor as fine as at the _Littoral_, and we missed above all the drowsy
music of the swell breaking on the beach. Our former large company
has now been split up into several little groups. Bess, Schönfelder,
Kübler and I stick together as before. The clock strikes ten, we dawdle
over our coffee and cigars discussing the war, reciting Kipling and
exchanging anecdotes. We laugh till our sides ache over Schönfelder’s
desperate efforts to repeat quickly the words: “_Didon dîna, dit-on,
du dos d’un dodu dindon._” But he got his revenge by confronting me
with the following awkward problem: What does the following sentence
sound like when spelt backward: “_Ein Neger mit Gazelle zagt im Regen
nie_”?[27]
[27] Spells the same backwards.
Such was the mood at our table, and such is the mood of the fighting
men all along the front. Anxiety as to the result, nervousness,
overwork, fear, are terms of which they do not know the meaning.
Nothing made a deeper impression on me than this wonderful calm,
this absolute certainty of victory everywhere, this incredible
superabundance of physical energy and of matériel in men, horses and
iron. It seemed to me that the German armies on the western front had
not yet realised the irresistible strength which they had at their
disposal. The apparent pause was a link in a strategic chain. When
the moment for the great decision arrived, the army would still be
in possession of its full collective strength. As yet everything was
running smoothly and easily, as if it had been merely a matter of some
well-prepared, gigantic autumn manœuvre.
As we were sitting there chatting, a petty officer from the Naval
Brigade entered and announced to Dr. Schönfelder that fresh transports
of wounded had just arrived from the vicinity of the Yser Canal. They
had been accommodated temporarily in restaurants and public-houses and
any other vacant houses that were available. The two doctors at once
rose and said good night. To my question whether I might join them
they said “by all means.” So we threw our rain-coats over us, for it
was pouring in torrents, and marched out into the pitch-black night
accompanied by the petty officer.
At first he took us to a moderately lighted low-class eating house. The
doctors threw off their tunics and put on their white operating coats.
A couple of assistants from the naval hospital section were there to
help them and had brought dressings, instruments and drugs in bags and
cases. A table was brought out into the middle of the floor under the
lights with a cushion covered with a towel for a pillow. “Bring in the
first man,” ordered Dr. Schönfelder. A little, fair-haired, sturdily
built man was carried in and placed on the table. “Name?”--“Korte.”
“Regiment?”--“Eighth company of 35th Infantry Reserve.” “Where is your
wound?”--“In the left calf.” His breeches, fitting tight over his leg,
were slit open. The first dressing, saturated with pus and clotted
blood and stiffened into a solid lump, was removed with scissors and
knife. The wound looked very unpleasant, the flesh hung in shreds, the
skin had been torn away and a nasty smell issued from the open sore.
“Please look away,” said the Doctor as the soldier tried to look at his
wound, and I did my best to attract his attention. Powder of iodoform
was sprinkled upon the wound, a few little plugs of gauze were pressed
in with pincers in order to keep the wound open for the escape of the
pus and to induce the growth of fresh skin. Shreds of dead tissue were
removed and a fresh dressing was applied. The man had been wounded four
days previously at a new bridge over the Yser Canal. It was a splinter
from a shrapnel shell that had hit him.
“Next man!” He came in limping, supported by two ambulance men. His
bullet had caught him in the head, his skull was cracked, but the
brain was evidently uninjured. He was a wonderfully plucky chap.
According to himself it was nothing to speak of, and he deferentially
asked the doctor to be so kind as to see that he was put right as soon
as possible as he wanted to get out again. He seemed a little peculiar,
however, and seemed to have had a terrible shock. The hair was cut and
shaved away, the wound was washed with sublimate and benzine. Tincture
of iodine was painted on with a brush and a piece of gauze with
iodoform applied. Thereupon he was bandaged so thoroughly that only
mouth, nose and eyes were free.
“Next man!” He was a Fleming in Belgian uniform. He had been shot
through the seat, and was treated with the same care as the German
soldiers. An ashen paleness lay over his features and he looked tired
and done-up, but seemed very grateful for the attention given him as he
was carried away from the table.
And so it went on. Every time that “next man” was called, another
wounded soldier was brought in for treatment, I had thought of making a
note of the cases, but they were too many and were dealt with in double
shifts by the two doctors.
When the whole lot had been seen to, we went out guided by a lantern.
The rain had formed great puddles in the street. “_Wer da?_” cried a
sentry, but let us pass when he saw we were doctors. We were now taken
to a house of three stories where every room was occupied. The few beds
there were, had been requisitioned, and when they were all gone the
wounded men were laid on the floor. Most of them were in a deep and
heavy sleep, dead-tired after all they had gone through. Some snored
in different keys, it was rest, rest, rest that they wanted above
everything. Now and then we heard a deep sigh, but no groaning, no
complaining. The French and Belgians are as submissive and as patient
as the Germans.
They are too many to be taken down to the emergency operating theatre.
The doctors go from bed to bed, and now and then a light is projected
to display the wound, which is treated in most cases in the way I have
described. The broken victims of war show no fear of the doctor or of
his intentions. On the contrary, they are glad that he is willing to
help them. Clenched teeth and grimaces alone show what they are going
through. Never a sound of complaint, never a word about the pain,
never an entreaty to be left in peace. In the eye of some of the badly
wounded who will be cripples for life I sometimes seem to read the
reflection: shall I ever see father and mother and brothers and sisters
again, shall I ever settle down again in our quiet home as of yore,
shall I ever go back to the workshop, to the mine, to the dock, to the
tram, to the field, or whatever may have been his former occupation.
The torn, dirty, soiled and sooty grey uniforms bore eloquent witness
to the hardships they had gone through.
We pass from house to house among the victims of war’s harvest. We were
told it was the Belgians who had been attacking--a hopeless struggle
for the last little strip which still remains to them of their country.
Finally we came into a room containing among other wounded a soldier
who had been shot through the left hand. “How do you feel?” asks the
doctor. “Oh, pretty well, though it hurts a bit.”--“Come with me down
into the bar; it is lighter there and we shall see what can be done.”
A chair is brought for the soldier, the dressing is taken off, his
hand is blue and swollen. “Will he keep his hand?” I whisper into the
doctor’s ear. “I hope so, it is not a very serious wound.” The bullet
has struck him as he was lying down in his trench and only had the left
hand exposed. Whilst the wound is being examined, I ask the soldier:
“Where are you from?”--“I am a Hamburg man, but live in Berlin.” “What
is your occupation?”--“Actor,” he answers with pathetic humour. “It is
a long way from the stage to the trench,” I remark, and he nods as he
smiles his approval. By the light of the lamp I discerned a handsome,
refined, clean-shaven face with Roman nose and solemn blue eyes. One
could see that he was thinking of life’s great tragedy. Probably he had
never played a better part than that which he had just performed out
on the battlefield with the lurid glare of the shells for footlights.
“_Gute Besserung!_” we said and patted him on the shoulder. “_Danke
vielmals_,” he replied, and went up to his bed again.
Now the round was over and we went out into the night. The rain was
pelting down, but the sound of it was drowned by the thunder of the
cannonade which after an hour’s cessation had now since 10 o’clock
become more violent than ever. No human beings were to be seen, only
here and there a sentry with the rain pouring off his greatcoat. As
we passed St. Peter’s and St. Paul’s the clocks struck twelve slowly
and deliberately. It was a terrible night for the soldiers in the open
trenches, which must by now have been half-full of water. I could not
take my thoughts off them as I entered the light and cosy warmth of
_La Couronne_. But ask them if they would like to change with you, and
the gruffness of the answer will surprise you: “No, thanks, warm beds
there will be enough of at home when the fighting is over. Just now we
are out on the country’s business, and in the trenches we stop even
if we are up to the neck in water and if it rains brimstone from the
heavens!” Such things as sentimentality and fuss are utterly unknown to
the German soldiers. They _know_ what they are doing and they want to
do nothing but their duty.
October 26th was my last day in Ostend. As nothing startling seemed
about to happen in the immediate future, I thought I might as well
return to Brussels, but now Bess came with the suggestion that we
should take a little trip to the stores and depots in the inner
harbour, to which I readily assented--Brussels, after all, was only a
couple of hours away and could wait. The stores contained all sorts of
spare parts for ships and their engines, plates, propellers, screws,
cables, compasses, a surfeit of useful things which might be wanted
at any moment. We likewise inspected a training-ship now used for
accommodating troops.
Just as we were busy over our inspection, we heard four sharp reports
from the sea. It was not the usual firing in the west, the sound came
from the north and the source of it could not be far distant. Is it
the English torpedo-boats? we wondered as we hurried into our car and
drove down towards the beach past the lighthouse. On the way we met a
naval officer who told us that the reports came from mines, which had
detonated on their own account. Some ten such explosions had been heard
during the night, and the waterspouts thrown up by the four we heard
had been visible from the coast. If we cared and had patience enough
to sit and wait among the dunes, the lieutenant had no doubt that we
should see some more.
So we went down to the belt of dunes north-west of the lighthouse,
where some men of the naval brigade were busy digging in a battery of
guns mounted on a temporary plank emplacement. They were also digging
trenches in the dunes for themselves and their ammunition boxes. Bess
showed the soldiers how to mask the guns in the best possible way with
grass and plants.
We had not been there very long before a dark column of water flung
itself into the air on the horizon. We estimated its height at thirty
metres and the distance, calculated from the interval between sight
and sound, at 5.6 kilometres. The column was almost black, as if the
water had been mixed with slime from the bottom and resembled a naphtha
fountain in the Balakhani. We at once sent a man to fetch chart and
compasses. I myself had my kodak ready, but was too late to snap this
first explosion.
However, it was not many minutes before the next water column spurted
up from the surface of the sea in the same north-north-westerly
direction as the other and accompanied by the same deafening report.
This time I was just quick enough to get a picture. A moment later two
other mines exploded, this time to the north-north-east and only about
3.3 kilometres away. We waited for two more explosions at 3 and 4.3
kilometres respectively, and had then had enough.
[Illustration: A SELF-IGNITING MINE EXPLODES]
The bearings of the six mines were pricked on the chart and in this
way the officers obtained the necessary data for determining the
position of the mine-field. Possibly it extended right across the
Channel. The mines we had noticed exploded, curiously enough, in
couples. They had clearly been laid in double or multiple lines and had
been equipped with time fuses. What the time was, we could not tell,
perhaps a week, perhaps longer. Mines of this type are employed for
the temporary blockade of a harbour, which it is intended to attack on
a more suitable occasion. But now, as it happened, the only creatures
incommoded were the fishes in the sea. The Germans, on the other hand,
were very glad to know where the mine-field lay and that the fairway
was now clear.
After dinner I learnt that a motor-car had arrived from Ghent with
one of Krupp’s engineers, and was to return immediately to that city.
Captain Jakobson, one of my friends, arranged for me to avail myself
of this opportunity, so I made ready to depart. Good-bye to Tägert,
Bess, Jakobson and Kübler and greetings to all the others--these
splendid and capable fellows who had been my companions during these
never-to-be-forgotten days and with whom I shared the memory of
dangers happily survived. Then off I went at the usual break-neck speed.
At Ghistelles I stopped for three-quarters of an hour to see
Colonel-General von Beseler, one of my old friends from the
_Gesellschaft für Erdkunde_ (Geographical Society) in Berlin. We had
much to talk about, and he related many episodes from the last few
days’ fighting on the Yser Canal. Of the result he had as little doubt
as anyone else and reiterated time after time: “We _must_ win!” Von
Beseler is one of the finest generals of the German army. It was he who
took Antwerp and he was now commanding the extreme right flank nearest
the sea. As a man he is congenial and fascinating.
I continue my journey. A convoy of French prisoners is being taken
into the interior--marine infantry, my chauffeur tells me. The road
hereabouts abounds in inns and public-houses, I wonder how many. It
would have given me something to do to count the inn signs by the
roadside. At Bruges we did not stop; at Ghent we drove up to the Base
Commandant’s office, in a narrow street, flying the German flag. A
couple of obliging officers immediately offered to assist me, but for
the moment all I wanted was to get to Brussels; if possible, I added,
I should be very grateful for the loan of a car to the capital. Yes,
there would be no difficulty about that, they assured me. General Jung
would be sure to arrange it for me. So my name was taken in to the
General and a minute later he came dashing out and greeted me with the
utmost warmth, for he remembered me well from a fête in Posen where I
had lectured in February, 1910.
“But there cannot be any question of your starting off just yet,” said
the General. “You must first sup with us at seven and a car will be
ready for you at nine.”
I did not need much pressing and spent a couple of delightful hours
with these officers. At nine to the minute the car stood ready. It was
a covered car, which was thought safer at night, and had a couple of
exceptionally powerful head-lamps. And, best of all, I had a delightful
Austrian lieutenant to keep me company--one of those in charge of
the Austrian 30.5-cm. mortars in use on the western front. It was
surpassingly interesting to listen to all that he had gone through. The
ninety minutes which separated us from Brussels were all too quickly
over.
CHAPTER XVIII
TO BAPAUME
My notes do not contain much concerning the 27th of October. In the
first place I had a good long sleep and the rest of the day was mostly
taken up by “attending to private business,” completing my sketches and
plans and writing letters. While I was sitting in the hotel over my
late breakfast, a fine-looking officer came straight up to my table. He
smiled humorously, wondering whether I would recognise him. Certainly I
did! In fact I called out his name before he had time to utter a word:
“Duke Adolf Friedrich of Mecklenburg!”
The Duke had been a friend of mine for several years. In the
geographical world he bears a great and famous name, thanks to his
travels in Africa, which had been conscientiously planned, most
skilfully carried out and ably and entertainingly described. He was
now Governor of Togoland, but happened to be in Germany on leave when
the war broke out. Under these circumstances, in Germany’s great hour
of destiny, he simply _could not_ return to Africa, and since, in his
capacity as governor of a colony, he held no military command in the
home country, he volunteered for service as intelligence officer, and
was appointed to his old army corps.
The Duke seemed glad to see me, and we sat and talked until it was
time for him to return to his duties. The upshot was that I faithfully
promised to accept his kind offer to come to Bapaume and spend a few
days with him. He said I should not want for anything; he himself lived
in a small house, but he would find accommodation for me near by. We
were to take trips in various directions, as just now he had plenty of
spare time; no large operations seemed to be in prospect. I might come
whenever it suited me; I should always be welcome. And so we parted for
the present.
I had supper with Field-marshal General von der Goltz. The guests
included on this occasion Duke Ernst Günther of Schleswig-Holstein,
brother of the German Empress, and Duke Georg of Meiningen, who had
lost his father and his brother in the war. The Field-marshal proposed
that I should accompany him on the 29th of October to the front in the
region of Dixmude. As, moreover, General Bailer asked me whether I was
disposed to go with him and Councillor von Lumm on a trip to the outer
forts of Antwerp on the 28th, my programme was well filled for the next
few days.
October 28th broke with a clouded sky, and a thick mist was lying
over town and country in the morning. The two gentlemen and the young
lieutenant, who sat at the wheel beside the chauffeur, came to fetch me
in the morning, and we started out on the familiar road to Malines.
As already mentioned, our purpose was to inspect as many as we could
of Antwerp’s southern forts and redoubts. I shall not give any
actual description of these fortifications. The few words I will say
concerning them are merely added in order that the two or three photos
which are reproduced here may not be beside the context.
First of all we drove to Fort Waelhem, where a “42-cm.” had gone
right through the bed of concrete, here, as elsewhere, five or six
metres thick, and where an observation tower, resembling a gigantic
church-bell, had been thrown over on to its side by the air pressure.
One of the turrets is supposed to have been blown up by the Belgians
themselves when they evacuated the fort. A few Belgian 12-cm. guns
inside and outside the fort had been deprived of their breech-blocks.
Lying near a barrack-wall were heaps of cartridge cases, tin boxes
and baskets for carrying the shells. These latter were as finely and
slenderly woven as if they had been intended for carrying grapes.
[Illustration: PRIVY COUNCILLOR VON LUMM BESIDE THE HOLE MADE BY A 42
CM. SHELL]
We drove on to the east and north-east, and our next stopping-place
was Fort Chemin de Fer, which had been rather severely peppered with
smaller shells, while its shattered turret had been blown up from the
inside by the defenders themselves. Fort St. Catherine I have already
mentioned, and we will therefore pass on, _via_ the village of Wavre,
with its wrecked church, to the Dorpfeld fortifications. An object
of particular interest was the infantry breastwork surrounding this
entrenchment. Sandbags, and sometimes gabions, had been plentifully
applied here. There were numerous traverses, intended for protection
against enfilading or slanting fire, and generally consisting of
sandbags in timber-lined trenches. The gabions, I thought, looked like
defensive works similar to those used in the seventeenth century. But
they were as useful now as then.
[Illustration: A TRAVERSE AT DORPFELD]
We did not stop at the Boersbaek fortification, but went straight on
to Fort Koningshoyckt, which had received some nasty hits and where a
number of captured 12-cm. guns, all without their breech-blocks, had
been ranged up in a row.
Fort Talaert tempted me to take one or two photos, which need no
comment. In one of them the reader will observe a huge gaping hole in
the concrete. Another will give him an idea of what disarranged wire
entanglements look like.
[Illustration: HOLE MADE BY A 42 CM. SHELL IN FORT TALAERT]
[Illustration: AT THE ENTRANCE TO FORT TALAERT]
Fort Lierre, in Dutch Lier, is the largest of all the fortifications
in the outer girdle of Antwerp. Here several 42-cm. shells had wrought
terrible havoc. One had struck through the lower part of the concrete
bed of a turret and penetrated into the interior regions, smashing all
that was in its path. In the interior of the fort we found extensive
quartering accommodation for the garrison. Belgian uniforms left behind
were still lying about. Generally speaking the Germans found the
barrack-rooms in the fort in great disorder. All scraps and lumber had
now been removed and formed regular rubbish heaps outside.
[Illustration: THE INTERIOR OF FORT LIERRE]
The small town of Lierre has fared terribly ill, but the church stands
almost untouched among the ruins. The village of Duffel has also
suffered considerably. In its labyrinth of narrow lanes people were
busy removing the rubbish.
On our way back we found the market-place of Malines crowded with carts
and carriages full of visitors who had come from Brussels to see the
scenes of destruction. On the road to the capital, too, we passed quite
a procession of sorrowful pilgrims.
At night I saw the Field-marshal for a minute. He said he should be
unable to travel the next day, as the King of Saxony was then expected
in Antwerp. Remembering that a bird in the hand was worth two in the
bush, I thereupon decided to go on to Bapaume. A car was to be placed
at my disposal whenever I wanted it.
I accordingly proceeded on the morning of October 29th to the office
of the Governor-General, where I was informed that the Field-marshal
had instructed von Siemens to take me to Bapaume. I said good-bye
to my friends Majors Nethe and von Weller, stowed my luggage away in
the car and was ready for starting. I cannot abstain from remarking
that I never had a more distinguished chauffeur than on this occasion,
as it was the head of the firm of Siemens and Halske himself who had
donned the motor goggles and thick driving-gloves, and with strong
skilled hands grasped the wheel. I sat down by his side and was thus
conveniently at his elbow. A soldier was seated in the car, armed with
rifle and revolver. The weather was fine, but the air was damp, as
usual at this season.
It was 10.45 when, with piercing shrieks of the hooter and the warning
trills of the pipe-horn, we bowled along the Boulevard du Midi and Rue
des Belges and came out on the Chaussée de Mons--a hybrid between a
country road and a paved street and with a canal running by its left
side. A whirl of fallen brown leaves rose in the wake of the car as it
dashed on to Hal at the rate of seventy-four kilometres an hour. Narrow
winding streets lead up to the market square of the little place,
where the market was in full swing and where pigs and vegetables were
being sold from peasants’ carts and stalls. Perfectly peaceful, rustic
scenes, bustling life and motion--nothing to remind one of the war.
In Tubize the bells of the village church were tolling, as if for a
funeral. The country further on is somewhat hilly. Beyond Braine le
Comte the splendid high road was without stone paving. The autumn wind
moaned in the yellow crowns of the trees, and the leaves were falling
around us like snow-flakes.
We reached Soignies in a couple of minutes. Our speed was up to
eighty-two or eighty-four kilometres per hour, falling off on slight
curves to sixty. At all cross-roads, bridges and villages German
Landsturm men in spick-and-span helmets and dark-blue uniforms stood
posted, trusty and alert as ever. The road to Mons is straight and was
in excellent condition, but the traffic was very inconsiderable. About
noon a tyre burst, but was replaced in thirteen minutes--one could see
that a great engineer was handling the nuts and tools.
In the Mons region we passed through the great coal-mining district.
All useless mineral taken out of the pits had to be cleared away
so as not to take up any space which might be utilised to better
advantage. By means of special tipping arrangements the refuse had
thus been piled up into veritable pyramids, or rather huge cones, whose
strange-looking summits towered high on either side of the road. To
the right we saw a whole row of tall smoking chimneys--one is always
glad to observe any signs of resumed activity and reawaking life. The
smoke hung like a dark pall over the neighbourhood. It was no longer
a country road, it was an unbroken street as far as Boussu--which
therefore seemed to be an integral part of Mons. “_Sehr starke
Industriegegend_” (“very ‘pronounced’ industrial region this”) shouted
von Siemens in my ear; he had been here on business just before the war.
Just on the other side of Quiévrain we crossed the French frontier.
Poplars, stately and solemn like cypresses, rose up on both sides of
the high road, now once more provided with stone paving. Here, too, we
observed the absence of men in the prime of life. Only old men and boys
are to be seen, and now and then a cripple. Women are greatly in the
majority--widows and sorrowing sisters and brides who for three months
have not heard a word from their menfolk.
Valenciennes, an Intermediate Base Commandant’s post--numerous
motor-cars and innumerable troops! The country opens up more and
becomes flatter. We leave Demain and Bouchain to the right of our
road, which runs _via_ Douchy. The mist lies over the landscape like
a heavy veil, through which we dimly discern the outlines of thickets
and orchards. Many of the crops were still standing in the fields,
waiting for hands to bring them in. But these are not forthcoming!
Only in one little field did we see some old people and children busy
gathering beets into baskets. Of horses not a sign. The carts that were
at work were drawn by oxen. Lonely women, ever and anon, looked after
us with sad, wondering eyes. One could guess their thoughts, but their
demeanour was always calm and demure; now and then one saw, not without
pity, a white-bearded old man, with his staff in one hand leading a
waif by the other.
At Cambrai von Siemens drew up at the Base Commandant’s office to
obtain some information. Numbers of cars were passing there, or waiting
in the market-place. I noticed here once more the first indications of
our proximity to the front. Cambrai is a railhead, and at the station
troops were busy transferring the material from the railway wagons to
the lines of communication transport column, or direct to the Army
Service Corps detachments of the troops ahead. Fresh bodies of
troops were also detraining to march west.
We next proceed through a landscape characterised by extensive shallow
undulations. The road is perfectly straight, stone-paved and lined with
autumn-tinted or leaf-bared trees.
We meet several cyclist orderlies and pass a supply column with its
wagons covered with green branches.
When finally we reached Bapaume we had been three and a half hours on
the road, whereof three-quarters of an hour had been taken up by stops
on the way. One could scarcely cover a distance of about one hundred
English miles in a shorter time--allowing for the slowing down in
passing through towns and villages.
We drove direct to the quarters of Captain Trutz, who had charge of
all matters concerning cars, petrol, quartering and the like, and
began by taking lunch with him--consisting of bread and butter and
ham, hard-boiled eggs and claret. Then my excellent friend von Siemens
took leave and sped back to Brussels. Duke Adolf Friedrich was out,
but was expected back about five. I was advised in the meantime to
take up my quarters in some house near the Duke’s. A non-commissioned
officer was ordered to conduct me to the Maire and I received from the
latter a quartering ticket entitling me to occupy a room just opposite
the Duke’s quarters. The French Maire was sitting in his office up to
his eyes in work and surrounded by big piles of papers. But he was
very polite and obliging, and no doubt consoled himself with the trite
reflection that “necessity knows no law.”
I also had to report myself at the Base Commandant’s office, where I
was received, as always, with the greatest kindness. But then came
the Chief himself, an old Bavarian Colonel who had retired from the
service, but on the outbreak of the war had rejoined. And now he began
to storm. “Who the thunder is this civilian?” he roared--“what business
have you here?--where do you come from?--are you a pressman? I shall
want to know what you are here for, and whether you have permission to
stay here in Bapaume!” I tried to conciliate the irate Colonel by every
imaginable means, but he went on raging like a model drill-sergeant. A
few days later I met him again, and he then said: “Can you ever forgive
me for being so rude the other day?” “Yes, dear Colonel, I assure you
that it was a priceless pleasure to me to see a Bavarian warrior in
the full flower of his vigour and forcefulness; I might have been a
spy, and you had your orders to obey.” Of course we became friends for
life, and it would give me pleasure to meet him again some day.
I was then conducted by my non-commissioned officer to the house where
I was to stay. A name-board bearing the inscription _Notaire_ was over
the door. We rang the bell and an elderly servant came and opened
it--followed, close at her heels, by an old gentleman of distinguished
appearance, tall and with lofty forehead, kindly dark eyes below bushy
brows, snow-white hair and white moustache and whiskers. This was the
_Notaire_, Maître Emile Cossart, who had not been scared away from
house and home by the war, but had quietly remained behind to face the
turmoil. He asked me kindly to put up with the only visitors’ room
he had to offer me, and which was duly shown me by one of his three
nieces, Mademoiselle Lengagne, and the servant. The room was plain but
neat and cheerful, and its two windows looked out on to a little garden.
As regards terms, I told Monsieur Cossart that I would pay rent for the
room for the days I should occupy it. But he would not hear of this.
Without going into lengthy details I pleaded my capacity as citizen
of a neutral country--a circumstance which forbade me taking quarters
without paying for them. But it was all no use. To all my arguments
he had but one reply: “_C’est impossible!_”--uttered in an inimitable
manner. In the end I had no alternative but to thank him for his great
hospitality.
M. Cossart was a typical elderly _rentier_ in a French country
town--and a most attractive and estimable specimen. Notwithstanding
the storm which had burst over his country, his province and his home,
he still retained an unquenchable good humour. In the war of 1870-71
he had served in the army and had been taken prisoner in Peronne and
interned in Jüterbog, where he remained two and a half months. He had
been well treated while a prisoner in German hands, and had never had
cause to complain, and I was able to assure him that at the present
moment the French prisoners were treated most kindly. We talked
together with the greatest frankness. M. Cossart did not believe that
the Germans would win. In the former war it was different, but now
they had England, too, and great and powerful Russia against them. The
fact that Germany, by her astounding offensive power, had been able
to swamp Belgium and part of north-eastern France, did not signify so
very much after all. The fortune of war would soon turn, and change in
favour of France. “We shall see! We shall see!” he said over and over
again.
I tried to explain to him the position in the eastern theatre of war
and told him of Hindenburg’s victories, of the great calmness which
reigned in Germany, and of the Russians’ “march to Berlin,” which
General Rennenkampf had promised but of which nothing had been seen so
far. It had not been beneficial for France, I said, to invest thousands
upon thousands of millions of francs in a country whose aid failed just
at the moment when it was most needed. If I did not admire France and
love her intelligent, industrious, thrifty and patriotic people I might
have rejoiced at a diplomacy which had brought about such calamities as
the present; as it was, I was grieved at a policy from which no good
could ever come.
“_Nous verrons--nous verrons_,” M. Cossart replied, nodding his head
and smiling. But then it occurred to him that perhaps he had said too
much, and wondered whether the German officers would take offence and
cause him trouble if they got to hear of it.
Certainly not, I assured him, he need not be afraid of that. He might
tell the German officers without fear that he blindly trusted in the
victory of the French arms and the eventual retreat of the German
hosts, without causing a single forehead to frown in anger. Any German
officer would honour such speech and show his respect for a man who
had fought for his country in his younger days, and who still, in the
autumn of life, was cherishing great and glorious ideas concerning his
nation. “For you may say what you like of the Germans, and look upon
them, if you like, as your sworn enemies, yet it is a fact that the
Germans admire in others the qualities which they cherish in their own
people. Therefore the German soldiers feel nothing but esteem for their
French opponents; as regards General Joffre, the whole German army is
unanimous in thinking him a great and talented general.” Among the
Germanic race, I told him, there is not a vestige of national hatred of
the French, nothing but good-will and sympathy.
And when I told him how sorry I was that the whole of his people
should suffer in consequence of a mistake which had been made by a few
responsible professional politicians, he could but shrug his shoulders
and raise his eyebrows and reply: “But please always think and speak
well of France!”
We had many a discussion on this topic as I went in or out through his
hall. And when I had time to spare before joining the German officers
at dinner, I would knock at the door of the French drawing-room--for
was I not a neutral?--and was always met with a cheery “_entrez_.”
There sat M. Cossart in his rocking-chair, and his three amiable
nieces were busy with their needlework round the table beneath the
lamp, and then we could argue on politics to and fro without either
party yielding one jot. Not because he was of the Latin and I of the
Germanic race, but because our political views were as irreconcilable
as fire and water. If Germany was crushed, I maintained, Russia would
push forward to the Atlantic, and this could only be done over Swedish
soil--across the Scandinavian peninsula, up there in the north.
Therefore, for the sake of my country, I _could not_ but wish for
Germany’s victory--a complete victory. But to M. Cossart Germany’s
victory meant fearful calamities for his own native land. Hence it was,
and _could not_ but be impossible for us to agree.
Yet we always spoke with dignity and calm. The old lawyer never forgot
himself, and I entertained the warmest and sincerest regard for him. I
was always glad to have a chat with him, and regretted that, as a rule,
time was so short.
How different he was from those hot-heads I met elsewhere, who when
confronted with an opinion at variance with their own, are so far
from being able to master an opponent that they cannot even master
themselves! Or how unlike a newspaper press which--Heaven knows by what
means--may be induced to be silent on questions which concern the very
life and existence of a nation, but loses all restraint and dignity in
the face of a frankly and openly expressed opinion.
M. Cossart was a man of quite another kind. There was no room in his
soul for malice or cowardice. He was a gentleman to his finger-tips.
His name, his avocation, his address are all stated above, and he is
easily found. I have no fear lest my openness of speech might cause him
any harm. He runs no risk as far as the Germans are concerned. I would,
moreover, entreat my German friends in Bapaume--if this book should
ever meet their eyes--to show him if but a fraction of the kindness
they have shown to me. And as regards the French, they may--when peace
once more reigns on earth--ask M. Cossart whether my statement is
true. Nor should they forget to thank him that, in the face of the
overwhelming might of the invasion, he always fearlessly stood up for
France, with unruffled brow, unflinching eyes and manly speech--speech
which made one bow in fancy before the laurel-wreathed tricolor over
his head.
CHAPTER XIX
AN EXCURSION TO THE FRONT AT LILLE
There came a knock at my door. “_Entrez!_” I cried as neutrally as
possible, and in stepped Duke Adolf Friedrich of Mecklenburg, young
and gay and manly. He held out both hands to me and bade me heartily
welcome to Bapaume. He hoped that I would be pleased with the few days
I was to spend there. “But this room is too small!”--“Oh no, it is
quite big enough.”--“Right. We will take all meals together, for I am
now free for several days and shall be able to take you round and show
you the sights.”
Thereupon we sat and chatted until it was time to get ready for supper
in the officers’ mess. When we entered, they were all assembled. The
large table was presided over by Infantry-General von Plettenberg,
Chief of the Garde-Corps, Adjutant-General to H.M. the Emperor and
an old friend of our own Chief of Staff General Bildt. He was a tall
man, thin and fair, a real soldier and a brave and plucky man who was
never more at home than when the bullets were whizzing round him. Like
Field-marshals von Haeseler and von der Goltz, he had the incurable
habit of always turning up at odd moments where danger loomed largest.
He had a way of walking out to the foremost trenches in the middle of
the night and drawing the French rifle fire at a range of two hundred
metres, and this merely to see how the soldiers were getting on and to
make sure that everything was in the best order. A magnificent trait,
in my opinion, for a plucky leader braces the soldiers’ courage. We
Swedes have always demanded this quality from our leaders. General von
Plettenberg was a man of quick and impulsive temperament, but he was
serious nevertheless, partly perhaps because he had recently lost a son
in the war. At table he would sit wrapped in thought for a long while,
then suddenly his eyes would fill with humour and he would break into
a jest, as when he said that it was bad for the health to go out to
the war, for they shoot so thoughtlessly and lay the guns so carelessly
that at times shells will actually drop at the very spot where one is
standing.
When the General had retired early to go about his night’s work, the
Duke asked a dozen merry and entertaining officers to join him at his
house. There we gathered in the drawing-room, cigars were lighted and
the frothing nectar was poured out. They were all in brilliant spirits.
No gloomy faces among these men, many of whom looked death in the face
every day from trenches and aircraft and on daring scouting duty.
They represented among them many of Germany’s most illustrious
families. The talk was loud and frank and gay, but when an officer of
the General Staff came in straight from the Chief Command and read out
the latest news from the eastern battlefields or from far-away tropical
seas, perfect stillness and silence suddenly came upon the room and
everybody listened intently. After that a more serious mood came over
the assembly and they began to discuss the solemn business of war.
The guests included the young Hereditary Prince Friedrich of
Hohenzollern, a beardless Apollo, related to three royal houses. He is
a nephew of the King of Roumania. In some way or other, I forget how,
he is a kinsman of the unhappy King of Belgium, and the brother-in-law
of no less a person than--ex-King Manuel of Portugal. The Prince was an
exceedingly pleasant young fellow, brimming over with good spirits and
full of jests and pranks, but I never saw him laugh.
[Illustration: HEREDITARY PRINCE FRIEDRICH OF HOHENZOLLERN AND DUKE
ADOLPH FRIEDRICH OF MECKLENBURG]
Another guest was the amiable Herr Schoelvinck, a director of Benz and
Company. He was now serving in the army with the rank of Captain and
was one of the four _parlementaires_ who were despatched to Rheims
to discuss the terms of capitulation. They were taken prisoners and
regarded as spies, and would probably have shared their usual fate
had not the Emperor appealed to the American Ambassador in Paris, who
managed to secure their release. I should say that in time to come they
will have something to tell about the reception accorded them in France.
Another of the four _parlementaires_ was also present at this evening’s
sitting, in the person of volunteer Cleving of the Royal Theatre of
Berlin, a perfectly fascinating man, full of humour, anecdote and
song. An actor with the Iron Cross is probably something out of the
ordinary, but what is there that is not striking on this endless German
front of warriors! Perhaps Cleving’s greatest charm is his genius for
accompanying himself on the guitar after the fashion of our own Sven
Scholander. The two troubadours were to have started out on a singing
tour together this autumn. But Cleving was destined to listen to a very
different kind of music--that of the shrapnel shells, and it was a very
different kind of theatre that he was about to perform in. He did not
grumble at the change. Before he had scattered joy and merriment around
him with his acting and his song, now he also bore the glory which
surrounds a warrior who has fought with honour and bravery for his
country.
Yet the war had not quite been able to part him from his guitar. He had
brought it with him and presently he settled down on a chair in our
little circle and all became silent. French _chansons_, German soldier
ditties of long ago, winter songs from 1530 and “_Die Goldene Kugel_”
with music by himself, all succeeded one another but too rapidly. To
me he seemed to keep the best to the end, when he surprised me with a
selection from our own Swedish lyrical poet Bellman.
But Cleving could sing of Mandalay, too, choosing a far prettier and
more inspiriting tune than the English one, and with other words
than Kipling’s. “But I must have a piano accompaniment for this,” he
declared. The Duke pressed a button and an orderly entered. “Bring in
a piano,” he said, “_Ja wohl, Hoheit_.” In a quarter of an hour the
doors were thrown open and four gigantic soldiers strode in, carrying a
piano. “Where have they found that, I wonder?” I asked. “Oh, I suppose
they’ve conjured it forth from some house in the neighbourhood,” the
Duke answered. And so we got the song about Mandalay, and indescribably
wistful and dreamy it sounded with its alluring refrain of “_Bei den
alten Tempeltoren_” (“By the old temple gate”).
And so our evening passed away. Time crept by imperceptibly, the hour
of midnight chimed from the clock-tower and it was nearly two when for
the last time we intoned the thundering refrain “Trarallalalala” from
one of Cleving’s Swedish adaptations.
What did they think of it, I wonder, those wretched people tossing
restlessly on their beds, though doubtless they had learnt by now the
woes of billeting? Nobody could possibly think that the Germans were
on the point of preparing for a retreat, a rumour which had spread
mysteriously among the population. No drooping spirits or depression,
the precursors of a pending catastrophe, could be discerned among the
troops billeted in Bapaume. No, their mood was such as it always is and
such as it must be in an army marching with an irresistible iron will
to victory and thinking of nothing, speaking of nothing, believing in
nothing but victory all along the line--victory even if the whole world
were to be ransacked for fresh legions to bring against it on this
front where the enemy is either shot down or taken prisoner and carried
off to Döberitz or other internment camps in Germany.
It is this _will_ to win which permeates the entire German army and
makes such a deep impression on the stranger. Enviable, admirable,
happy is the people which united marches on under its country’s
standards when its hour of fate has struck. The dead would cry out
from their lonely graves by the roadsides did not the living carry the
fight to a glorious conclusion; but their sleep is untroubled, for they
sank into it with the firm knowledge that those coming after would
give their lives and all that they held dear with the same steadfast
determination for the sake of home and country and future. No era has
ever witnessed such national greatness as that attained by the German
nation at the present day. It is an uplifting experience to have seen
the Germans in their sublime struggle, and one which can never be
forgotten by those who have been with them in this time.
The mood and spirit of the German army finds expression in song. The
officers sing in their messes, the soldiers on their marches, on their
baggage wagons, in their bivouacs. In the trenches alone there must
be silence. Perhaps the French soldiers, too, sing, but as to the
Russians, their wistful airs have doubtless died away in the soldiers’
throats during the long weary marches backwards and forwards across the
Polish plains.
After breakfast in the mess on October 30th we entered the Duke’s car
to proceed to the field of battle between Lille and Armentières. We
were four all told, the Duke’s chauffeur at the wheel, the Hereditary
Prince of Hohenzollern by his side, looking after the hooter, the Duke
and I. It had been raining and the by-roads were in a horrible state,
whilst the great main roads were slippery and unreliable and a great
wet blanket of fog darkened the whole of north-eastern France.
At first we took the great main road to Arras, which we kept to as
long as we possibly could without exposing ourselves to shell fire.
At Boiry, almost levelled to the ground by fire and shell, we turned
off to the right, but lost our way in the tangle of by-roads, until
at Croisilles we once more got on to the right track. Here the Red
Cross flag was hanging from many houses, and we saw the wounded being
carried into the hospitals. A column of light field howitzers rolled
away towards Arras. In a field some soldiers were placidly digging
potatoes, and near by old men, women and children were gathering in the
sugar-beet, which is an important item of cultivation in these parts.
At last we come out on the great main road between Cambrai and Douai.
The streets of the latter town are filled with civilians and military.
After crossing the _Pont-à-Marcq_ we reach the outer girdle of forts
at Lille, and in a few minutes we drive in through the _Porte Douai_.
The part of the town nearest this gate is in ruins. The Germans, who
at this point were advancing seven or eight battalions strong with
artillery, wanted to spare the town and tried to induce its authorities
to capitulate. The French resisted. Thereupon the Germans unlimbered
a battery inside the gate and shelled the nearest houses and streets.
The _Mairie_ and railway station were also brought under fire, the
latter in order to stop all transport facilities. The town fell without
having suffered any appreciable damage. The quarters exposed to the
bombardment and which I had an opportunity of visiting, have, however,
been reduced to ruins and the part round the _Porte Douai_ presents a
sad picture of desolation. The worst damage had been done by shells
which burst after they had penetrated into the lower part of a house.
The effect of the detonation spreads to all the storeys and everything
collapses utterly. In many cases nothing but skeletons and iron girders
remain. Otherwise Lille is quite untouched. One can pass through one
street after the other from beginning to end without noticing any trace
of shell fire. In the central parts of the town the traffic is almost
animated and there are plenty of people about. Young women of not even
doubtful virtue and dressed in almost the latest fashion flit about
like butterflies on the pavements. Many shops and hotels are open, and
seem to be carrying on as if nothing has happened. The only reminder
of war, apart from the wrecked quarters of the town, are the German
infantry, cavalry, guns and transport trains.
[Illustration: STREETS AT THE PORT DOUAI WHICH HAVE SUFFERED THROUGH
THE BOMBARDMENT]
[Illustration: OF SOME HOUSES THERE IS ONLY THE SKELETON LEFT]
Meanwhile we drive through Lille and in passing I throw a glance at
the statue of the noble Pasteur, who spent three years of his life
in the scientific faculty of the town, and of the brave Joan of Arc,
clad in armour and with her standard in her hand, sitting tall and
straight and glorious on her gilded steed. Our road now runs along
the canals, crammed with lighters, and after swinging off to the
west through deserted suburbs we emerge into the smiling countryside
slashed in all directions with meandering paths and by-ways. We have
now left the village of Lomme behind us and proceed in the direction
of Armentières. Little groves and coppices, parks and gardens, farms
and villages dot the road on both sides. The road we are travelling by
is narrow and badly cut up through the rain. We drive past a skilfully
masked battery, working at full pressure. From the enemy’s side the
booming of cannon comes nearer and nearer, but is still outvoiced by
the eternal whirring hum of the car. It is only when we slacken down
or stop that the thunder sounds alarmingly near. By a farm--or perhaps
it is a modest château--we come to a clump of trees as yet unshorn of
their leaves by the autumn winds. We drive at full speed past this
spot, which can only be about one hundred metres north of the road.
Fortunately we espy in time a young lieutenant with his two or three
men in the shadow of the trees, making the most frantic signs to us and
shouting “halt” as loudly as their lungs permit.
We pull up as sharply as the tearing pace allows and drive over a
marshy meadow up to the lieutenant, who is standing at a table littered
with maps, compasses, pens, field-glasses and other paraphernalia. He
explained that it was a matter of life and death to proceed a step
further in that direction. I felt almost inclined to believe him, for
it sounded to my ears as if we were surrounded by fire on all sides.
The nearest German infantry positions were ahead of us along a line
running from north-north-east to south-south-west, and we had German
artillery in front of us, beside us and behind us. The battery which
we had just driven past was firing salvo after salvo, and we heard the
shells whining over the tree-tops. In front of us the French batteries
were pounding away in the north, west and south-west. I felt as if
I were enclosed in a ring of fiery throats all spitting out amiable
pleasantries at one another.
Near the coppice from which the young lieutenant was making his
observations stood a 15-cm. howitzer battery. It was extremely
interesting to note the skilful manner in which the guns had been
concealed among the trees and bushes. They could not even be seen at
a very short distance, and I had to come right up to them to realise
where and how they were hidden among the boughs and branches. As an
extra safeguard they were partly covered over with leaves so as not
to be seen from above. The ammunition stores, huts for the gun crews
and provisions were as effectively hidden. For protection against the
enemy’s fire the gunners had dug the customary underground dwellings.
At the present moment they were very busy attending to their guns. “Why
don’t they shoot?” I asked. In answer the lieutenant pointed to the
south-west. “Over there, above those trees, you notice a French airman,
and it is probably his business to try to locate this battery. We have
been shooting from here and have probably done some damage on the
French side. Now they are on the prowl to find us, but so far without
success. The enemy shells are bursting just now at only 500 metres to
the south-west of us. Up to now they have not reached us, but they are
getting nearer and may hit our battery at any moment. If we were to
fire now whilst the aviator is in the air, their fire would be on us in
no time.”
[Illustration: A 15 CM. HOWITZER BATTERY]
As he spoke the airman described circle after circle above the covert.
As long as we remained at the observation post he kept circling over
the same spot. It was clear that he was seeking the answer to some
question. Perhaps he thought that the projection of his line of flight
on the earth’s surface would give the confines of a spot which might
profitably be shelled by the enemy. Our friends fancied they had seen
him signal with flags and with white and red lights. The batteries
which the Germans had opposed to them at this part of the front were
all said to be British.
The lieutenant and his men at the observation post and battery followed
the aviator’s movements with the closest attention, and special pickets
were posted under the trees to stop anyone from moving in the vicinity
when the aviator had his machine turned in such a way that he had a
free outlook in our direction. But when he swung slowly round and
turned his back on us, we were able for the moment to move more freely.
However, the circles he described were small, and it was all that we
could do to hurry from the battery to the observation post and vice
versa before he swung round again and we ran the risk of detection.
The gun crew were therefore taking it easy. Beside one of the guns the
men were eating their breakfast, beside another a man was reading aloud
from a newspaper. I took a couple of pictures of them to their great
delight.
We then took the opportunity, when the airman’s back was turned, to
hurry back across the meadow to our car under the shelter of the
trees. It was still too early to go home, and we thought we might make
another trip in the direction of the firing line to the north-westward;
accordingly we turned back to the outskirts of Lille and took the road
to St. André, Verlinghem and Quesnoy. At St. André, where a local
command was quartered, we halted awhile, the Duke asking the General
how far we might proceed in that direction. He thought Quesnoy and a
little way beyond it might be quite safe. With a little luck, we might
even see the Austrian 30.5-cm. mortars in action.
We drove off in the direction indicated and passed several large supply
columns proceeding to the front to provide the troops with fresh food
and ammunition. Patrols showed us the way to one of the Austrian
batteries. The road was very mediocre; its centre was stone-paved and
at each side was a belt about three metres wide without any sign of
paving and now converted into a sea of mud. The traffic was lively, and
it was _impossible_ to drive fast. Presently we reached the ammunition
column of the mortar battery. The fighting battery with its two pieces
of ordnance was ahead of the column, which had halted, occupying the
right half of the road, so we left the car and proceeded on foot.
The road lay a good metre higher than the ground to the right. From the
left, or south-west, the enemy shells kept dropping quite close to us.
Constantly fresh little white tufts of cloud kept forming in the sky
and out of them flashed a spurt of flame. This was a signal that the
zone of fire was spreading towards us, and we bent down instinctively
to take such cover as the road and battery-lorries afforded. We were
right under fire and might be hit at any moment. The _Deckung_ we had
was altogether insufficient, for the wagons stood at several metres
from one another. The further we advanced the denser the little tufts
of wool in the sky seemed to be. Then we met an officer who told us
that the Austrian battery was not yet working and that it would be
more than risky to continue in the direction we had taken. Probably
the whereabouts of the ammunition column had been discovered through
aviators. Although the enemy could not see it, they had trained the
fire from several batteries on the sector where it was bound to be. The
uncanny whistling sounds kept piercing the air; and so we thought it
wisest to leave this dangerous spot.
Just as we were getting near our car and had reached the road, we were
honoured with a salvo from an English battery. The four shots followed
at short intervals, and all of them seemed to be seeking our car.
The first shrapnel shell burst some ten metres above ground just in
front of us and the car, and I had a very distinct sensation of being
within its zone of dispersion and wondered that I did not feel a sudden
twinge in some part of my body. The other two shells burst a little
to the side of the first. Then came the fourth--a devilishly impudent
fellow! He came straight at us and the death-whistle rang in my ears.
He arrived from the south-west. The air seemed to hiss and splutter and
burn where he tore along. The whistling sound came nearer, passed just
over our heads and died away behind us. We all three bent down so to
bring our heads a metre nearer to the ground. This movement is entirely
instinctive, and even officers who have been many times under fire
resort to this device. But in time one gets rid of the habit, realising
how little it avails. I have subsequently heard artillery officers
say that when the whining sound seems closest and one thinks that the
projectile is upon one, it has in reality passed by. We wondered at
what height above us this shell had passed. The Duke estimated the
distance at eight or ten metres, the Prince at fifteen at the most. To
me it seemed so near that I almost expected to see my fur cap singed
by the fire. But the most remarkable thing about this amiable greeting
from the British was that whilst the three first shells burst, this
fourth one never exploded at all. Had it done so we should in all
probability have been flung to the ground. The projectile passed by us
whole and entered the soft, wet earth some distance behind us.
[Illustration: WELL-MASKED GUNS]
[Illustration: GUNNERS STUDYING THE NEWS]
As a rule there is a moment of quiet after a salvo. With a car, or
at the worst with a horse handy, one has time to seek a safer spot,
provided that the enemy artillery is aiming at the same point as
before or one is so hardened after one’s previous baptisms of fire as
to take no notice at all. We might now reasonably take it for granted
that we should be allowed a respite, and thought it safer to take this
chance of withdrawing some distance. The Duke, who struck me as an
exceptionally calm and fearless man, remarked that he did not want to
have my life and limbs on his conscience, especially as I happened to
be his guest.
So we jumped in and drove off to Lille again. To the right of us the
shells kept singing in the tree-tops, and one of them gave a wonderful
pyrotechnic display as it burst. Presently we met an ammunition column
which forced us off the track into the mire. As long as we could drive
straight on, things were all right, but when the column had passed and
we tried to climb on to the stone paving again, the wheels skidded
and the car got thoroughly stuck in the soup of mud. It almost looked
as if we were to have more compliments paid us by the British. In the
end there was no alternative but to get out of the car, which thus
lightened was able to climb once more on to the firm surface. Thereupon
we got to Lille without any further mishap.
After dining we drove back to Bapaume in pelting rain, arriving soon
after dark. The Duke had a party in the evening, and the incomparable
Cleving was there with his guitar, accompanied by Herr Kummer, one of
the four _parlementaires_ of Rheims.
[Illustration: The country round Lille and Ypres.]
CHAPTER XX
TRENCH LIFE
Saturday the 31st of October was spent quietly and peacefully. Duke
Adolf Friedrich conducted me in the morning to the château of Vélu east
of Bapaume. We followed the great main road to Cambrai a few kilometres
and then struck off on to a by-road leading to this handsome château,
built in 1719 and taken over in 1883 by a gentleman named Goër. It is
still tenanted by a Madame Goër. The magnificent apartments were still
haunted by an old French butler, and in the dining-room the table had
just been laid for the officers who had been lucky enough to have found
this comfortable billet. The house is surrounded by a large park, and
we wandered up and down its neglected alleys on the softest of carpets
of decaying leaves. Here we strolled and chatted about our travels in
Africa and Asia, and about the new colouring that the world’s map would
certainly be given at the end of this war--when we were disturbed by
the rattling of heavy rifle fire in the neighbourhood. We at once made
for an open space in the direction of the firing, and espied a French
airman who was being hotly attacked by the German infantry, but seemed
entirely unperturbed by the interest he was arousing.
On our return to Bapaume we dined at the mess with General von
Plettenberg and his usual set. Among the company was the famous
surgeon, Professor Hildebrand of Göttingen, a sociable, learned and
altogether charming gentleman, and an old friend of the family of the
late Professor Gyldén of Stockholm. Professor Hildebrand told me among
many other interesting things that the cardinal principle of modern
surgery in the field is not to amputate except in cases of the utmost
urgency. Formerly arms and legs were amputated in a far larger measure
than at present; now the surgeons attempt to save all that there is a
possible chance of saving. Hildebrand was one of the inner circle which
often foregathered at the Duke’s house of an evening.
The excellent light of the early afternoons just at this time tempted
me to take several photographs, one or two of which I am reproducing
here. All through the day heavy ammunition and supply columns of all
kinds kept marching through the town, and the civilian element was
almost drowned by the military. In the course of my walks through the
town I witnessed many fascinating scenes of soldiers’ life.[28] Here
are a few Landsturm soldiers sitting in a circle peeling potatoes which
are afterwards to be cooked in a bucket over a coal fire. Others have
rigged up a temporary awning over benches and tables, where they are
writing their _Feldpostkarten_ home to parents and sweethearts. Another
little coterie is sipping coffee beside a kitchen wagon. In a meadow
stands a threshing machine which had just finished work for the day;
the grain is being loaded into one cart and the straw into another.
Close by an open-air barber has rigged up his shop by the side of a
train wagon. An orderly comes leading a couple of officers’ horses, and
in a field four Bavarian Landsturm men are lazily blowing clouds of
smoke out of their enormous pipes.
[28] One photograph shows a street in which the only civilians are two
young ladies.
[Illustration: TWO YOUNG LADIES ARE THE ONLY CIVILIANS TO BE SEEN]
Presently we come to the little square adorned by Faidherbe’s statue,
and further honoured by the presence of the Townhall with its handsome
façade, supported by a Gothic arcade. Here a notice board has been
posted up so that the latest war news may be studied, for a newspaper
is now being published at Bapaume composed and printed at the Town
_imprimerie_, and called _B(apaumer) Z(eitung) am Mittag_. Herr Cleving
is its editor. Its circulation is six hundred copies. The paper is not
large, only one page, in large type on thin yellow paper. I reproduce
below a text of the number of October 27th, which I have selected
because it also refers to the bombardment of Ostend, although with a
wrong date:
(1) “The fighting on the Yser-Ypres Canal front is exceedingly violent.
In the north we have succeeded in crossing the canal with a strong
force. East of Ypres and south-west of Lille our troops have advanced
slowly after severe fighting. Ostend was yesterday bombarded by the
English ships.
(2) “In the Argonne our troops have likewise made progress. Several
machine guns have been captured. We have taken a number of prisoners
and two French aeroplanes have been brought down.
(3) “East and north-east of Arras the enemy has received
reinforcements. Nevertheless our troops have succeeded in making
progress at several points. About five hundred British, including a
Colonel and twenty-eight other officers have been taken prisoners.
(4) “West of Augustovo the Russians have renewed their attacks which
have all been repulsed.
(5) “At Ivangorod 1800 Russians have been taken prisoners. South-east
of Przemysl the Austrians have scored several successes,” and finally:
“Copies for distribution among the various units may be obtained from
the Commandant of the lines of communication.”
That is all. There is nothing else to read in the number of October
27th, 1914. Short and concise sentences, written with military
precision, and above all--no lies. The _Bapaumer Zeitung am Mittag_
follows the same honourable principles as the rest of the German Press.
This Press knows its enormous responsibility towards the nation and
towards the fighting armies. For the soldiers, whose duty it is to
bear the sweat and labour of the day, and to spill their blood for
the Fatherland, nothing but the truth, the pure honest truth, is good
enough. In the Entente countries the Press has an extra and exceedingly
important duty, which the German Press is spared, namely to fire the
soldiers’ courage, and to keep burning the flame of hope among the
population. As gladdening news is rare just now, its counterfeit is
manufactured in the editorial sanctum of the newspapers. The German
Press has no need to fire the nation’s courage, for it burns with a
pure and clear flame. The German people insist that their Press shall
tell them the _whole_ truth, whether gladdening or not. Good news is
not exaggerated, bad news is not minimised. The whole nation insists on
being fully enlightened on the progress of events on all fronts, for it
will not build its hopes for the future on a tissue of falsehoods which
in the end cannot but collapse. If anything goes wrong, it is best to
know the full bearing of the disaster, so as to make good the loss and
prevent it from occurring again. In Germany the people rely implicitly
on the truthfulness of the Press and its sense of responsibility.
There hundreds of thousands of volunteers hurry to the colours without
artificial and false inducement. They come, driven by the Germanic
spirit, by national pride, by sense of duty and ambition. There is not
a single man able to carry arms who hesitates to go out and die, for it
is clear to all that if it is God’s wish that Germany shall go under,
the last German shall have fallen in the last trench before the waves
close once for all over the wreck. For these reasons the Press of the
Central Powers has in this war a far easier task to fulfil than the
Press of the enemy countries, for it has but to register the trend of
events and to announce the news from east and west and from far-away
tropical seas, but it has no need to resort to the dishonourable
makeshift of deceiving its readers and inventing tales of victory so as
to drive fresh throngs to the recruiting offices.
[Illustration: SOLDIERS READING THE LATEST NUMBER OF THE “BAPAUMER
ZEITUNG AM MITTAG”]
To return once more to the Townhall of Bapaume, every day, at the hour
that the local newspaper was published, brought fresh groups of eager
soldiers to the notice board. It was quite refreshing to stop awhile
and observe them. There they stand with their cigarettes or pipes and
hands in trouser-pockets reading through the news attentively and
slowly. Up to the present they have had little news that is not good,
but all news is taken with the same calm. At most one notices a passing
smile or a momentary gleam in the eye. The same spirit is shown if a
piece of bad news is posted, such as the loss of a warship.
Sometimes the soldiers are not content with reading, they must copy the
whole of the paper into their diary. And why? Probably because they
are on the way to the foremost trenches, where they will impart the
contents to their isolated comrades.
Duke Adolf Friedrich and I were invited to supper with Lieut.-General
von Winckler, the Grenadier _par excellence_, the Chief of all the
Grenadiers of the Guard. At seven o’clock we started out on the great
main road to Arras, but long before we reached half-way we turned off
to the left along a by-road leading _via_ Hamelincourt to Boiry. The
evening was still, the air was clear, and the moon was brilliantly
radiant. We could hear no cannonading, and yet there could be no doubt
that we were approaching the line traced in iron, blood and fire across
the face of France. At every village we were stopped by pickets who
stepped out on to the road and cried “Halt!” If you do not stop, you
get a bullet through your back. “_Armeeoberkommando_” (“Chief Army
Command”) calls the Duke, and we continue on our way. The strictest
control has to be exercised, especially at night. Not even the German
uniforms are a guarantee against spies. I feel that I am once more on
the brink of glorious and wild adventure--on the way to the field of
battle now lighted by the moon, and where every bush and tree trunk may
hide a lurking spy. But the silence is unbroken except for the rhythmic
thud of the engine.
At length we stopped at the gate of a farm, where several officers
of the General Staff came out to meet us and conducted us into an
unpretentious little house. Here we were warmly greeted by General von
Winckler himself, a soldierly figure with a fine head, distinguished,
weather-beaten, kindly features, steel-grey hair and a dark
well-groomed moustache.
We sat down to table almost at once. It would have been wrong to call
the mood of the company solemn or heavy. From the first moment lively
and interesting conversation was afoot. More cheerful officers it would
be hard to find--and yet these men had been at work since daybreak,
and might well feel tired, but they showed no traces of fatigue. The
company included the Surgeon-General of the Forces, Dr. Reichard, who
had much to tell about his experience among the wounded, also a young
lieutenant who that night was to have his first experience of trench
duty, that strange phenomenon of modern warfare. One might perhaps
have expected this youth to sit quiet and thoughtful, but he joked
and laughed and chatted with the rest of them. He was delighted that
his turn had come at last to be in the forefront of battle. He ate
his supper, drank his wine and smoked his cigarettes without giving a
thought to the cold and hardships which awaited him later in the night,
for an advanced infantry position in close touch with the enemy is in
very truth a living grave.
At nightfall the occupants of some trenches immediately west of the
village of Monchy-au-Bois, about seven kilometres from Boiry, were
to be relieved. At this point it was done every forty-eight hours.
Those who had been on duty for this length of time were then allowed
to withdraw to the rear to rest, sleep and get some hot food. I had
of course passed numberless empty trenches in Belgium, but thought
it would be far more interesting to see them with the soldiers in
possession. But when I happened to drop a hint to this effect, the
General dissuaded me very strongly from visiting his fighting line. It
would after all have been a great responsibility for him to let me go
there. At Monchy the foremost German trenches were only eighty metres
away from the French, with the distance widening to the north and
south. The men can only be relieved after dark when the night is at its
blackest. But to-night the moon shone brightly and hardly a sound was
to be heard. It was eleven o’clock, and there was probably no intention
to relieve the men in the trenches for another four or five hours.
Even if the Germans had crept along the ground like leopards through
the grass, the French would have seen their outlines and shadows. The
slightest rustle would reach their ears if they held their breath and
listened carefully; for the French do most emphatically _listen_ at
night. They are exceedingly vigilant and wakeful. If one is discovered
before having time to reach one’s trench and gain its welcome shelter,
the bullets come whizzing round in extra quick time. The greatest
danger lies, however, in the French fighting and scouting patrols, who
are thoroughly familiar with the ground and begin to prowl about at
nightfall.
To-night, the last night of this fateful month of October, it was
deemed impossible to relieve in the usual way. Only one or two men
were allowed to creep forward at a time. When there is no moonlight or
when the countryside is wrapped in fog they can advance close together
without danger. But on a night such as this the risk was almost as
great as in daylight and the very greatest caution had to be observed.
It needs long and systematic training to move troops on moonlight
nights.
Even a man with uncommon grit and courage must feel a certain amount
of excitement as he crawls through the grass on toes and elbows,
particularly as he has his rifle to think about as well. Now and again
he has to pause, either because this mode of locomotion is too tiring
or because he has to take his bearings and listen. Then he proceeds a
little further, holds his breath and listens and peers round like a
tiger on the prowl. Everything is still, but at any moment he may hear
the rattle of rifle fire and the ping of bullets. At last he sees the
trench before him like a long dark line. Will he get there without
being discovered by the French? That is the question. He hugs the earth
still closer and moves still more slowly and cautiously. Now he only
has twenty metres left, now ten. The parapet is clearly defined in the
moonlight, it is but a step or two that separates him from his goal,
and yet this step seems like a mile, for just here the danger is at
its greatest, and it is on this point that the French sharpshooters
and pickets have their attention riveted. He knows that the furrow in
the ground beneath him is two metres deep and one metre wide and full
of alert, wakeful men, but not a sound is heard, no sign of life is
seen, not even the faintest flicker from a puny fire. Not even the
scent of a cigarette strikes his nostrils, though perhaps there may be
other odours that reveal the nearness of human beings. Now he has but
a metre left, there is no sign of life from the French, and he slips
noiselessly and softly like a cat over the edge and is safe. Thereupon
one of his comrades down below rises from his shelter and creeps back
with the same caution to the ramparts behind the trenches, where he
gets hot soup and sinks into a deep and well-merited sleep.
The new-comer has forty-eight solid hours before him. At night or in
a fog he and his comrades must keep wide-awake, for then the danger
of assault is greatest. Here and there a man may be allowed to doze
off for a moment, but if a man sleeps when on duty his life is not
worth much. In day-time most of the men are allowed to rest in their
“dug-outs” under the parapet, but even then special look-outs are
always posted along the trench. They all have their own little section
of the battlefield to answer for. Within that section no life must
stir but that they are aware of it. It is chiefly movement along the
ground or the outline of some figure silhouetted against an indistinct
background that reveals to the look-out the presence of the enemy.
Clumsiness in real war is tantamount to a death warrant. The Germans
disappear like field-mice in the inequalities of the ground. But the
French, in return, are gifted with keen eyesight.
In the trench wall nearest to the enemy bowl-shaped niches or dug-outs
are excavated in the soil, providing effective protection against
overhead bursts and not infrequently against direct hits. But it is not
impossible for a shell to pitch in the wall, and in that case even the
occupants of the dug-outs are doomed. To provide against this the men
often dig out a cavern, and these caves are often so elaborate and
luxurious that it is thought fit to put up curtains at the entrance.
Along the walls of these caves straw is laid out for sleeping berths
and the little tent section included in each soldier’s packing is
often used as a blanket. When the distance between the opposing lines
of trenches, as in the case I am describing, is only eighty metres,
no light must be lit even in these subterranean caves, still less a
fire, and the air in them is therefore cold, damp and raw. But if the
nearest enemy is three or four hundred metres away, these rigid rules
are sometimes dispensed with. But even then no fire must be lit and no
naked light is allowed in the trench proper.
The soldiers bring with them dry rations intended to last for the
whole of their shift, but they are sometimes cut off through heavy and
incessant fire from all communication and are then obliged to starve
for a day or two. But even that misfortune is accepted good-humouredly.
The dangers of trench life may be realised when I say that before
Monchy-au-Bois alone the dead and wounded numbered sixty to eighty
daily. Neither dead nor wounded can be removed. If you put up as much
as a little finger above the edge of the trench the bullets come
whizzing round immediately. The dead bodies must therefore be allowed
to remain in the trench, that is to say the dead man is got rid of by
digging a grave for him in the floor of the trench. A few days ago it
happened in the trench which I am describing that a soldier was so
badly hit by a shell that he was cut in two, one half remaining locked
by a trench prop. He could not be removed without risk to the survivors
and was therefore allowed to remain. But presently he began to give
rise to a horrible stench and whatever they did the men could not get
away from the mutilated, blackened features. Sometimes arms and legs
torn away from the body are allowed to lie about at the bottom of the
trench until somebody finds time to dig them down. One gets hardened
in time. When it is for the sake of the country one does not mind
occasional horrors.
In rainy weather the trenches become almost unbearable. I saw for
myself in Belgium what they looked like. The rain-water collects in
them and they look exactly like the ditches by the side of a field,
half-filled with grey and yellow water with a scum of mire and filth.
General von Winckler told me that his men had stood in water up
to the knees for twenty-four hours without complaining and without
anyone collapsing from the effects. When the soldiers got back to
the rear they told their comrades with much droll humour of their
adventures. One would have thought that it would sour the temper to lie
steeped in mud for twenty-four hours on end. I am speaking now of the
Grenadiers of the Guard, of whom one expects that they will go through
anything. But the same applies to all German troops. You never see any
gloomy faces amongst the German soldiers, nothing but good spirits
and laughter. To fight against the inundations, the General ordered
drainage trenches to be dug, through which the rain-water escaped into
cisterns, likewise hollowed out in the soil.
In places communication between the trenches is made easier by real
saps which lead in zigzag to the front line from some suitable
declivity in the ground. In this way the work of relieving and
replacing the returning units is greatly facilitated.
The trenches do not run in straight lines, unless, as in the country
south of Antwerp, the ground is absolutely flat. Usually their length
and outline depend on the formation of the ground. As a rule they are
situated so as to offer an uninterrupted view of the enemy positions
opposite and so as to avoid dead angles. A free field of fire is the
most important consideration. A trench thus often receives a very
irregular shape, resembling a curve with numerous bends and salients.
As I have already had occasion to mention, the trenches are often
interrupted by traverses. If the trench runs in a wavy line it is not
always possible to prevent parts of it from being flanked and enfiladed
by the enemy’s artillery fire. The traverses not only prevent such
enfilading from becoming effective beyond a certain distance but also
limit the effectiveness of an explosive shell. As a rule the distance
between the traverses is only ten paces, provided always that there
has been time to improve and extend the position occupied. Behind
the various sections one often finds--as I have mentioned more than
once--deep caverns which afford more or less complete protection
against direct hits. These spaces are used as refuges if the artillery
fire becomes too unpleasant, but the trench must immediately be manned
if the enemy’s infantry shows signs of advancing to the charge.
When, as at Monchy-au-Bois, both sides have been stationary for
some length of time--in this case since the 6th October--the art of
field entrenchment usually reaches a very high pitch of perfection.
It must not be thought that these advanced firing lines are always
connected and continuous. The formations of the various units are
adapted to the conformation of the ground according to its appearance
and the possibilities which it affords. Yet there are no unprotected
or unguarded places. The intervals between the trenches are always
protected by wire entanglements or other obstacles effectively flanked
by machine guns or rifle fire. In front of the German lines at Monchy
there are numerous wide belts of wire entanglements, alternating with
deep _trous-de-loup_ with stakes at the bottom. These obstacles,
interrupted at certain points by open passages, can only be contrived
under cover of darkness or fog, and even under favourable conditions
the work is highly dangerous, not least on account of the enemy’s
pickets who utilise the darkness of night to find out what the enemy is
up to.
These pickets are the eyes and feelers of their unit. The men to
whom these scouting and guard duties are entrusted need the utmost
vigilance, sense of duty and intelligence for the performance of their
task; for the risks which they run are enormous and they could not
possibly cope with the strain if they had not been trained in peace
time to realise that boldness and alertness combined will overcome all
obstacles. There are many kinds of patrols, but in a war such as this
the outpost pickets have by far the most important task to perform.
When the distance between the fighting units is small, they work at
night only. The manner in which they discharge their duties is often
the deciding factor in the execution of important plans. They are
despatched to a certain limited area, with a definite task to perform.
If possible, they are to avoid collision with the enemy. Other patrols
are sent out to prevent similar scouting duty by the enemy. In the part
of the front of which I am speaking, these tasks were often facilitated
on moonlit nights by the number of corpses, chiefly French, remaining
on the field from earlier outpost skirmishes between the two fighting
lines. It is often difficult to tell a living from a dead man. In the
dark it happens not infrequently that German and French patrols run
against one another, which always gives rise to hand-to-hand fighting
and losses. The boldest picket leaders, who in the midst of the most
appalling danger think of nothing but the duty they are entrusted to
perform, and who are _determined_ that this trust shall be carried out,
take advantage even of misfortune. Whilst the others are engaged in a
struggle of life and death they continue towards the enemy position,
find out what they can, and return to their line--and to the Iron
Cross. Their comrades are either dead or wounded. The latter crawl back
as best they can. If the night is sufficiently dark they get help. The
former remain to contribute to the foul stench of the atmosphere. At
Monchy-au-Bois such incidents were of nightly occurrence.
From Monchy I also heard told that on one occasion Frenchmen and
Germans had installed themselves in one and the same trench. A French
scouting unit had lost its way one dark night and had taken refuge in a
part of a German trench for the moment unoccupied. When the Frenchmen
realised the situation they threw up parapets in both directions in
the trench itself, and from behind these walls the opposing soldiers
fired at one another at a distance of a few paces. I do not know what
happened in the end to the Frenchmen, but they were clearly doomed.
Their position was absolutely untenable and their only way out of it
was to surrender when their provisions failed them.
Of course the conditions vary greatly according to the situation. When
the enemy is relatively far away the communication with the rear is
rendered easier and in such circumstances life becomes more bearable in
the front line, if only because hygienic measures are in some measure
possible. But at Monchy-au-Bois I was told that the state of things in
these underground caverns literally baffled description. This cannot
but increase the admiration one feels on witnessing the cheerful spirit
amongst the men, their absolute readiness for any sacrifice. Any man
complaining of the cold or of the food below ground would be chaffed
to distraction or worse by his fellow-soldiers--but I never heard of a
single case of this kind.
In a village in the neighbourhood where we were now stopping, Prince
Eitel Friedrich had his quarters. I heard it said of him that he lived
in a farm-house more or less shot to pieces by shell fire, and that he
slept on the bare ground. Everybody praised his courage and endurance
and his great qualities as man and soldier.
As I have already had occasion to remark, the fighting on the western
front with its interminable lines of trenches is assuming more and more
the character of a siege war. The opposing sides have dug themselves
into the ground all along the front behind wire entanglements and
_trous-de-loup_. These field entrenchments become more formidable as
time goes on. They can really only be destroyed by heavy artillery.
Hence this arm is of cardinal importance. The infantry can only sap
ahead and stick to what it has gained. Every position must be treated
by attackers as if it were a fortress in itself. Every metre of open
country, every tree in the Argonne must be captured by what might
almost be described as a separate engagement. The French are defending
themselves with the most brilliant courage, and even General von
Winckler characterised them as worthy opponents to the world’s finest
soldiers.
In some places ordinary wire entanglements on level ground are not
deemed to be sufficient, and they are placed in holes or declivities,
the bottom of which is covered by fire.
In conclusion I should like to say a few words about the intelligence
service in the field. The French are past-masters in the art of using
civilian spies. The wounded in a field hospital are safe as long as
they have a couple of Frenchmen amongst them, but as soon as they
have been removed for transport eastward, even this sanctuary comes
under the enemy’s fire. How is it that the enemy _knows_ that these
particular wounded have been removed? In a village a soldier had made
the acquaintance of a woman. One fine day she told him that she was
going away. Why? he asked. Because to-morrow this village was going to
be bombarded. The soldier did not pay much attention to the prophecy,
but the woman was right. How did she know it? Of course because she
had been warned by a spy. Once a peasant came strolling along from the
French side into the German lines, where he was immediately seized. He
declared with the most innocent face in the world that he had come to
look after his cattle, which unfortunately had been left behind on the
German side. Let the poor fellow look after his cows, they thought,
and so he was allowed to pass. Of course there could be no question of
letting him return to the French lines, for he might be a spy sent out
to gather information. An hour later he was seen driving a little herd
of cattle before him, but nobody took any notice. This was a daily
occurrence. However it so happened that he drove his beasts right up
to a German battery which had been so well masked that the French had
been unable to detect it. There he left the cattle grazing and vanished
completely. Presently a murderous fire descended upon the battery,
which had to be moved in the night to another position. The peasant was
in the employ of his countrymen, and his movements had been noted by an
aviator, who had signalled to the French artillery positions.
The German regulations governing the liberties of the civil population
have naturally to be made much more stringent on account of such
incidents, and that is why even officers are sometimes stopped at night
when travelling within the fighting zone. But even the most vigilant
are sometimes outwitted by the French spies. Complete telephone systems
have in several instances been discovered below ground, clearly laid
down in anticipation of the French retreat. The main cables no doubt
existed already in peace time, but on the outbreak of war an additional
system of temporary lines had been added, and during the retreat
telephone stations were rigged up in all sorts of unsuspected places.
It was often palpable that the French fire had been directed with the
aid of telephone communication. But where is the underground cable and
where is the operator? Usually it is chance that leads to the latter’s
discovery. It had been noticed several times that within a certain area
the French fire had searched and struck the most susceptible points
on the German side with such rapidity and accuracy that the direction
of the fire could only be explained by the existence of equally rapid
and accurate information. It had also been noticed that no airmen had
haunted this particular point and the conclusion was not far to seek
that telephone communication alone could lie at the root of the skilful
operations of the enemy artillery. All houses and cellars in the
neighbourhood had been searched with the utmost thoroughness, perhaps
with useful results, perhaps not. There might be subterranean vaults
anywhere under meadows, gardens or fields; or strange as it may sound
there may be telephone stations above ground, which are very difficult
to detect.
Anyone travelling through north-west France in the autumn cannot but
be struck by the enormous straw stacks dotted here and there about the
fields, often reaching a height of six to eight metres, cylindrical
in form and capped by a flat cone. In the interior of such stacks the
Germans have often discovered telephone operators. When I drove past
one of these stacks for the first time I saw that it had been pulled
to pieces, with the straw scattered in the greatest confusion. I asked
my companion for the reason of this “eccentric treatment” and was told
in reply: “It was thought that a man with a telephone apparatus might
have concealed himself inside and they wanted to make quite sure.” I
have since often seen similar stacks in the fields and wondered what it
must feel like to sit shut up in one month after month. I had a shrewd
suspicion that he must get his information from the civil inhabitants
of the neighbourhood. Spies in the guise of vagrant peasants or
shepherds no doubt steal up to the stack in the dead of night and creep
in through some hidden passage to tell the operator what they have seen.
The following episode was told me by a German officer. The Germans had
billeted themselves on a French village and had requisitioned against
_bons_ what they needed for their reasonable wants. Thereupon an
elderly curé turned up at the commandant’s office and pleaded in the
most beseeching tones to be allowed to keep the modest little stock of
wine in his cellar which he said he needed for the sake of his failing
health. His request was readily granted and orders were issued that the
priest and his wine-cellar should be excluded from all requisitions.
After a time the Germans noticed with amazement that the French fire
in these parts was directed with almost uncanny precision. A thorough
search was instituted, houses, cellars and straw stacks were ransacked,
but without success. Nobody thought of the curé, who was old and broken
in health, and who with the most innocent air in the world was seen
daily tottering along laboriously to and from his little church. But
at last things grew so suspicious that even the curé’s house had to be
searched. There in the wine-cellar stood a large cask and inside it was
a telephone apparatus, the wires from which passed through the cellar
floor into the earth. It was the old curé himself who at night gave
all the information which had proved so fatal to the Germans in the
neighbourhood. On the following night the telephone was once more in
operation. This time, however, it was a German officer, speaking French
without the slightest trace of an accent, who took his seat in the wine
cask. And what _he_ had to report may be left to the imagination. In
any case there were no more direct hits after that night.
When a village within the German sphere of operations continues to be
inhabited by the French civil population it is not bombarded by the
French, but if the population for any reason leaves the village, the
fire is immediately directed against its farms and houses. Information
in these respects can only be given through the underground telephone
lines or through light signals at night. The latter method is, however,
extremely dangerous, for when the Germans notice any suspicious lights
their patrols bear down like hawks upon the point from which the light
was seen.
The village of Boiry where we now were has in peace time a population
of nine hundred, but at present there are only a hundred and fifty
left. After a while the population seemed to grow without any migration
into the village being noticed. It was then found that the apparent
new-comers had simply been hidden in the cellars, where they had
tables, chairs, beds and all sorts of supplies. Thus they had lived for
weeks, until they realised that the Germans were not such “barbarians”
as they had been made out to be. But, nevertheless, the fact that Boiry
was inhabited by French people made the German troops quartered there
fairly safe from aviators’ bombs, whilst they were out of range of the
artillery.
On the other hand the French airmen evidently had their eye on a German
flying station in the neighbourhood. That very day a _Taube_ had been
damaged by a bomb, which had, moreover, wounded three men and killed
twenty horses belonging to the flying section. But the Germans had
revenged themselves amply, for the following day 155 Frenchmen had been
captured in the same neighbourhood.
I was told that it costs France tens of thousands of millions of francs
to have the German armies in occupation of a part of their country, and
this disadvantage is but slightly compensated for by certain benefits
which I have briefly touched upon above and which include the greater
facility of organising the intelligence service. But it must not be
thought that the Germans are entirely deprived of the information they
need. They have inexhaustible supplies of ordnance maps of the entire
country, together with appertaining military and topographical data;
they have, moreover, their incredibly skilful and bold flying corps and
other scouts and, besides, the information vouchsafed by prisoners.
Opposite Monchy-au-Bois they had the 69th Regiment of the 20th French
Army Corps. In the same way it was known to a nicety how the various
enemy units were located along this front of six hundred kilometres.
Any movements of troops, and what such movements might portend, were
also known immediately.
But it is getting late. We take leave of the most charming General and
his Staff and drive home through the moonlit silent night. And I for my
part could not help thinking of the young lieutenant about to embark on
his first experience of trench life.
CHAPTER XXI
SUNDAY THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER
For over a thousand years the Catholic Church has kept, on the 2nd or
3rd of November, the solemn festival of “All Souls” in remembrance of
the dead and as an admonition to the living to send up prayers to the
throne of God for the souls suffering in purgatory. A Mass for the
departed is held in the churches, and the graves in the cemeteries are
adorned with wreaths and flowers.
In the parish church of Bapaume a German “All Souls” celebration
was held on Sunday the 1st of November in remembrance of the fallen
soldiers. Duke Adolf Friedrich and I arrived in good time for the
service but found the church filled to overcrowding with four thousand
soldiers. We succeeded however in getting up to the chancel, where two
chairs were placed for us among a group of officers.
The old church makes a truly imposing and magnificent impression. The
first thing I felt constrained to do, after taking my seat, was to
cast my eye over the fane, with its lofty Gothic arches and handsome
windows. On either side of the mighty nave are small side-aisles
supported by massive pillars. The transept walls are adorned with large
memorial tablets, which however are of doubtful artistic value. The
sunlight filters in through the stained-glass windows and falls in all
the hues of the rainbow upon the white pillars. One wonders why a town
of little more than 3,000 inhabitants should need a church capable of
holding 4,000 persons, but at the great festivals this place of worship
attracts people from the whole surrounding country.
All pews are overcrowded, soldiers are standing closely packed all
down the aisles, with their helmets slung over their arms. There are
Catholic Sisters in their black dresses, white coifs and Red Cross
armlets. Both officers and men are unarmed. No rattling of sabres is
heard. No one is commanded to Divine Service. The soldiers are at
liberty to spend the hour of High Mass as they please. Yet the church
is crowded from end to end. These hardened warriors feel the need of
approaching God and hearing His word before they go forth to face death.
A Divine Service in the field under the open sky is more impressive in
its way. But I cannot imagine anything more beautiful than this High
Mass in Bapaume Parish Church. Perhaps they preferred to celebrate
All Souls’ Day under these lofty arches so as not to be disturbed by
airmen. War is inexorable and does not hesitate to kill the children
of man, even while performing their devotions. A Field Chaplain told
me that on Sunday the 18th of October he was preaching on a hill-slope
outside Douchy when a hostile aviator dropped a couple of bombs,
intending to interrupt the service in this catastrophic manner. They
exploded close to the listening troops. No one stirred, and the
preacher calmly continued his sermon.
It is a strangely fascinating sight that meets my eye as it travels
over the nave from the raised floor of the chancel, and I feel that my
heart beats in unison with those of the four thousand South Germans.
Weather-beaten and sunburnt they stand--a picture of manhood, imbued
with iron will and humble trust in God. Their field-grey uniforms have
assumed a tint now truly at one with the colour of the fields through
constant contact with the soil in trenches and “dug-outs.” But here and
there I also observed the dark-blue tunics of Bavarian Landsturm men,
sturdy and steadfast like the solid rock from which the pillars of the
church were hewn.
I hear that the credit of decorating the church so festively for
All Souls’ Day was due to these Landsturm men. The chancel had been
transformed into a solid bank of foliage, and all the pillars were hung
with large green wreaths, in remembrance of the fallen. But the most
remarkable thing of all was the reverence which the good Bavarians
had shown to a small statue of Joan d’Arc standing on the left of the
choir just within the triumphal arch. There was nothing in the least
remarkable about this plaster image of the seventeen-year-old Maid of
Orleans. She was just as one sees her in many other places. She stood,
majestically erect, in her shining armour, holding in her hand the
white standard adorned with _fleurs-de-lys_. And yet I could not keep
my eyes off her. She seemed to scrutinise the German warriors in the
nave, and an ironical smile seemed to hover about her lips.
But how did she get here? It is true that just twenty years ago she
was declared blessed by Pope Leo XIII.--perhaps she has meanwhile
been actually received into the Canon of Saints.[29] At any rate she
is the object of almost divine veneration in this part of France. One
could see that her image was not a regular part of the decorations of
the church, because it had been placed on an upturned packing-case
scantily draped with some cloth. When the war was hanging over France
like a dark thunder-cloud she had been carried into the church, and the
believers had fallen on their knees before her, imploring her to bestow
her spirit and her victorious aid on the French. To propitiate the
noble virgin, the citizens of Bapaume had offered her numerous candles
which were arranged on a stand in front of the image. And now comes the
strangest part, the good Bavarians had glorified her with a background
of tall plants and had lit all the candles, those candles whose flames
were burning prayers for victory over--the Germans!
[29] She was canonised by Pope Pius X. in May, 1909.--Translator.
The blessed virgin had yet another and greater cause to smile at human
folly. In her time, more than half of France was overrun by the English
and their allies. It was against them that she had fought--them that
she had vanquished--and when, overpowered at last, she fell into the
hands of her country’s enemies she was delivered by them into the hands
of the inquisition. She was derided, locked up with rough soldiers and
finally burnt at the stake--all this by those very Englishmen whom she
was now invoked, by burning prayers and candles, to assist against
the Germans. One may pardon the young lady for making a wry face and
feeling somewhat perplexed! The Bavarians might well light the candles
without misgivings--she did not heed them, and her helmet prevented her
from hearing the presumptuous prayers.
The peals of the organ now rise loud and clear towards the roof, and
lusty voices from four thousand young warriors’ throats sing Bernard de
Clairvaux’s eight-hundred-year-old Latin hymn _Salve caput cruentatum_
in its German version composed in 1659 by Paul Gerhard:
O sacred Head, surrounded
By crown of piercing thorn!
O bleeding Head, so wounded,
Reviled and put to scorn!
Death’s pallid hue comes o’er Thee,
The glow of life decays.
Yet angel hosts adore Thee
And tremble as they gaze!
* * * * *
In mine own hour of passion,
Good Shepherd, think of me
With Thy most sweet compassion,
Unworthy though I be.
In Thy sweet arms abiding
For ever would I rest,
In Thy dear love confiding,
And with Thy presence blest!”[30]
[30] “Ancient and Modern Hymns,” version slightly modified.--Translator.
When the last note of Cleving’s sonorous voice--which, though I could
not see the singer from where I sat, could easily be distinguished
and rang with the fervour of devotion--had died away, Franz Xaver
Münch, Divisional Chaplain of Düsseldorf, ascended the pulpit. He was
a tall and powerfully built man. With authoritative dignity he stood
and looked down upon his congregation of all grades and all arms,
of horny-handed soldiers and Sisters of Mercy, of Protestants and
Catholics. The service was a joint service for all creeds. The priest
himself was a Catholic. But now, in the German nation’s greatest hour,
all barriers of creed were broken; there was no longer any distinction
between Protestants, Catholics or Jews--there were only _Germans_. “We
have now all become as _one_ man, and we all have _one_ God.”
But the priest stood in the pulpit and delivered the following sermon:
“Dearly beloved friends and comrades!
“‘O Sacred Head surrounded!’ This is how the German master Grünewald,
the placid, great mystic, saw Him when he pictured that Divine ‘Man of
Sorrow,’ His pain and His wounds, and His bruised and pierced body!
This is how Bach beheld Him when in his ‘Passion according to St.
Matthew’ he prayed and lamented over the dying Son of God: ‘Help, ye
daughters ... help me lament!’
“In this sacred hour, when we mourn our dead heroes, we realise more
powerfully than ever before the passion of Our Lord. For are not we
Germans ourselves undergoing our Passion, and is not our Empire itself
transformed to a suffering Christ? We too have passed through our hour
of trial on Mount Olivet when, with our Emperor, we prayed that ‘this
cup of suffering might pass away’ from us, and obeying the unfathomable
Divine Will, we began to drain it. We too felt the war weighing upon us
like a cross, and we are bearing its burden, trusting in the same aid
which comforted our Heavenly Master. We too have been forsaken by those
to whom we had only shown what is good and right, and around us too has
roared the cry, full of hatred and envy: ‘Crucify him!’ And like the
Master, we too, in this our German Passion, are bearing wounds, among
which the noblest and most bloody are our dear dead Germans!
“Standing by the common graves in which we have buried our dead, we
lament deeply and sorrowfully. For we Germans too can weep and lament!
And with our lamentations mingle the sobs and wailings of the poor
German widows and orphans, whose husbands and fathers rest in foreign
soil.
“And yet we do not sorrow like the heathen who have nothing to hope
for. Even the dead live, and urge us on to the task incumbent on the
living. I fancy I can hear, from those trench graves, the imploring,
earnestly beseeching cry: ‘_See to it that our sufferings may not have
been in vain!_’ The task which the dead lay upon us is, untiringly,
and with the utmost exertion of all our powers of mind and body, to
accomplish the work of liberation of our threatened empire. From
the earliest times it has been a prominent characteristic of German
effort in every domain to go about the task in hand thoroughly and
perseveringly and to accomplish it accurately in every detail. This
purely German talent we shall also employ, with all the energy
mercifully bestowed on us, in this fateful hour. Just as in times of
peace we were a nation who created new resources, beneficent even to
others, so we will not now rest till we have forced upon our enemies a
peace which shall not only bring a new spring of prosperity to our land
but shall also be a guarantee for the tranquillity and security of all
Europe.
“Yet another cry I seem to hear from those trench graves: ‘_Do not
forget our sufferings and our wounds!_’ My dear comrades! Those among
our people who still retain their moral earnestness will never forget
the wounds and the sufferings which this war has brought with it. The
price of our liberation and of our victories is the most precious and
most noble that a people can pay--the blood of our young manhood!
Come and see how we are burying the young! We cannot even give them
a plain coffin! We cannot, as the ancient Teutons did, raise them on
our shields and carry them over hill and dale to their German home.
But, dear brethren, I know of a sarcophagus which is more precious
than a coffin--fashioned by the hand of a greater Master--I mean the
sarcophagus of the German heart. Deeply enshrined there, let us lay
our dear dead to rest and carry them home with us, some day, to the
German native land. And if, some day--which God our Protector in our
German fight forbid--a time should come when a generation of young men
and young women does not know what the peace and the new prosperity of
the empire has cost us, when people in laxity and luxury only live to
enjoy the fruits, when people abandon themselves to the strange gods of
demoralising and pernicious habits--then, my dear brethren, the time
will have come for us, who have been standing to-day in sorrow around
these tombs, to open the sarcophagus of our hearts and exhibit to a
slothful generation our dead, their wounds and their dying moments!
Then the spirits of the fallen shall fight another and a harder fight
against those of our own people who no longer preserve the memory of
the gaping wounds of war in the innermost recesses of their soul!
“Thus this day on which we commemorate our dead is in reality a day
of surging life, of new hopes and of urgent tasks. These graves are
a gigantic reproach to our enemies, but to us they will be a sacred
memorial in the time to come. Those who have sown the storms shall reap
the whirlwind! And this whirlwind is now raging over their land! Led
astray by petty motives and by small groups of selfish partisans, ‘they
have sown in the flesh and they shall reap destruction.’ We venture to
swear before God that we have sown in the spirit of righteousness and
peace. To us the war is a momentously spiritual matter, which touches
the innermost heart of a nation which has risen in unity, which has
been hurt in its most sacred sentiments, and has been forced to defend
itself. And through the Spirit of Righteousness and Peace our people
shall reap eternal life. Amen.”
“O God, who by Thy holy Apostles hast commanded us to love the Ruler
Thou hast given us, pour the richest blessings on our Emperor and all
his house! And above all we pray Thee, in these the great days of
fateful warlike complications, to bestow Thy grace on our Imperial
Lord! In holy trust and deep humility he has committed his people to
Thy protection! For the sake of all of us, preserve his health and
strength! Enlighten him in his counsels! Comfort him, while with a
father’s heart he grieves over the wounds of his empire! Reward him
with victory for his army, and with an honourable peace! This grant
him, God, the Righteous, for the sake of the atoning death of our
Divine Lord and Saviour! Amen.”
“O Lord of Hosts! Uphold our brave German Army! Thou knowest what a
righteous cause it is fighting for, and how it is pressed by enemies on
every hand! Grant its leaders wisdom and skill,--grant its soldiers the
spirit of constant self-sacrificing courage and ready obedience! Let
them all find shelter under the wings of Thy mercy, Thy divinity and
Thy grace! Grant us this through Thy son our Heavenly Lord and Saviour!
Amen.”
“O Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, who Thyself didst live, with Thy
holy parents, a holy family life, have mercy on our families at home!
Protect our fair and fertile land, our villages and towns, our fields
and vineyards, our trade and handicraft! Protect above all our German
youth--Thou the divine friend of children! Let the young be deeply
imbued with the import of the times and with love of their native land,
in this fateful hour! But especially comfort each wife whose husband
is resting in foreign soil, for Thy Father is the God of the widows
and the fatherless! Thou Thyself hadst a mother whose heart bled with
pain and grief! Console the mothers, give comfort to the children! Have
mercy on brothers, sisters and betrothed who are mourning their beloved
dead--Thou who livest and reignest from eternity to eternity! Amen.”
The bands play a hymn whose magnificently solemn notes re-echo through
the church. A quartette strikes up the _Ave verum corpus natum_ and
finally the congregation sings the doxology:
“Mighty God, we worship Thee,
Lord, we praise Thy glorious name!
Heaven and earth bow down to Thee
And Thy wondrous works proclaim!
As from all eternity,
Thou for evermore shalt be!”
The High Mass was over and the soldiers filed out, past the little maid
who, thanks to Schiller’s magnificent romantic tragedy, was no stranger
to them. The candles might well be lit in front of her--had she not
vanquished the English? The French Maid, as she stands there, brings to
our minds those proud words which the German bard put into her mouth
when, a prisoner in the hands of the English, he makes her boldly
exclaim to the ferocious and insolent Queen Isabeau:
“France never shall the Briton’s fetters bear,
No, never! For, ere that, it shall become
One vast engulphing tomb for all your hosts!
The flower of your army’s gone--betimes
Think of a safe retreat--already now,
Your glory’s faded and your might is broken!”
Perhaps there were also some in Bapaume Church who thought of those
grand words, in which Schiller makes her predict the ultimate triumph
over truth:
“Without the Will of God no single hair
Falls from man’s head!--See yonder sun
Descending to the horizon--Yea, as surely
As in the morn he’ll rise anew in splendour,
As surely comes the day when truth prevails!”--
Then the lights were quickly extinguished and the Maid of Orleans
remained alone, pensive and still.
Pastor Münch remarked to me how profoundly impressive it was to
witness the soldiers’ and officers’ spiritual cravings during the war.
At divine service the churches were always crowded, and hundreds of
soldiers were attending the weekday Vespers. The sermons were printed
in tens and hundreds of thousands of copies for distribution in the
trenches. War was carried on, not only with rifles, bayonets and
artillery, but also with the weapons of the fear of God and prayer!
For his own part he thought that Catholics and Protestants, however
strictly they each adhered to their own particular tenets, yet well
understood each other. The German Catholics had most fervently taken to
heart the situation of their common fatherland in the face of the war,
and their sentiments were as genuine, sincere and true as those of the
Protestants. Perhaps one of the results of the war would be that the
two creeds would have learnt to esteem each other and to abstain in
future from dwelling on those points in which they were most strongly
at variance. Already it had been realised in German evangelical circles
that, although the Roman Catholic Church comprises all nations, yet
the German Catholics were fighting with unshakable consistency and
conviction for German national interests.
A sanguinary reminiscence of the Franco-German war is connected with
Bapaume. On January 3rd, 1871, impelled by the precarious situation of
Paris, General Faidherbe attacked, with the French Northern Army,--the
22nd and 23rd Army Corps--General Goeben’s forces, collected in and
about Bapaume, whose nucleus was the 15th Division of the 8th Army
Corps. The Germans held their main position though outnumbered by more
than two to one, but at the end of the day were totally exhausted, and
moreover short of ammunition. General Faidherbe, on the other hand, saw
his best troops badly spent and the _Gardes Mobiles_ demoralised by the
fatigues undergone. He would not venture another blow, and fell back on
Arras and Douai. The deficient military training and discipline of the
French militia rendered it impossible for the General to take advantage
of the otherwise favourable situation.
Forty-four years have now passed since then, and Bapaume is once
more in German hands. The French have erected, in the centre of the
market-place, a statue of Faidherbe--a worthy memorial to a brilliant
career. Time after time this brave man had been entrusted with the
solution of important tasks at home, in Guadeloupe, in Algiers,
Senegal and Kabylia, until in the end he was appointed by Gambetta, in
November, 1870, to the command of the Northern Army. He was by no means
lacking in courage, confidence, initiative, patriotism and fervent
zeal, but with his militia troops he was like a general without an
army, in the face of the thoroughly and carefully trained Germans.
[Illustration: BAND PLAYING BESIDE FAIDHERBE’S STATUE]
[Illustration: GERMAN SOLDIERS BESIDE THE FRENCH GENERAL’S MEMORIAL]
Faidherbe survived his failure for a good many years. He died in Paris
in 1889 after eighteen years’ grief at his generalship being wasted
uselessly in consequence of the blindness and ignorance of those who
represented the nation and who brought that nation to the deepest abyss
of national misfortune ever witnessed in our times.
There he stands, in bronze, on his white pedestal--one of the victims
of his nation’s baneful mistake. And around him stand sons of the
people who vanquished him, now following victoriously in the footsteps
of their fathers. There he stands, defiant and resolute, with crossed
arms, his right hand clasping the hilt of his sword. His whole bearing
seems to evince an unflinching resolution not to recede one step but
only to push forward! His greatcoat seems to flutter in the wind, and
his cap is jauntily cocked to one side. He bears his head high and
proudly, his eyes are turned towards the German troops--now as in the
days of the past. For now, as then, he has closely serried ranks of
German soldiers before him. Many of those who had attended the church
service have now assembled in the market-place. The German military
band forms a semicircle in front of Faidherbe’s statue. Baton in hand,
the bandmaster steps forth, and now the “Watch on the Rhine” rings out.
Grand, sonorous and stirring, its notes swirl round the hero up there
on the pedestal. He seems more defiant than ever, with his bared sword,
and an air of deep tragedy seems to hover about his features!
But the German musicians and their comrades stand calm and undismayed;
a sentiment of confident expectation of victory pervades all these
warriors. Cleving begins to sing and others join in, until a mighty
wave of song sweeps over the market-place:[31]
“The tocsin rings like thunder peal,
Like roar of waves and clash of steel:--
To th’ Rhine--the Rhine,--the German Rhine!
Who will keep guard upon the Rhine?
_Chorus_:
Be undismayed, dear country mine:
Firm stands and true the watch,--the watch on th’ Rhine!
(_Rep._)
Through hundred thousands thrills the call
And boldly flash the eyes of all:
The German, loyal, staunch and true,
Protects that sacred landmark blue!
(_Chorus._)
He gazes upwards to the sky,
Where valiant fathers dwell on high,
And proudly vows: For evermore
Shall German stay the Rhine’s fair shore!
(_Chorus._)
While yet a drop of blood we hoard,
Have yet an arm to wield the sword--
To pull the trigger yet one hand--
No foeman’s foot shall tread this land!
(_Chorus._)
The vow rings o’er the wave-swept vale--
Proud banners flutter in the gale--
On th’ Rhine,--the Rhine, the German Rhine--
We’ll all keep guard upon the Rhine!”
(_Chorus._)
[31] “Die Wacht am Rhein.” Having failed, in this and in other
instances in this book, to discover an “authorised” version, the
translator has been compelled to make literal translations himself.
Before we left the market square we looked in at the Base Commander’s
office, to see the old Bavarian Colonel who had been so ungracious
on my arrival in Bapaume. But now, as I have mentioned, we were firm
friends.
The brilliant assembly of guests round the Duke’s hospitable board
included on this occasion the Chief of the Staff, Count von der
Schulenburg, a lively and pleasant gentleman, who evoked great
merriment by his happy wit.
When the guests had departed, we mounted the Duke’s car and drove to
Hamelincourt, whither we had been invited for tea by Rittmeister von
Hollen. When we passed through the village before, night had fallen;
now we inspected more closely the slightly damaged church and a few
wrecked houses. Even this little place was swarming with troops and
officers; we also met a stout and jovial Catholic priest who had been
out that day to the foremost fighting line to preach. He had passed
through the most remarkable adventures with his lively little grey cob,
and he recounted some of them while we were seated at von Hollen’s
hospitable table.
On the notice board of the Townhall we had seen the announcement: “This
afternoon at 5 p.m. a short service will be held in Bapaume Cemetery
in commemoration of our fallen comrades.” When we left Hamelincourt,
we therefore made straight for the cemetery. Crowds of officers and
men were filtering along the paths between a forest of crosses and
tombstones. There was here a common grave, in which Frenchmen and
Germans have been resting side by side since 1871, also some fresh
graves dating from the present war. A surgeon lay buried here, whose
fox-terrier, for three days and nights, could not be induced to leave
his master’s grave.
A group of nursing sisters come bearing large wreaths wherewith to
adorn the graves of the dead soldiers. The band strikes up a slow and
solemn funeral march; a preacher delivers an address in remembrance
of the dead, and a choir of Bavarian Landsturm men ascend a little
mound and pay homage to their fallen comrades in beautiful song.
They are good-natured fellows, these powerful and strong Bavarians,
but in war they are awkward customers to tackle. Then they no longer
think of “_Eine ganz frische Blume_”[32] and can even dispense with
their beloved _Hofbräu_ beer. Their younger comrades in the trenches
are notorious for their eagerness to fight and for their undaunted
courage. They never give way. If the word is given to charge with the
bayonet, nothing can hold them back. A Bavarian “Hurrah” is something
terrifying. But when the enemy throws up his hands and yields himself
up as prisoner, these warriors become their old gentle selves. If the
situation permits it may happen, however, that they rummage in their
opponents’ pockets and knapsacks for cigarettes. When, in the former
war, the Germans reproached the French with having pressed half-savage
and heathen races into their ranks, they are said to have replied: “_Eh
bien, vous avez vos Bavarois!_”
[32] Title of one of their songs.
On the extreme fringe of the audience stood sixty Landsturm men, who
had been ordered to the cemetery to open fire in case a hostile airman
should show himself. Aviators are mostly out between five and six,
and the air was calm and clear this evening. Just imagine what havoc
might be wrought if a bomb or two were dropped among these closely
packed crowds! While the priest is speaking, the warning whir is heard
overhead. But not a muscle moves on the faces of his audience; the
preacher’s voice never falters nor does he lose the thread of his
discourse for an instant. One little sister alone raises her blue eyes
to the sky, but seems quite unconcerned. “It is a German airman,” the
Duke whispers into my ear, and he told me afterwards that one soon
learnt to distinguish French from German aeroplanes--by their sound.
The German machines have a duller note.
On returning home I called in as usual to see M. Cossart and Mdlles.
Lengagne, and sat and chatted with them for half an hour. They had been
greatly upset on hearing that large numbers of the male population
of Bapaume had been carried away into captivity in Germany, but on
enquiring into the matter I was able to assure them that at most
only a hundred were in question, who were considered of military age
and had therefore been taken away to be interned; they would return
after the war in unimpaired health and strength. Then I told them
about the incidents of the day, the High Mass and the music in the
market-place. They themselves had not been out of doors; they _would
not_ go out--they _would not_ hear the Prussian music in Bapaume!
What could I say to console them? How can one console people who see
their countryside occupied by hostile armies? It could not cheer them
to hear the latest news from the theatres of war--about Hindenburg’s
fresh advances in Poland, and the doings of the Turkish fleet in the
Black Sea! And if I did say anything of the kind they simply would not
believe it. I felt very sorry for them--just as I did for Faidherbe,
out there in the market-place!
But it was now nearly seven o’clock, so I crossed the street to call
for the Duke. We were to drive to Douai, where we were invited to
take supper at 8 p.m. with the Chief of the 6th Army, Colonel-General
Rupprecht, Crown Prince of Bavaria. The distance is nearly thirty-four
kilometres and can easily be covered in three-quarters of an hour, but
the numerous posts stationed on the road took up much of our time. It
was five minutes to eight when we arrived. An adjutant conducted us
to a drawing-room, and we had not waited half a minute when the Crown
Prince entered.
He is one of those rare men whom all love and admire--all except the
English, for I think that even the French cannot help paying him a meed
of respect. In the German army he is looked upon as a very eminent
general--a born strategist and a thoroughly schooled soldier. As
regards appearance, manner and speech, he is fascinating and congenial
in the highest degree, neither regal nor humble, but without artifice
and modest like an ordinary mortal. When one _knows_ that he has
recently experienced the greatest private sorrow which could befall
him, one fancies, perhaps, that one detects a trace thereof in his
features--an air of sadness--but otherwise he does not betray, by a
look or a sigh, how deeply he grieves over the death of the little
prince of thirteen, the darling of all Bavaria. When the country and
the empire are in danger, all private sorrows must be put aside!
The Crown Prince has no time to grieve or to think of the void and
bereavement which he will feel on his victorious return to Munich.
He lives for and with his army, and is like a father to each and all
of his soldiers. He devotes all his power of mind, all his physical
strength, all his time, to the one great object which dominates all
else in the minds of the whole German army.
Crown Prince Rupprecht walks in with brisk and easy stride, stretches
out his hands towards us and gives us a truly cordial welcome. And then
he adds half-humorously: “I expect some other distinguished guests at
my table to-night.”
“Who can that be?” asks the Duke.
“The Emperor!” replies the Crown Prince, and claps his hands together.
“The Emperor?” we cry, for we had no idea that His Majesty was in this
part of the country.
“Yes, the Emperor has visited several units in this neighbourhood
to-day, and has promised.... Hush, I hear his car!” and with that the
Crown Prince hurried out.
Meanwhile the Officers of the General Staff of the Army came to greet
us, and presently the Emperor’s suite, among whom I knew several, also
entered. Before I had time to wonder where the supreme War-Lord himself
had gone, we were asked to step into the dining-room. The Emperor was
already seated at the table. We all stepped up to our chairs, but no
one seated himself. The Emperor sat with bowed head, looking very
grave. But suddenly his blue eyes flashed up, and he nodded kindly in
all directions. When he caught sight of me, he extended his hand across
the table and cried gaily: “_Guten Tag, mein lieber Sven Hedin; es
scheint Ihnen gut zu gefallen in meiner Armee_,”[33] a sentiment which
I confirmed with the greatest alacrity.
[33] “How do you do, my dear Sven Hedin; you seem rather to like being
with my Army.”
Perhaps it might amuse the reader to hear who were the ten people
seated round Crown Prince Rupprecht’s table. Duke Adolf Friedrich of
Mecklenburg sat at the Emperor’s right, and Prince Löwenstein at his
left. Right opposite the Emperor sat the Crown Prince--the host--with
Colonel-General von Plessen, Adjutant-General, at his right and myself
at his left. Next to me on the other side was Lieut.-General von
Marschall, with Colonel Tappen, of the Crown Prince’s staff, on his
left. To the left of Prince Löwenstein sat General Falkenhayn, Minister
of War, and between him and General von Plessen the chief of the Crown
Prince’s staff, General Krafft von Dellmensingen. At another table of
about the same size, covers had been laid for the other gentlemen of
the Emperor’s and Crown Prince’s staff and suite.
The Emperor was in brilliant spirits. I really do not know whether he
_can_ be otherwise, for whenever I have had the honour to meet him, he
has always been merry, amiable and witty. He can certainly express at
times in words of thunder his displeasure at some contemptible act on
the part of the enemy, but he is soon sunshine again and bursts into
irresistible laughter at some whimsical idea. He has a wonderful gift
of instilling life into a party and keeping the conversation at high
pitch--as he did here for over two and a half hours. He told us a great
deal of most interesting news, things which had happened in different
parts of the field during the last few days and which, at least to me
and to the Duke, were news indeed. If one asks the Emperor any question
about the conditions in more or less remote countries, as to which
sparse or contradictory information has come to one’s ears, he will,
off-hand, and with a masterly marshalling of facts, deliver a veritable
lecture on its internal and external policy, its public sentiments, its
resources, and its military strength. I think I have never met a man
who can rival Emperor William in this respect.
He also possesses the faculty of grasping with lightning quickness
and judging the opinions expressed by others. He listened with the
liveliest interest to Crown Prince Rupprecht as the latter gave
him various details about his army, and to me when I described the
bombardment of Ostend.
It was past half-past ten when the Emperor laid down his cigar and
rose to say good-bye with that vigorous handshake which leaves its
mark on one’s knuckles. The Crown Prince alone accompanied him out
into the hall, which immediately adjoined the dining-room and from
which a few steps led out into the road. A soldier stood ready holding
the Emperor’s light greyish-blue cloak, with dark fur collar; another
handed him the plain Prussian officer’s field-cap. After the host and
his guest had exchanged a few more words they went out to the car,
which drove off rapidly into the night, whereupon the Crown Prince
rejoined us.
We then arranged plans for the morrow--another trip northward. Captain
Lübke was ordered to accompany us. He was to watch for us when we
returned to Douai about ten o’clock.
So we said good-bye to the Crown Prince of Bavaria, Chief of the 6th
Army, and left his quarters where we had spent a memorable evening.
Our return journey was most tediously delayed by the zeal of the
guards posted along the road. Every moment we were stopped, and if we
gave the slightest sign of disregarding the challenge, the sentries
at once prepared to fire. Any attempt at running away might have cost
us our lives. We therefore stopped discreetly. The commander of the
picket came forward and turned his lantern upon us. The Duke asked why
the guarding of the road was so much stricter now than it was three
hours ago. “Well, we have received information that a couple of spies
in German uniform accompanied by a woman, are out driving in a car
somewhere in this neighbourhood. We have orders to let no one pass, no
matter whom, without the closest scrutiny.”
“Well, that is right; watch well, lads! Good night!” the Duke exclaims
as we drive on--until the next lantern once more compels us to stop.
CHAPTER XXII
ENGLISH PRISONERS FROM YPRES
Up betimes for early Mass and away across Artois’ desolate plains to
Douai! At the headquarters of the Chief Command we were met by Captain
Lübke with his car, and he introduced us to two other participants in
the day’s excursion, Councillor Göppert and the Austrian battle-scene
painter, Professor Hans von Hayek. Thereupon we jumped in and tore away
past Pasteur and Joan of Arc, before whom we had no further occasion to
stop. We were through the town in a twinkling, and drove out under the
_Porte de Roubaix_, following in a north-easterly direction the long
unbroken street connecting Lille with Roubaix.
At the latter place we came across 250 English soldiers who had
recently been captured, together with a number of officers, all of whom
were to be conveyed to Germany in the afternoon. The men were lodged in
a large hall, probably a dismantled restaurant. There was no furniture,
but large beds of straw had been spread out on the floor, especially
along the walls. Here the men could fix themselves up for the night.
They certainly had nothing to complain of. One “Tommy,” who had a
slight wound in the head, was just being treated by an English doctor,
who was also a prisoner. An adjoining room with a glass roof contained
long rows of tables and chairs, where the prisoners took their meals.
Here I photographed a couple of groups, and the reader will be able
to see for himself that the English soldiers in German captivity look
neither downcast nor ill. In one picture they even have a rather cheeky
and lively Frenchwoman, inclined to stoutness, sitting between them,
and I must admit to their honour as serious soldiers, that it was she
who begged and prayed to be allowed to be photographed with her allies
and customers--for the noble lady was no less a person than the chief
waitress, and it was she who saw to it that the prisoners were amply
and well fed.
[Illustration: TOMMY ATKINS AT ROUBAIX]
In the restaurant kitchen the prisoners’ fare was being cooked in large
caldrons, and here, too, the kitchen staff was predominantly French.
Anyone accusing the Germans of stinting the prisoners’ food allowance
should take a peep at the restaurant in Roubaix. Everything was most
ample and excellent. It is true that they got no oysters, truffles,
lobster or plum pudding. But they got sound, solid food, and these
mercenaries, who perhaps were natives of the east end of London, had
probably not for a long time been so well looked after as at Roubaix.
Moreover, the French waitress was not a little in love with “Tommy
Atkins,” and watched over him as the mother eagle watches over her
brood, to see that he always had plenty to eat.
[Illustration: THE FRENCH WAITRESS AND HER ENGLISH CUSTOMERS]
A few days previously the catering, both in food and other things,
had threatened to assume more liberal proportions than the German
authorities thought desirable. The fact was that the citizens of
Roubaix had decided to make a collection of _Liebesgaben_ for the
English prisoners. But then the Germans thought that things were going
a little too far, and stepped in and prohibited the intended feast.
In the great hall I found other members of the genus “Tommy Atkins”
resting on the straw. They looked well and cheerful, and many had
attractive, manly and kindly features. When I stopped in front of a
group to talk to them, they made no sign of rising, but answered very
politely and with the ineffable calm which distinguishes their race.
They said straight out that they were satisfied with the treatment they
received and with the food given them. One of them thought that one
could not very well expect in war better treatment than they received
here. The only thing that worried them was that they were not allowed
to smoke in the hall. But the German officer standing by explained that
the hall was built of inflammable material, not to speak of the dry
straw, and that the Germans had no wish to see their English prisoners
burnt. A large and pleasant room on the first floor accommodated three
English officers, a captain and two lieutenants, and a French captain.
Each of them had his own bed, clean and neat-looking, and the room also
contained tables and chairs and other useful and necessary furniture.
The Frenchman was in mufti, and explained, when I asked how this was,
that he lived in Roubaix, and had received permission to fetch fresh
clothes from his home. Like the others, he had nothing to complain
of, but he was deeply distressed over the misfortunes which had come
over France. He wept as he spoke of it, but comforted himself with
the thought that the pendulum would soon swing the other way. Germany
_could not_ in the long run keep her end up against the combined armies
and navies of France, Britain, Russia and Japan, no, not even with the
assistance she got from Austria-Hungary, but I could tell that his
hopes were not very deeply rooted, for tears welled up in his eyes as
he spoke. Poor French captain! Think how he must feel, first to be
taken prisoner on the field of battle, and then to sit as a prisoner in
his own native town, with his wife and family close by. But he admitted
that the Germans had treated him kindly.
It is really horrible and distressing to see two of the world’s leading
cultured nations endeavouring with every conceivable bait to lure
the Japanese into sending their armies to the European battlefields
to destroy Germanic culture. What would the result have been had
this plot against the white race been successful? The whole thing is
unthinkable. One obvious effect would have been the weakening of the
white races in favour of the yellow. What would the future have had
to say to a diplomacy which thus administered its charge? Happily the
Land of the Rising Sun has wiser and more far-sighted statesmen than
the Western powers. The Japanese realise that if the Europeans continue
to destroy one another, those areas in the Far East which mean so much
to them, will drop like ripe fruit into their hands without a single
Japanese soldier having to spill his blood in the land of the white
races. And, besides, has not Japan herself immense problems to solve
on the coasts of the Pacific Ocean and among its islands? Is it not in
Japan’s interest that the war should leave Germany’s enemies as weak
as possible? The more feeble they are after the war, the greater are
Japan’s prospects of figuring as their heir and successor in the Far
East. But even for the solution of these problems, which belong to the
near future, Japan requires a considerable display of force. In her
own obvious interests she must conserve her forces during this world
struggle, and patiently bide her time. Then, far beyond the European
battlefields, she has another political problem looming up on the
horizon--America.
Whilst I was talking politics with the French captain the Duke stood
chatting with the English soldiers. I saw him point to me, and heard
them exclaim: “No, really, _that_ fellow?” A moment later I had my
revenge and told them who the German officer was that they had been
talking to, and this surprised them even more. Perhaps they themselves
will tell of our visit when the hour of peace has struck.
One of the lieutenants was a well-bred and pleasant young fellow, the
son of a prominent merchant in London. His father did business with
Germany, and he himself had stayed there--I believe in Hamburg--to
learn the language. He said that the war had turned all his plans
completely upside down, “but we had no option but to come into the
war,” he thought.
We took a friendly farewell of the four officers, and drove back to
Lille to pay a visit to the citadel, where a body of Indian prisoners
were said to be interned. The French citadel is now a German barracks.
German soldiers and military cars and a number of captured guns were
ranged up in the yard, but there were no Indian prisoners, I am sorry
to say. They had been moved east the same morning--for it is necessary
to clear as quickly as possible all available space to make room for
the fresh batches which pour in from the front in a continuous stream.
However, I could do without the Indians. I had seen them before, in
their own country, under India’s burning sun. There they are in their
element. That is where they ought to be now. But I cannot deny that it
would after all have been very interesting to meet them here again, and
to find out what they thought of life in the foggy autumn of Artois
and Flanders. I myself knew what it was like to try to acclimatise
Indians in a colder climate. On my last journey in Tibet I had with me
two Rajputs from Kashmir. When we got up amongst the mountains, they
nearly froze to death, and my caravan leader, Mohammed Isa, declared
that they were of no more use than the puppies we had with us. So they
were discharged, and sent back to their tepid valleys. The same thing
happened with my Hindoo cook from Madras. I realised that I had been
guilty of a piece of stupidity in thinking that they could be used
outside India. In Tibet one lives on meat, in India on vegetables. How
could they possibly stand a sudden change both of climate and diet?
And now I had read in the newspapers that the British had organised
a complete importation of Indians into Europe. I had found it very
difficult to believe these reports, but at the front I found that they
were really true. “How do you treat these Indian soldiers?” I once
asked some German officers.
“We arrest them,” one answered, and another added:
“It’s not necessary, they soon freeze to death in the trenches.”
When I admit that I myself had been guilty of stupidity in thinking
that the Indians could be employed in Tibet, I think I am entitled
to say that Lord Curzon, who really is a man of character, made a
mistake seven times greater when he expressed the hope “that he would
see the Indian Lancers clear the Berlin streets, and the little brown
Ghurkas make themselves at home in the park at _Sans Souci_.”[34] But
as regards the actual performance of carrying this importation into
effect, I consider it more than an act of stupidity--I consider it a
crime.
[34] Quotation taken from Professor Steffen’s book on “War and Culture.”
Great Britain has for nearly 150 years superbly acquitted herself of
the task of acting as India’s guardian, and I doubt whether any other
nation would have succeeded in so gigantic an undertaking. Indian
troops have fought with honour against many neighbouring peoples,
and have helped to maintain order among the three hundred millions.
But never before--until the present Liberal Government tried it--had
it occurred to a British Government to employ coloured heathens
against Christian Europeans. Such an act is a crime against culture,
civilisation and Christendom, and if the English missionaries approve
it, they are Pharisees and dishonest propagators of the Gospel--what
the German missionaries in India think does not now matter, for
they are under arrest. India’s British masters rightly despise all
matrimonial bonds between the White Man and the Hindoo, and children
of such marriages are indeed to be pitied. They are regarded as, and
often called, mules; they are neither horse nor donkey, they are
“half-castes.” In Calcutta they have their own quarters, and must not
live in any other part of the town. But when the question arises of
crushing the German barbarians, co-operation with the bronze-coloured
peoples of India becomes good enough even for the Englishman.
Is it perhaps thought a fitting act of culture and civilisation,
worthy of the twentieth century, to convey the unsuspecting Indians
thousands of miles over land and sea to throw them into the struggle
against the German army on European battlefields? If this question is
answered in the affirmative, I for one, with the memories I have of
Asia and Europe, nevertheless retain the unshaken conviction that such
conduct is the height of cruelty. I do not mean cruelty to the German
soldiers, for I know what they think of their Indian opponents--a blend
of contempt and compassion. Besides, I do not think that the sweeping
clear of the Berlin streets will come to anything, nor do I think that
the trees of _Sans Souci_ will ever spread their shadows over the
warriors from the Himalayan slopes, for Ghurkas may be ever so useful
in a campaign against Tibetans and other frontier tribes, but in Europe
they are no good. Therefore I contend it is an act of cruelty to them
to force them over to the white man’s country--to die all to no purpose.
What opinion will these Indian troops harbour of their white masters?
The future will show, and the survivors--if there are any--will
return to India and tell what they have gone through. He who has seen
something of the land of the Arabian nights--who has ridden across the
crests of Himalaya--who has listened to the sighing of the wind through
the deodars of Simla--who has dreamed under the moon of Tadj Mahal--who
has seen the Holy Ganges slowly glide in ashen ringlets past Benares
quays--who has been spellbound by the stately procession of elephants
under the mango trees of Dekkan--he, in short, who loves his India and
admires the order and security which British rule has brought into this
vast country, needs no imagination to understand the thoughts with
which the Indian soldiers will return, and the feelings with which
their families and countrymen will listen to their recitals round the
fireside of the humble little cottages in Himalayan valleys. I think of
it all with a feeling akin to horror, for I cannot rid myself of the
conviction that here, in the name of civilisation, a crime is being
committed against humanity and Christendom.
Kipling has described (in “Mandalay”) in glowing, unforgettable lines
the longing--one might almost call it the homesickness--which the
English soldier feels who has served his time in India or Burmah.
If the English soldiers long so, with what feelings must not the
Indians themselves dream of their homeland’s sunshine, its palms and
tinkly temple bells! But their longing is vain. They have been taken
to Flanders’ bloody battle-front and trenches to die instead to the
music of German shell fire.
One cannot help asking: “Are these Indian contingents really
necessary?” Do not Great Britain’s, Canada’s and Australia’s white
millions suffice, not to speak of Frenchmen, Belgians, Russians,
Serbians, Montenegrins, Portuguese, Turcos and Senegalese negroes?
No, it almost looks like it. In _The Times_ of September 5th I read
in the biggest and fattest type the following heading: “_The need for
more men_.” So already at that time more men were needed to eradicate
the “culture” of the German “barbarians.” In the article following
this heading I read the following words: “The educational campaign
undertaken by the Prime Minister as to the origin and purpose of the
war had a splendid opening in the Guildhall yesterday.”[35] So there
was to be an educational campaign! So the British nation must by
special means be educated up to understand the cause and the object of
the war! Otherwise the Englishman will stop at home and play football
and cricket. No doubt the education is to be coupled with a lesson
in the course of which one learns what use the Hindoos are going to
be--in an emergency. The situation should really be judged against the
background of G. B. Shaw’s very sensible words to the following effect:
“What we must bear in mind is that if our side wins, the consequences
will be a shifting of the balance of power in favour of Russia, a
situation which will be much more dangerous to all the other contending
parties than would be the triumph of Germany, a result which we are
now by war endeavouring to prevent.”[36] In other words, a Russian
victory will be much more dangerous to the warring states than a German
victory. For an all-powerful Russia would threaten the whole of Europe,
including England and her mastery in India, but a victorious Germany
would entail no menace to Europe. One must forgive the British if they
need a specially organised education to understand such a complicated
problem!
[35] Steffen, page 115 _et seq._ are well worth reading.
[36] Steffen, page 97.
And what is this new popular education going to turn out like? The
answer to this question is given in the English press every day. It
consists in a systematic suppression of the truth. The fatal and
momentous reality which is slowly bringing England to the brink of a
catastrophe must be concealed under an exceedingly severe press and
telegraph censorship. Of Hindenburg’s victories the English people
have not the remotest idea. The realisation of the German operations
in Poland is distorted into futile attempts to stop the victorious
Russian march towards Berlin. The most shameful lies and malevolent
calumnies are disseminated concerning the German Emperor. The Teutons
are barbarians who must be crushed, and this laudable enterprise must
be shared by the cultured peoples of Serbia, Senegambia, Montenegro
and Portugal. The whole war is conducted on the English side on a
foundation of distorted information and conscious untruths. The truth
is as rare in the English press as lies are in the German. But do the
people really believe all that is said in the English papers? They
do, blindly and absolutely. Of this I have been convinced by letters
received from England.
When one asks English prisoners why they joined in the war they
answer more or less logically: “We must obey orders, you know.” If
one goes further and tries to find out the reasons for England’s
participation, the answers become less certain: “We must keep abreast
of German competition; we must defend Belgium, whose neutrality we have
guaranteed; England was bound by treaties and must keep her word.” In
the press one finds yet further reasons, such as the necessity for
destroying German militarism! An appeal which was sent to me and which
is signed by many learned men, including several Nobel prize winners,
concludes with the words: “We deeply regret that under the unfortunate
influence of a military system and its lawless dreams of conquest,
the state which we have once honoured now stands unmasked as Europe’s
common enemy and as the enemy of all peoples who respect the law of
nations. We must carry to an end the war to which we have committed
ourselves. To us, as to Belgium, it is a war of self-defence, fought
out for liberty and peace.”
At the same time as one feels grateful for the information that it was
for the sake of liberty and peace that England declared war on Germany
on the 4th of August, one cannot help feeling a little surprised that
the learned gentlemen who have put their sonorous names to this paper
could believe that the neutral Germanic nation of the North could ever
be induced to see in the Germanic nation of the South its own and
Europe’s most dangerous enemy.
The talk of German militarism recalls the old parable about the mote
and the beam. Is not Britain’s supremacy of the sea built up on a
military system? Can one imagine a more widespread militarism than that
which spreads its recruiting nets over five continents, which reaches
gratefully after the straw held out by Republican Portugal, and which
advertises in every newspaper and at every street corner “the need for
more men”?
The warning words of Kipling written after the Boer war now ring with a
deeper and more earnest meaning than ever before.
If English culture and English learning accuse German militarism of
indulging in dreams of lawless conquest, I ask: How about the Boer
war? Is it perhaps an expression of the same humane solicitude for
the small States that now induces England to break a lance for the
sake of Belgium’s independence? It would be a wasted effort to attempt
to elucidate now, when it is too late, how the great war would have
developed had England kept out of it. But one thing is certain, namely,
that had she done so, Belgium would not have lost her independence
for longer than the duration of the war. The war would not then have
assumed the dimensions of a world war such as it is now--the greatest
and most tragical catastrophe that has ever visited the human race. No
nation has had a greater and more world-wide responsibility to bear
than England.
Before this spectacle and generally before the situation in which
Great Britain now finds herself every sincere friend of England must
shudder at the meaning of it all as he reads and re-reads Kipling’s
“Recessional” written for the Sixty Years Jubilee in 1897. The whole
British Empire was then in transports of exultation over the history of
past years and over the fabulous power and glory of the immense Empire.
Kipling alone stood like the guardian of the nation’s conscience and
his voice was lifted up in words which will re-echo as long as there is
a Briton left in the world.
Now that I have unburdened my heart to the English, let us continue our
trip after the pause in the Citadel.
We drove out through the _Porte de Gand_, where there is quite a crush
of fresh troops marching to the fighting line, wounded soldiers on the
way to hospital, motor-lorries, ammunition columns and all that we are
accustomed to see on the great war roads. On the left, we leave the
_Fort de Bondues_--one of its towers is visible from the road. In the
same direction, but far away, we see a captive balloon at a height of
150 metres. In its car sits an officer with a telephone through which
he speaks incessantly. He cannot be reached by the enemy fire, and yet
his life is in danger all the time. A little while ago one of these
balloons was hit by a bomb dropped from a great height by a French
aviator.
At Linselles we stopped a moment in the market-place whilst Captain
Lübke entered a house to find out how far we could travel in the
direction of Ypres. Whilst we were waiting, Crown Prince Rupprecht came
walking along. It happened to be his dinner-hour. We chatted a couple
of minutes, pausing a moment whilst an officer handed in an important
report. The Crown Prince was visibly pleased with the news and hurried
up to his dinner to return immediately to the fighting line. We met
about twenty officers during this short pause. It was impossible to
catch and note all the names in the course of the brief introduction.
But one thing I do remember, and that is that they were all cheerful,
friendly and full of youthful vivacity: “_Nun wie gefällt’s Ihnen, Herr
Doktor?--Was denken Sie von unseren deutschen Soldaten, famose Kerls,
nicht wahr?--Draussen in den Gefechtslinien ist’s etwas heiss, aber
doch grossartig._”[37] And so on, always in the same light-hearted and
jovial tone, as if it were a question of manœuvres; no difficulties, no
unpleasantness, simply “quick-march and keep your eyes open!”--Forward,
that is the main thing. Officers whose duty compels them to remain
behind the firing line always long to be where the danger is, but
as they always march at the head, the casualties amongst them are
proportionately greater than among the men.
[37] “Well, Doctor, and how do you like it? What do you think of our
German soldiers? Fine fellows, eh?--A trifle hot out in the firing
line, but otherwise first-rate.”
We drove on northward to Wervicq and across the La Lys Canal, which
forms the frontier between France and Belgium. A large part of the
population has remained and makes a curious picture in these quaint old
streets where German kitchen wagons stand steaming and smoking at quiet
street corners. We advance but slowly. The whole road is encumbered
with infantry, horsemen and vehicles. Here comes a party of 150 men
armed with spades. “Where have you been?” we ask. “We have been to
bury the dead,” they answer as if they were saying the most commonplace
thing in the world. They looked more like conquering heroes than
grave-diggers. They were not singing to-day, but they found it quite
natural that when all Germany’s men are fighting for their country, not
all can hope to return home, some must remain behind in the foreign
soil, and the sacrifice is one which all are willing to make when it
means Germany’s salvation.
[Illustration: KITCHEN WAGONS]
Here lies a wrecked windmill with broken sails and near it a motor-car
which has come to grief. The transport trains which we pass are as
usual wreathed in foliage to mislead aviators. The smell of burning
strikes our nostrils--it is not to be wondered at, for just to the
left of us a whole village is in flames. I became a victim of the same
excitement that I had felt each time before as I had approached the
danger zone.
Presently we come to a village bearing eloquent testimony to the cruel
realities of war. It boasts the peculiar name of America. At the last
house in the main street we stop to make sure once more how far we may
drive. Colonel von Oldershausen steps out. He is a magnificent type,
a thorough soldier, straight as a poker, stiff and gracious at the
same time. “Listen,” he said in answer to our question, “drive first
to Kruiseik, two kilometres from here. From there you may continue one
kilometre on foot until you come to the crossing between this road and
the Ypres-Menin main road. If you wish to go further in the direction
of Ypres I should advise you _not_ to take the main road as the whole
avenue is covered by the English artillery fire. But if you keep a
little way outside the ditches,” he went on, “it is not at all unlikely
that you will come back with a certain amount of life left in your
bodies.”
Leaning against the car, the Colonel stood gesticulating with great
animation and tried to describe the situation which would have greeted
us, had we continued on the main road. He fully meant what he said and
assured us that he had tried several times the prescription he now
recommended to us--without once being killed! The day before yesterday
he had made an attack at the head of his regiment in which a third of
his men had fallen; of the others, 150 got the Iron Cross. The object
was realised. The enemy’s position was taken and several prisoners
fell into the hands of the regiment. An English officer with whom the
Colonel had been conversing had made the following remark: “We don’t
mind your shells, and don’t care a rap about your shrapnel. Your rifle
fire doesn’t frighten us, and we can put up with your bayonet charges.
But when your men commence their infernal noisy hurrahs, it is all up
with us. There is nothing in the world so trying to the nerves. One
feels entirely paralysed before these confounded jerky hurrahs.”
So we took leave of the excellent Colonel and drove on in accordance
with his directions. On our left, to the westward, we saw the familiar
little puffs of smoke caused by the shrapnel bursting. A little further
on a French airman was having a trying time with the German fire. Just
as we drove into Kruiseik a shell came whizzing right over us. A large
force of infantry reserves was quartered here, and the streets were
crowded with officers and men. We pulled up by the side of a house
and waited awhile. We were strongly dissuaded from continuing. On the
previous day Kruiseik had been exposed to severe shell fire, and at
the entrance to the village the road had been destroyed by some nasty
holes, which were just being filled in by the engineers. Any moment we
might expect a further pounding, as the enemy artillery had not changed
its position since yesterday. I was much struck with the immovable
calm with which officers and men stand here waiting for the fire and
a very good chance of being killed. The same calm and light-hearted
indifference also characterised the troops which we met further on
towards Ypres. Take for instance that little hussar patrol riding
towards the road swept by the English shells.
[Illustration: HUSSAR PATROL RIDING THROUGH KRUISEIK]
[Illustration: THE LAST HOUSES OF KRUISEIK]
“_Deckung gegen Flieger!_” (“Take cover against aviator!”) roars an
officer, and immediately everybody flattens himself against the house
walls so as to present as small as possible a target from above. I
suspect, however, that the aviator who was just that moment soaring
over Kruiseik had something else to think about, for the anti-aircraft
guns must have given him a lively time. Anyhow, he dropped no bombs on
us. We had thought of returning to Bapaume, when someone came up to us
with the news that if we liked to wait a minute we should see a batch
of British who had just been captured at Ypres, which was only nine and
a half kilometres from Kruiseik. They were 390 men all told and were
expected to arrive any moment.
[Illustration: A SHELL CRATER IN THE ROAD IS BEING FILLED IN BY
ENGINEERS]
True enough, it was not long before the street was black with human
beings. There they came, Albion’s proud scions. If you examine closely
the five photographs which I took of them whilst they were marching
past the outskirts of Kruiseik, you will get a very good idea of what a
brand-new convoy of prisoners from the front looks like.
[Illustration: FIRST CAME A GERMAN SOLDIER WITH AN ENGLISH COLONEL ON
HIS LEFT]
First came a German soldier with an English officer on his left side, a
tall man of distinguished appearance. He carried his hands behind him,
under his greatcoat; he did not seem to notice us at all, and appeared
quite unmoved by the harrowing events which he had doubtless witnessed
that very day, and his glance was fixed with an expression of utter
indifference on the horizon straight ahead of him.
[Illustration: THEN CAME THE CONVOY]
[Illustration: THE CONVOY HALTED JUST OUTSIDE THE VILLAGE]
Then came the convoy, three abreast, the most diverse types one could
imagine, dark and fair, handsome and ugly, well set up and slouching,
cheerful and downcast. As I lifted my camera at them, a facetious
Tommy cried out, “May I have a copy, sir?” The German guards did not
love their charges. That, after all, is easy to understand, but I
saw no expressions of hatred. Rank after rank drew past. They were
dressed in practical and neat uniforms, a little browner in colour
than the German. Most of them had nothing to carry, but some wore
coats slung over the arm or over the shoulder. Some were smoking.
Here and there was a slightly wounded man. When they came inside the
village, they were all ordered to halt and here the prisoners were
allowed to rest awhile, although they looked by no means tired. A young
German lieutenant who was present when they were captured and who now
headed the convoy, assured me that this particular English unit had
surrendered five minutes after the attack began. But up to then they
had obstinately defended their position. All the Germans I spoke to
were of the same opinion respecting the individual bravery of the
English--it was above all praise. The rear of the convoy was brought
up by a row of carts and wagons containing seriously wounded English
soldiers. One of them, I think he was a Colonel, lay comfortably on a
stretcher which had been placed right across a cart, as shown in the
accompanying picture. He was pale, but did not complain and lay with
eyes closed without noticing the noise and bustle around him. Perhaps
his light was going out, perhaps his heart had already stopped beating.
Slowly the cart disappeared from view in the long procession of wounded
Britons.
[Illustration: THEY WERE CLOTHED IN NEAT AND PRACTICAL FIELD UNIFORMS]
[Illustration: HERE AND THERE WAS A SLIGHTLY WOUNDED SOLDIER]
[Illustration: AN ENGLISH OFFICER ON A STRETCHER PLACED ACROSS A CART]
A moment later we, too, were travelling southward and once more drove
past the melancholy cortège. “My poor old Tommy,” I thought to myself,
“you have plenty of time before you to ponder over the problem why
you, of all men, have been fighting against the German ‘barbarians’
and whether your pay was worthy of your doughty deeds between Ypres
and Kruiseik! If anyone confronts you with this poser you will always
answer: ‘I don’t know I’m sure, I had to obey orders, I suppose.’ But
it will never occur to you to reply: ‘I had to go over for a while and
crush the German militarism, you know,’ for such an absurd idea would
remind you too forcibly of the parallel argument of putting down the
drink by consumption!”
The life at and behind the front is rich in contrast. A few hours after
we had seen Tommy’s tragic convoy disappear in the distance, we were
listening once more to Cleving’s inimitable jest and song.
CHAPTER XXIII
FAREWELL TO BAPAUME
The day of Hubertus falls on November 3rd, and is celebrated throughout
Germany with the diligent pursuit of game, for Hubertus is the patron
saint of all huntsmen. Nor even at Bapaume was the day allowed to pass
by unnoticed. A field of fifty-five officers of all ranks forgathered
early in the day at the village of Miraumont, situated nine kilometres
west of Bapaume, immediately in the rear of the fighting line. With
Captain Schlüter of the cavalry as guide, I drove out with Duke Adolf
Friedrich to Miraumont to be present at the day’s sport. We took up our
posts on a hill by the side of the road, and had an excellent view over
the broken country with its natural and artificial obstacles.
[Illustration: GROUP OF OFFICERS AT BAPAUME: THE DUKE, THE PRINCE, THE
CHIEF OF MILITARY POLICE, CLEVING, BARON FLEMING AND OTHERS]
We had not been there long before a couple of horsemen hove in sight,
and immediately on their heels came the entire field in scattered
groups. They took the fences and ditches in fine style and then
disappeared up a steep hill like a whirlwind. There was nothing
remarkable in this, nor perhaps in the fact that amongst them were
many riders who would never see sixty again. But the remarkable thing
about this ride was that all the horses were recently requisitioned
farm animals, which had not even been trained. The Germans spare their
horses no less than their men. When the horses of cavalry and train
begin to tire and need rest and care, they are replaced from the farms
of Germany and of the conquered countries.
After the sport all the members assembled in a field, where in the
shadow of the willows a table stood laid with sandwiches, _kaltes
Aufgeschnittenes_[38] and hot punch. Here I made the acquaintance of
many of the horsemen, among others Infantry-General von Soden and
Lieut.-Gen. von Pawel, who had been in command in Kamerun. The
crisp, clear autumn weather seemed to create the highest of spirits.
Nobody could have imagined that we were almost in contact with troops
engaged in severe fighting, had not the booming of cannon reminded us
of it. Indeed it would have been difficult to gather an impression of
anxiety, nervousness, hurry or want of officers as one listened to the
animated conversation and contagious laughter of the grey-clad warriors
of Miraumont. One would have thought, on the contrary, that war was
the simplest thing in the world and that the Germans for the moment at
least were not exerting themselves in the slightest. What they gained,
they clearly gained without difficulty, albeit that for the time being
they are content with merely holding their positions.
[38] Cold collation.
Suddenly we got something else to think of, and the familiar cry,
“_Deckung!_” rang out across the field. An airman flying the tricolor
was seen to be approaching. The main thing was to bring the horses as
quickly as possible under the shadow of the willows, but the officers,
too, together with their civilian guest, thought it wisest to withdraw
to the nearest avenue of trees, for had the airman suspected for a
moment that he could have killed fifty precious birds with one stone,
he would certainly have sacrificed all the bombs in his armoury.
Gradually he came nearer, glided past immediately above us, but could
not have noticed anything, for not a single bomb burst in our vicinity,
and soon the hostile aeroplane disappeared in an east-north-easterly
direction. It could almost be taken for granted that his goal was a
certain flying station, which had recently been favoured with several
bombs.
Presently we saw the characteristic little “tufts of wool” forming
round the airman. They came from nowhere, grew, and were followed by
a flash and a report. They have a peculiar knack of remaining for a
long while at the spot where they are formed. Hence, as the Frenchman
progressed on his journey and the guns kept firing at him, a little
string of white cloudlets gradually formed in his wake, sharply
defined against the blue background of the sky and pricking out his
track through the air. One of the officers thought that the firing was
almost as dangerous as the bombs, seeing that the shrapnel bullets must
obviously come down sooner or later, and that when they do, they strike
with the velocity and deadly effect of a rifle bullet.
When this little excitement was over, the party of officers grouped
themselves with the Duke and the two Generals in the centre, and I took
a few groups which would have been the finest and most distinguished
in my collection had not this particular roll of films turned out a
complete failure on development.
The next item on the programme was Frenchman number two, who came
sailing serenely along over our heads and gave rise to the same
precautions as before, but he likewise failed to realise the fine catch
he might have made.
A German airman told me one or two details from his own experience. He
usually required three-quarters of an hour to rise to a height of two
thousand metres, and did not proceed towards the French lines until he
had reached this altitude. The view is glorious. He has the landscape
in which the fighting is raging right underneath him. In fine, clear
weather he can see plainly the marching troops, the ammunition columns
and their transport trains, even when they are covered with foliage. He
spots the artillery positions, unless they are too thoroughly concealed
by hedges and bushes. He can even see isolated horsemen and pedestrians
on the roads.
But there are many other things that meet his eye in the course of
his aerial adventures. He sees the fire and smoke from the German and
French guns, and he sees the impacts and the explosions. Beneath him
rages a constant turmoil of thunder and lightning. He admits willingly
that he is a prey to intense excitement. He has never yet been wounded,
but his machine has had its wings perforated by bullets more than once,
and the holes are mended with little patches. He hears the rattle of
the machine guns and the rifle fire, and knows that all this noise is
for his benefit and that he is being observed through field-glasses
from every conceivable hiding-place. When he hears this eternal din and
knows that at any moment he may be hit and brought to earth, he must
indeed summon all his self-control to retain his presence of mind, for
a situation such as this may overstrain the strongest nerves.
He is out to do his duty, he _must not_ fail. He cannot entirely
eliminate the nervous tension, for he is but human, but he never
turns back until he has carried out his orders and finds out what he
_must_ know. His attention is strained to the highest pitch, he sees
everything, hears everything, nothing escapes him. He sights far away
a French aeroplane steering straight towards him, but he does not
change his course. They come nearer and nearer to one another. Neither
makes the slightest sign of giving way. The spectator from below
cannot but think that they are sailing to an inevitable catastrophe,
that they are lost already. But they seem to change their minds before
it is too late, for a collision would bring them both to earth and
kill them, and this is considered by both parties to be a useless
and unpractical sacrifice. Hence one of them gives way before it is
too late. The Frenchman is often armed with a machine gun for the
benefit of his German colleague. In that case the German by a skilful
manœuvre suddenly dips under his opponent or passes over him. If he
passes under, the machine gun becomes useless, as it cannot fire
downward. If he passes over, he benefits by the protection of the
lightly armoured bottom of the aeroplane. The main thing to avoid is to
remain on the same plane with the other machine. Again it may happen
that the Frenchman likewise rises, and that a sort of skyward race
begins between the two opponents, each trying to get above the other.
In such cases the breathless spectator sees the machines circle round
each other like a couple of playful may-flies, approach, separate,
pursue, fire, but always avoiding collision. It is a tension which
simply cannot be described, and whilst this goes on in the air the guns
thunder angrily below and the soldiers lie in wait for one another in
the trenches.
When everything goes normally, the airman may be up for three hours.
When he has completed his task he returns to the German lines, stops
the motor and glides to earth in four minutes, although the time
seems infinitely longer. He vol-planes down and may under certain
circumstances alight without restarting the motor. He admits that it is
not without some feeling of relief that he sets foot on the ground once
more. Yet he is never entirely safe, for the flying stations are always
singled out for special attention from the enemy bomb-throwers.
French airmen often go up without an observation officer, but his
weight is taken up instead by an extra bomb supply. When the machine
is burdened by the weight of two men only three bombs can be taken,
otherwise six or more are carried. The accuracy of aim depends on the
amount of practice. Most bombs do no harm at all. Curiously enough,
it seems to be the horses who suffer most. A few days ago an airman
passed over a bivouac in the neighbourhood of Bapaume. Five men thought
it advisable to seek protection underneath a heavily laden baggage
wagon. But as luck would have it the wagon was hit, and nothing but the
lacerated remains of the men remained when help arrived.
I have already spoken of the immensely important rôle which aeroplanes
are playing in this war, and how during the few months the war has
lasted they have been manœuvred with continuously increasing skill. My
informant thought he was justified in saying that the side possessing
the best flying machines and the best pilots would come out the winners
in a war of entrenched positions, a literal siege war, such as is now
proceeding on the western front. For it depends in a very large measure
on aerial observation whether the artillery fire can find its target
and score with decisive effect.
On our return to Bapaume we went to call on Divisional Pastor Münch, at
whose house we were regaled with coffee, together with quite a crowd
of doctors. All the war hospitals of the town together now contained
barely five hundred wounded, and the city was therefore more than amply
provided for with its 130 nurses.
We looked in at the chief hospital, in the chapel of which some French
wounded were being tended. One of them had received a bullet through
the base of the nose which had lodged in the brain, where it still
remained. He cried all day, “_de l’eau, de l’eau_,” and if one gave him
water he drank, but went on calling, “_de l’eau, de l’eau_.” Another,
who also had a bullet stuck in his head, wandered about with quick,
jerky steps, and had to be watched so that he did not tumble on to
the beds. Two others had had a leg amputated, and were now out of all
danger. The Frenchmen spoke well of the German nurses and doctors,
and said they could not have received kindlier treatment in their own
country. One soldier complained because he was separated from his
people, but added: “_Nous sommes très bien ici; nos blessures sont très
bien soignées_.” We also made a hasty round of the German wards and
spoke to the wounded warriors. They were all, as usual, in cheerful
spirits, and hoped soon to be put right so that they could go back and
fight again.
On the way home Pastor Münch told us of a little episode which is
rather illuminating. As I have mentioned before, it is strictly
forbidden throughout the German army to take anything, whatever it may
be, in a house or church in the occupied territory, and any breach
of this rule is very severely punished. Now it so happened that a
gentleman who served in the army had discovered amongst the vestments
of a village church in the neighbourhood a piece of embroidery which
he intended to take home as war booty. When his offence came to the
knowledge of his superiors, he was discharged and sent home. Had not
extenuating circumstances existed, he would have been still more
severely punished. To carry away “war souvenirs” is considered in
the German army to be equivalent to theft. To be dismissed for such
an offence is a terrible disgrace at a time when no one can conceive
a greater happiness than to be allowed to serve his country in the
field.[39]
[39] This relentless severity, as actually practised, should be
compared with what the champions of truth in _The Times_ and _Standard_
have to say about the German “Huns,” “incendiaries” and “burglars.”
Steffen, pp. 132-33.
After sitting chatting for the last time in the dim lamp-light with
Monsieur Cossart and the demoiselles Lengagne, I proceeded with my most
gracious friend, Duke Adolf Friedrich, to the officers’ mess, where
the rest of the day and a good part of the night was passed in a most
agreeable atmosphere of gravity blended with humour. Among the guests
I met Colonel von Alers, late of the Second Artillery Regiment of the
Prussian Guards; he is related to our Swedish Counts Wachtmeister. He
had fought in the wars of 1866 and 1870-71, and was no chicken. But
he meant to fight for his country once more, and so he turned out as
volunteer. Nothing but real men wherever you go in Germany! Age is
nothing, whether you are young or old it is all the same, and no one is
too old to remember that he is still a man.
In the morning of November 4th the Duke and I were seated at our usual
breakfast _tête-à-tête_. We were quite ready to start off, my luggage
had already been stowed away in the car, and I had taken a hearty
farewell of my German friends who happened to be about and Monsieur
Cossart. Now I was off to Metz, a distance of about two hundred English
miles. Duke Adolf Friedrich himself took charge of the steering wheel,
and I sat beside him, map in hand. A soldier was seated inside the car.
At 9.20 a.m. we started. It was the fastest journey I have ever
experienced, a record in speed. The Duke drove and managed the car
with amazing coolness and presence of mind. Where the great main road
was straight and clear he spurted up to between ninety and one hundred
kilometres an hour. I felt sometimes as if I could hardly breathe,
but it was a glorious sensation to fly over the country at this mad,
tearing pace.
At 9.52 a.m. we entered Cambrai where the Red Cross flag over the
school-house was still wrapped in a thin veil of fog. To the right of
the road was a large common grave, richly ornamented with flowers,
and in the fields close by French peasants were gathering in the
sugar-beet. A whole column of heavy carts loaded with beet drove up
into a village we passed, but in this case the drivers were French
peasants.
At 10.25--Le Cateau. From this point we turned off on to some by-roads
without stone paving in the direction of Bergues and Le Nouvion. The
civil population here is fairly numerous, and whatever else there may
be a shortage of, there is certainly no lack of poultry. Le Nouvion has
been hardly dealt with. In the main street there are only a few houses
left, all the others are in ruins. At the far end of the village a road
runs through a wood where barricades have been thrown up. German troops
are only met with in the large places, such as Hirson, where a fort
meets the eye to the right of the road.
After a long pause necessitated by a burst tyre we arrived at Mézières
at 12.52 and crossed the Meuse. Half an hour later we drove into the
market square at Sedan, where Turenne was still looking down on the
disquietude of distant generations. Here we sacrificed an hour for
dinner, and were soon off again in the direction of Carignan and
Montmédy, where we found life was as busy as ever.
The next place we come to is the grey and solid-looking Marville.
Afterwards the country becomes more broken, until we reach the utterly
ruined village of Noërs. At one point the road rises, curving slightly.
We are tearing forward at a furious pace when just on the crest of the
hill we meet another car as much in a hurry as ourselves. We had the
narrowest possible escape from colliding at an aggregate speed of about
120 English miles an hour. There could not have been room for a sheet
of paper between the two cars and we had the Duke’s perfect coolness to
thank for having escaped with our lives from that little adventure.
Next we drive into our old friend Longuyon and follow a long straight
street which has suffered less than other parts of the town. Outside
the wall of a house stands a group of workmen who have finished
their day’s toil, and on the other side some children are playing in
the gutter. Opposite, on the left-hand side of the street, stands a
curly-headed little chap of three or four in a blue smock, watching the
other children. We come along at full tilt and are some twenty metres
away from him when the little fellow takes it into his head to cross
the street. I felt how I froze stiff and went quite white in the face.
I leant forward to try to get hold of his head to throw him backward
from the car. Surely this wretched people had suffered enough as it
was! We were now into the bargain to run over its children, its one
hope for the future after the war had wrecked and ruined its homes! It
would have been my fault, for why had I decided to travel to Metz of
all places, through this country where the population drops from year
to year even in peace time and where every child is so precious! I can
see him now in front of me. He was in the attitude so characteristic of
running children, his body leaning slightly forward, head down, arms
bent and raised, hands levelled with the ears, slightly curved and
with the palm facing forward. He did not see the car, never noticed
us and did not realise the danger, simply staring on the pavement and
intent on reaching the others. The car came nearer. I seemed to feel
the slight jolt as the wheels passed over him and crushed his ribs.
It would have been quite impossible to stop. Instead the Duke put on
a spurt and in a second we were past. How could we have comforted the
wretched sorrowing parents, when there was no comfort to give? We
should of course have had to stop in any case. I could see in my mind’s
eye the pitiable little funeral procession to Longuyon cemetery, and
seemed to hear the bells ringing among the ruins. At the same instant
as we passed the little group of workmen and playing children, I almost
flung myself upright in the car and turned round. There stood the
little chap in the middle of the street with hands clasped and looking
after us in mild surprise. Not a hair of his head had been touched.
Presently we come to Xivry. The light begins to fail. By the roadside
stands a row of pathetic little wooden crosses; some of the graves are
adorned with helmets, but when the spring comes doubtless the helmets
and crosses will disappear and the little mounds will be levelled by
the plough. Darkness descends over the earth. We pass through Briey and
cross the German frontier. Seized with a feeling of ease at being once
more in Germany, we drive past the memorable St. Privat and through
a bewildering chaos of main roads, by-roads, suburbs, tramway lines,
bridges and vehicles all lit up in turn by our headlights and vanishing
behind us. But by degrees the confusion disappears and we debouch
slowly and majestically upon a brilliantly lighted street in Metz.
There are enormous crowds of people afoot. They line the pavements
in serried ranks. Officers and soldiers everywhere. The police keeps
order. At a street corner we come to a halt and have to wait a minute.
The Duke asks a policeman what is up. “It is the Emperor, he is due
here in a moment; the Empress is here already.” We decided to preserve
our incognito as much as possible. The whole town was filled with
officers. The hotels had not an inch of room to spare, we enquired at
six different hotels and at last, at a third-class place, we found a
moderately decent room and “cupboard” on the third floor. The Duke
would not allow me for a moment to sleep in the latter, his splendid
gifts of hospitality would not desert him even here; but I declared
that I would sooner lie in the street than in the big room, whilst he
lay in the cupboard. Of course we were both equally obstinate--without
that quality we should not have got through Africa and Asia. At last we
agreed to draw lots and I drew the cupboard and slept excellently when
once I got to bed and had finished thinking of the curly-headed little
boy.
But it is still far from late. It is only nine o’clock and the Duke’s
hospitality will not be denied. So we went to the _Europäischer Hof_,
where the Duke ordered a sumptuous champagne supper. There we stayed
for several hours talking of the wonderful things we had seen together
during the last few days, commonplace enough for him who is a soldier,
but the more exciting and unforgettable to me.
The witching hour of midnight had already struck when we quite suddenly
caught sight of the Deputy-Governor of Metz, General von Pelkmann of
the Artillery, a little man with a grey moustache, very eccentric,
with very decided views on life, on the universe, and on the whole
creation generally. In his company was Baron von Tauchnitz. That the
latter was “_Kommandeur der Kraftfahrtruppen des Armeeoberkommando
Falkenhausen_”[40] was not to be wondered at, for he was no less
a person than the nephew of the head of the great publishing firm
known throughout the Continent by its “Collection of British Authors,
Tauchnitz Edition.” This chance acquaintance, in itself very agreeable,
had the result that I could not resist the temptation to accompany
Baron Tauchnitz on the following morning to Blamont, where a fight was
to take place and where a French position was to be stormed.
[40] Commander of the Mechanical Transport of the Falkenhausen Army
Headquarters.
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when the Duke and I
returned to our humble establishment. I had arranged to call at 6.30
in the morning for Tauchnitz and the officers whom he was to drive to
Blamont. The Duke, on the other hand, was due to return to Bapaume
at about nine. Thus we were not to meet again for the present, so I
said good-bye and thanked him as heartily as my restricted powers
of eloquence allowed. For he had not only given me his time, his
hospitality and friendship, he had given me opportunities of visiting
some of the most remarkable points in the fighting line and of
gathering deep and abiding impressions of this great world war. But the
recollection I cherish most of all from that memorable week is that
of his own personality, for he is a fine and noble man, a man whose
outlook is not dimmed by his exalted birth and the glamour of fame, but
who remains ever modest before men and humble before God. We felt quite
sure that we should meet once more at some future time. Then we would
empty the store of our memories and would recall the shrapnel shells at
Quesnoy, which whizzed so close over our heads but forgot to burst and
part us for ever from each other.
And now, to conclude, one more hearty handshake and “_Auf Wiedersehen!_”
CHAPTER XXIV
A FINAL DAY ON THE WESTERN FRONT
Needless to say the human alarums at the hotel forgot to call me in
the morning, but happily I awoke without their aid and dressed quietly
as a mouse so as not to disturb Duke Adolf Friedrich. Thereupon I
wandered off in the pitch-dark night with no other weapons than my
Zeiss glasses and my camera to the _Europäischer Hof_, where the others
were already assembled. I was asked to join the party in the car driven
by Tauchnitz, and already occupied by Captain Kriebel and Lieut. Baron
von Peihmann, both attached to the General Command of the Falkenhausen
army. Our road took us south-eastward _via_ Château-Salins in German
Lorraine. We crossed into France further south at Rixingen.
It was 7 o’clock when we started off. Day was just beginning to break,
but the sky looked threatening, the weather was most unpleasant, and
a thin layer of clayey mud lay over the hard surface, making the road
as slippery as soap. My two companions inside were as agreeable and as
light-hearted as all other German officers whom I had met. As we were
skimming along, the pretty and interesting country we were passing
through was being explained to me on the map. We were only a few
kilometres from Rixingen when one of the pipes of the engine broke, and
the car absolutely refused to move another inch. However, providence
has presented us with legs, and so after walking a short distance we
came upon a motor-driven hospital wagon, on the roof of which we made
ourselves comfortable. We were soon to find that this motor conveyance
was not without its dangers, for the wagon skidded about terribly on
the slippery road and threatened any moment to dive into the ditch.
However we held ourselves ready for any emergency so as at least to
fall feet foremost when the catastrophe came. In the end we managed to
get to Rixingen and reached the commandant’s office just as the wagon
began skidding so hopelessly that the back wheels took command and
the whole bag-of-tricks was on the point of overturning. Our somewhat
eccentric entry into Rixingen aroused violent mirth from all who
happened to be about. Here, however, we secured a third car and drove
on gaily to Blamont.
On leaving the village to the southward, the road turned up a hill to
a slight eminence, the right-hand side of which was wooded. In a field
immediately to the north of the little wood and evidently concealed by
its trees, stood a battery, which was thundering away for all it was
worth. It was really a very impressive sight to watch the guns firing
their salvos. The officer in charge gave his orders in a loud voice
according to the information received from the observing station.
Then followed the usual brief, brisk words of command: “Load! Ready!!
Fire!!!” The target for the moment was the village of Ancerviller,
situated about 5600 metres south of Blamont. As the gun is discharged
a sheaf of fire issues from the muzzle and a white smoke cloud forms
several metres in front.
In order not to attract the attention of the enemy, instructions have
been given that the battery must only be approached on foot. On the
crest of the hill stood the local commanding officer, Lieut.-Gen. von
Tettenborn, acting Adjutant-General to the King of Saxony, surrounded
by his staff, some twenty officers. He was a powerfully built little
man with steel-grey hair and moustache. Hung over his shoulders he
carried a light brownish-grey cape with red collar and on his head
he wore a helmet with a grey cloth cover. Reports kept pouring in
regarding the progress of the action. Now it was a horseman, now a
motor-cyclist, now a car that came tearing along at full speed with
information, whilst orders were sent out with equal rapidity to the
various fighting units.
General von Tettenborn received me with the greatest kindness and we
stood chatting awhile on the hill as if there had been no war within
a hundred miles. I was also introduced to all the other officers and
in two minutes I felt thoroughly at home. The general atmosphere here
was exactly the same as I have had occasion to record and admire all
along the front, calm, reliant and cheerful in the consciousness of the
monstrous strength of the German army.
Two kilometres south of Blamont and about half that distance from the
point where we were standing, lies the little village of Barbas in
a picturesque hollow, its church tower dominating in a lordly manner
the pretty little red-roofed stone houses beneath. One and a half
kilometres south of Barbas, sharply outlined against the light rising
background, were two little dark clumps of trees. On the north side
of these coppices two German batteries were actively shelling the
enemy positions. On the western border of the wooded belt to the right
infantry fighting was in actual progress. At the moment the Germans
were proceeding to the attack of the French positions. Both sides had
concealed themselves gingerly behind trees and bushes, but the rattling
fire from rifles and machine guns was deafening. One moment the shots
would succeed one another in a continuous din, the next minute one
heard but isolated reports. Of the actual fighting itself we saw
nothing, but it became evident in the course of the day that the centre
of activity was shifting south-westward, which meant that the German
attack was progressing.
Behind us the battery at which we had just stopped kept pounding away,
and once more we heard the horrible, sinister whistle of shells pass
overhead. The German artillery was very active, but the French did not
reply to the fire. Towards the afternoon the German fire also ceased,
the attempted goal having been reached. It was assumed that the French
batteries, which had but lately occupied this point, had now been
removed to some other place where they would come in more useful. I
for my part was quite content to do without their fire, and it was a
pleasant and restful experience not to have to be in constant dread of
a shell coming on the top of me. The day before the French had sent
a couple of shells into Blamont, but without doing any appreciable
damage. Neither did we see any aviators on this occasion. I was told
that they were less numerous in these parts.
After a short visit to Blamont cemetery and a walk through the pretty
village, where we dined, I returned with a couple of officers to
the hill, but found it deserted. The General and his Staff had, it
appeared, advanced a couple of kilometres to Barbas, where we found all
the officers assembled in an open space, a cross between a street and a
market-place. This had now become the point from which the operations
on the whole front of the division were directed, and horsemen and
cycle-orderlies kept dashing backwards and forwards as before on the
hill.
I remained at Barbas for another four hours and took the last
photographs destined to appear in this book. Wherever I turned, I
found picturesque and warlike subjects for my camera. In the open
space referred to, officers with maps in hand stood gathered in
little groups. Outside a house, several horses stood ready for the
orderlies. In the next street, which was part of the great main road,
an ammunition column had halted. It extended from one end of the
village to the other and a bit beyond as well. The wagons were crowded
with artillerymen, full of life and in good spirits as usual, and they
usually asked for a photograph when I came along with my camera. On the
fore-carriage of a gun sat a man fast asleep. In the outskirts of the
village two companies of reserves had halted and were evidently waiting
to take their place in the firing line.
[Illustration: AN ENORMOUS AMMUNITION COLUMN HAD COME TO A STOP AT
BARBAS]
[Illustration: ON THE FORE-CARRIAGE OF A GUN SITS A SOLDIER FAST ASLEEP]
“How are you, boys?” I asked.
“Oh, first-rate, but it’s a nuisance to have to lie and wait like this.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Why to go ahead and fight, of course.”
Here I found a chaplain, a strikingly humorous and amusing man, who
knew thoroughly how to get on with the soldiers; but then he had been
in war before, in Pekin and German South-West Africa. As we stood
chatting on the road, we were gradually surrounded by a narrowing
circle of grey jackets, who listened intently to what we had to say.
In the end they must have numbered fully 150, and there, in the
centre, stood the pastor throwing out jests and calling them his grey
field-mice, and they all laughed gaily at his whimsical ideas.
“What do they do for a living in peace time, I wonder, all these
soldiers?” I asked.
“Oh,” said the pastor, “there are all sorts, loafers and county
councillors, blacksmiths and professors, all jumbled together.
“What is your occupation, my lad?” he asked of one who stood near, as
he seized him by the collar.
“Lecturer,” he answered.
“What subject?”
“Comparative philology of modern European languages.”
“Excellent! There you see, doctor, what use the philology of modern
European languages can be put to!”
“And what are you?”
“Metal worker at Siemens and Halske’s.”
“And you?”
“Village schoolmaster.”
“And you?”
“Navvy.”
“And you?”
“Professor of zoology.”
“There you see the levelling effects of war. No trace of class
distinction. They all lie side by side in the trenches, eat the same
food and are comrades through thick and thin, and the professor is no
better treated than the navvy.”
“How many of you are keeping diaries of your war experience?” I asked.
“I don’t write a line,” said one, standing with his hands in his
pockets in front of the circle.
“Why not?”
“There are plenty of them who do as it is.”
“Nonsense, you are a lazy beggar,” says the pastor.
“All who keep diaries, put up their hands,” said I, and a perfect
forest of hands rose into the air.
“Perhaps it will be simpler if those who _don’t_ keep diaries put up
their hands.”
They did so, and there were ten out of fully 150. What a monument of
memories and impressions, of wild adventures and heroic deeds told in
simple and honest words must they not represent, these diaries, written
from day to day between the fights, in the trenches and by the light of
the bivouac fires!
To conclude, I asked in a loud voice--although it was a stupid thing to
do and I ought to have known better--_infandum jubes renovare dolorem_:
“How many of you are social democrats?”
At this there was a shout of laughter, almost of derision, and I
suddenly felt exceedingly awkward and wished I were back at Metz again.
Even the pastor laughed and shook his head. At last a burly-looking
soldier answered for himself and the others:
“There are no social democrats any more. _There are nothing but German
soldiers._”
I made a desperate attempt to cover my retreat by saying: “Of course,
of course, I know; but are there any among you who have _been_ social
democrats?”
Some shouted no, others shrugged their shoulders and one replied: “Even
if there _have been_ social democrats among us, all that rot has been
washed away by now. It is real and serious business we are dealing with
now, and none of that kids’ game!”
Presently the men were ordered to form up and the circle melted away,
leaving me alone with the divisional pastor and three young officers
with whom I chatted for a few moments.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF SOLDIERS WITH THE DIVISIONAL PASTOR IN THE
CENTRE]
Then I went back to my friends and travelling companions from Metz.
The day’s work was over. The result of the achievements of the day had
been reported to the General in Command, but they had to wait at Barbas
until fresh orders arrived, which might not be until midnight. For my
part I could return to Metz whenever I wanted to.
The sun had long since set when Captain Kaufmann came up and offered
me a seat in his car. He was a fine fellow and had moreover many
memorable and interesting things to tell me from his experiences in
the war. So I said good-bye to my charming host for the day, General
von Tettenborn, and the other officers, jumped up beside Kaufmann and
a lieutenant and in a second we were on the way, eating up the ninety
kilometres separating us from our destination in the north-west. We had
our head-lamps lighted. At least twenty times we were stopped by the
patrols guarding the road, who swung their lanterns across the road
and shouted “halt!” I consider we were very fortunate to get through
with a whole skin, for if one overlooks a single sentry, it is all up
and one gets a bullet through the back. There were numerous cavalry
patrols about, evidently on their way home after their scouting in the
gloaming. They, too, were stopped by the pickets, for otherwise French
patrols in German uniforms might easily infest the roads and villages
held by the Germans. We were also stopped on entering and leaving every
village.
However, at last we got safely back to Metz, and thus ended my last day
at the front.
[Illustration: THE LAST PICTURE FROM THE WESTERN FRONT]
CHAPTER XXV
HOME TO TRELLEBORG
In the morning of the memorable 6th of November I left Metz by the
train for Saarbrücken, the town where the first shots were fired in the
last Franco-German war. I had some time to spare, and settled down at
a table in the restaurant of the _Terminus Hotel_ to read some really
recent newspapers. Life seemed to go on here just as usual, and one
noticed nothing of the war. The regular customers came in for their
_Frühschoppen_ (early mug of beer) as they always do, and here and
there an officer or a civilian was breakfasting.
At Ludwigshafen a conductor came along and shouted into every
compartment of the train that the windows were to be kept shut, and
that nobody must lean out whilst passing over the Rhine bridge. It was
pleasant to see the alacrity with which his order was obeyed--after
all one had plenty of time to contemplate the great and mighty river
between that town and Mannheim. Just as the train was starting, this
same conductor jumped into my compartment. Aha, I thought, he thinks
my shabby field clothes look suspicious in a first-class compartment,
and he sees that I am busy with map, note-book and pencil. However,
I met him half-way in my frankest manner, and asked whether the
window-closing order was a precaution against bomb attacks on the
bridge. He smiled and answered that the orders were that the windows
were to be shut. Then I asked what the consequence would be if one
disobeyed the order, opened the window and looked out. “In that case,”
he said, “there are sentries outside who would note the compartment and
the window, and the end would be that the guilty party would land in a
place where he would find no windows at all.”
At Mannheim nothing happened. But at Heidelberg I had hardly stepped
on to the platform before two officers came up to me. One said in
firm but very polite tones that I must accompany him to the District
Commandant’s office. “Of course,” I said, “I shall be delighted, but
I hope you will be kind enough to let me bring my hand luggage.” “Why
certainly,” was the answer. On the way to the office, which happened
to be close to the platform, the officer remarked: “Your passport must
be examined by the military authorities.” “Why can’t you look at it at
once?” I asked, and handed him my pass, now soiled and frayed at the
edges. “Well, perhaps I might do so,” he answered, and we stopped. He
read the paper with General von Moltke’s name, turned to his companion
and whispered my name in his ear, whereupon both saluted and held out
their hands, which I pressed almost as heartily as I laughed at the
little adventure.
“_Aber Herr Doktor, sie müssen uns doch entschuldigen, wir ..._”
(“Really, doctor, you must excuse us, we ...”)
“_Bitte, bitte, das ist ja reizend._” (“But please don’t mention it,
I am delighted.”) Thereupon my German eagles also broke into hearty
laughter over their prey.
“Your train does not leave for an hour. In place of the examination at
the office, won’t you come and drink a glass of beer with us at the
buffet?”
“Why, of course, I shall be most happy!” And so the time passed all
too quickly, and we got a lot of fun out of the little adventure--an
adventure which I might have repeated at every station, had I liked
to do so. But it would not do, war is too serious a matter for
jest. My new friends told me that the conductor had found me very
suspicious-looking, especially on account of my maps and note-book,
and had telephoned from Mannheim. At Heidelberg he had conducted the
officers to my compartment. I assured them that I could find no words
to express the admiration which I felt for the alertness and vigilance
which pervaded the whole of Germany from frontier to frontier--it
seemed like clockwork where every cog drops into its place with
automatic precision, and where the hours strike their solemn strokes
to the fraction of a second. When it was time to part they saw me into
my carriage, and as the train moved out they gave me a final friendly
salute and bade me God-speed.[41]
[41] This little episode, which seemed as harmless as it was amusing to
us three “conspirators” whilst we discussed it over our mugs of beer,
found its way into the German press, and was received with much mirth.
In the French press it appeared under a different guise. Thus, for
instance, the _Journal des Débats_, in a telegram from Bordeaux, dated
November 22nd, publishes the following:--
“_Un télégramme de Bâle dit qu’en quittant l’Allemagne, Sven Hedin
l’explorateur suédois bien connu, a été arrêté et retenu quelque temps
à Heidelberg comme suspect d’espionnage._”
The “Figaro” has quite a little article under the heading of “_Vieil
Heidelberg_.” Other headings are as follows:--
“_Le germanophile arrêté pour espionnage._--_Ils arrêtent leur meilleur
ami!_--_Arrestation de M. Sven Hedin._--_Arrêté comme espion._--_Les
allemands soupçonnent leurs meilleurs amis_,” and so on _ad infinitum_.
An English newspaper, the _Newcastle Chronicle_, of November 24th,
managed to improve on these versions: “The adventure at Heidelberg of
Sven Hedin, the Swedish explorer now in the pay of the German Official
Press Bureau, appears to have been amusing. He delivered a lecture in
public at the ancient cradle of German culture, and knowing him to be
a foreigner, the Heidelberg police regarded his intense enthusiasm for
the greatness of Germany as suspicious. He was accordingly arrested,
and detained for several days until his employers of the Press Bureau
could be communicated with and establish that he was not a spy. Perhaps
this little experience may cool Sven Hedin’s ardour. In any case, why
was he lecturing in Heidelberg? His services in Holland or Italy, the
United States, or any other neutral country requiring enlightenment
would seem natural and appropriate, but surely Heidelberg needs no
lessons in pan-germanism.”
The surprising thing about the English description is not its wealth of
detail given with the same readiness as when it is a question of great
and serious matters, such as, for instance, Hindenburg’s continuous
defeats, the uninterrupted German retreat from Flanders, the funeral of
the German Crown Prince, which takes place on an average of about once
a month, etc. No, the really surprising thing in this article is that
the newspaper would find it natural and suitable if I were to plead
Germany’s cause in _neutral_ countries, such as Holland, Italy or the
United States. _A bon entendeur, salut!_
At Karlsruhe, on the following day, I waited on the noble and
high-minded mother of our Queen, the Dowager Grand Duchess Luise, as
well as on the Grand Duke and his Consort. I was only due to leave
for Berlin by the night train, and was therefore very glad to be
able to accept the Grand Duchess Luise’s most gracious proposal that
I should inspect the gigantic and ideally equipped hospital in the
_Gewerbeschule_ under her Royal Highness’s own august guidance. I met
there two distinguished head nurses, the wife of General von Oetinger
and Frau Sautier, also Fru Linder from Stockholm who was here to study
hospital arrangements in the field and who had met with the greatest
hospitality in Karlsruhe.
It was most touching to see the Grand Duchess, in spite of her
seventy-six years, walk from bed to bed, from ward to ward, encouraging
soldiers and speaking to them in a way that went straight to the heart.
In her black dress and her black lace veil over her head, she looked
like a pious abbess giving comfort and solace to the wounded warriors,
and indeed she made a most welcome break in their long weary hours
of suffering. Behind our Queen’s mother came several nurses carrying
armfuls of flowers and little packets of portraits of the Grand-Ducal
pair. Before leaving, this guardian angel of the wounded graciously
handed a packet and a picture to each soldier as a souvenir of her
visit.
The most delightful part of my visit was the witnessing of the homage
paid by the convalescent soldiers to the venerable and beloved lady, as
they stood assembled in the great hall of the hospital. When the Grand
Duchess came out, they spontaneously broke into the stirring and moving
tones of the great German National Hymn here given in translation:--
(Tune: “Praise the Lord, ye heavens adore Him.”)
Germany, be thou exalted
Over every other land,
If but in the hour of peril,
True thy sons together stand
From the Meuse unto the Niemen,
From Adige to Baltic strand,
Germany, be thou exalted
Over every other land!
German women, German faith, and
German wine and German song
Shall their ancient fame and glory
Still retain through ages long,
And to noble deeds inspire us
All our path through life along--
German women, German faith, and
German wine and German song!
Unity and right and freedom
For our German fatherland--
This let us together strive for,
Brothers all, with heart and hand!--
Unity and right and freedom--
Pledges of a blessed land--
In the glory of such blessing
Flourish, German Fatherland!
“Thank you, thank you, God bless you all,” said the Grand Duchess, and
disappeared as unpretentiously as she had come.
In Berlin I looked up several old friends and also had the honour
and pleasure to be invited to supper with the pretty, charming and
altogether delightful Crown Princess. In the evening we sat round
an open, flaming hearth, and I recounted my recollections from the
front and from the desert, whilst my illustrious hostess and her
ladies-in-waiting were listening and knitting socks for the brave
soldiers in the trenches. The Crown Princess had another guest whom it
was a great pleasure to me to meet again--Baron von Maltzahn, who now,
after his unlucky motor drive, had recovered sufficiently to hop about
on crutches.
The streets of Berlin looked the same as they had done two months
previously. Men and women, motor-cars and ’buses moved about as busily
as they had done before, and the streets were flooded with electric
light all night just as in piping times of peace. At the appointed
hour the Palace Guard came marching along _Unter den Linden_ as it has
always done, with its alluring, rapturous military music calling to
fresh deeds of valour. Had one not known it, one could not possibly
have guessed, but for the shouting of the newsboys, that the country
was involved in the most gigantic war of all time. Neither did I notice
any thinning of the numbers of able-bodied men in the streets, and
yet had I not seen through the carriage window from Metz armies of
recruits, reservists and volunteers all drilling in barrack squares and
fields along the line?
It has been stated in certain newspapers that the Germans treated their
prisoners of war in a cruel and inhuman manner. That this was untrue
like everything else which forms part of the educational campaign, I
readily understood, but all the same I thought it would be interesting
to find out for myself the facts of the case. Accordingly I paid a
visit to the acting General Staff. Not only did they give me the usual
prompt permission to go out to the prisoners’ camp at Döberitz, but I
was given as guide a most capable and learned major.
At the entrance to the camp we were received by a colonel and several
other officers, who took us round and explained everything. Here were
four thousand Russians, four thousand British and a few hundred French,
Belgians and Turcos--I am sorry to say there were no other specimens
from the ethnological colour-box at Döberitz. The prisoners live in
gigantic tents where they have their beds close together on the ground
in four enormous rows. I went into one of the tents and found a group
of Russians with caps on the back of their heads and coats or blankets
over their shoulders, and asked if they were satisfied with the
treatment they received. “Oh yes, nitchevo,” was the answer. But one
of them shouted, “It is too cold to lie on the ground in late autumn.”
“Yes,” I answered, “of course it was warmer in the firing lines in
Poland. How would you like to go back and warm yourselves a bit?” “No,
Heaven preserve us!” came as a chorus on every side.
My old friend Tommy Atkins was strolling about inside the barbed-wire
fence and looked and felt very bored. But he was not ill-treated,
on the contrary, he was very well looked after. I saw him at dinner
with his ally Ivan Ivanovitch. The 8500 prisoners were fed in
three-quarters of an hour, and the whole thing was despatched with the
utmost smoothness. In front of the kitchen building, in which gigantic
caldrons were steaming, railings had been put up, permitting the men to
advance in files of eight to the window opening, through which the mess
cooks with the adroitness, touch and quickness of a virtuoso filled
to the brim the bowls held out to them with wholesome, nourishing,
steaming soup. When their bowls had been filled, the men went back
another way so as to avoid congestion. The system is the same as at the
booking offices at busy railway stations.
The British soldier is, under _normal_ conditions, a sinewy and
well-knit man, who has hardened and trained his body with football,
tennis, cricket and other salutary exercises. But in Germany he merely
vegetates and swells in bulk and by no means over-exerts himself over
the work offered him in confinement, by which he can earn a couple of
_pfennigs_ a day for tobacco. If therefore on his return home Tommy
tries to make out that he has been living “below starvation mark” in
Germany, his comfortably rounded form and his _eloquencia corporis_
will give him the lie!
It is surprising and peculiar to see Tommy Atkins and Ivan Ivanovitch
arm-in-arm--figuratively speaking, of course! For in the concentration
camps they hate one another heartily. Tommy regards Ivan as a lousy
savage and Ivan looks on Tommy as an impudent upstart whom the modest
patron of the _samovar_ ought not to associate with. And yet, for all
practical purposes, they march arm-in-arm and use all the most hellish
infernal machines of modern militarism to destroy the German militarism
and free the earth from the Germanic barbarians. Great Britain and
Russia! It really staggers the imagination when one thinks that these
two countries have neither in Europe nor in Asia, in heaven nor on
earth, _a single positive interest_ in common.
We need only think of India, the most precious jewel in Great Britain’s
crown. Of the possibility of a Russian invasion of India Lord Curzon,
the greatest and most clear-sighted Viceroy India has ever had, has
given utterance to the following: “It would involve the most terrible
and lingering war that the world has ever seen; and it could only be
effected by a loss, most unlikely to occur, and more serious in its
effects upon the human race than that of India itself, namely, the
loss of the fibre of the British people.” Elsewhere, when saying that
India’s safety is Great Britain’s foremost duty, he speaks as follows
of a Russian attack on that country: “It can only be prosecuted in the
teeth of international morality, in defiance of civilised opinion and
with the ultimate certainty of a war with this country that would ring
from pole to pole.”
The _Novoye Vremya_ writes at about the same time (1st December,
1888): “Our attention has been focussed on the necessity of bringing
Khorasan under Russia’s exclusive influence, the more so as through
Khorasan runs a convenient road in the direction of Herat and in case
of military operations against India, Khorasan would therefore serve as
a base of supply for our further operations.” Then we have Skobeleff’s
and Kuropatkin’s very detailed and minute plans for an invasion of
India.[42]
[42] Curzon: “Russia in Central Asia,” 1889, and “Persia and the
Persian Question,” 1892, Vol. II.
Many years have elapsed since Lord Curzon thoroughly and exhaustively,
as usual, dealt with this question. But is there anyone who believes
that the danger is less serious now that the Russians have been checked
in the Far East by the Japanese and in the Far West by Germany and
Austria-Hungary? It is true that there is one other outlet in the
west--a truth which the _Swedes_ should bear in mind. But nevertheless
the danger to India is far greater now than it was twenty-five years
ago.
It is therefore not a little peculiar to see Tommy Atkins helping Ivan
Ivanovitch with blood and iron, on land and sea, to gain that power
and strength which he needs for carrying out an invasion of India. For
England this world war is a national calamity, however it may end. “We
have forty million reasons for failure but not a single excuse.”
We also visited the hospital at Döberitz, where the prisoners receive
all the care that human charity can give to the sick. It is not charity
alone that demands the greatest sacrifices in this respect, for a
concentration camp where thousands of men live huddled together on one
spot _may_ become a source of contagion, if ill-managed. Hence skilled
doctors, sick attendants and nurses are engaged, and the slightest
symptom is immediately followed by isolation to prevent the possibility
of an epidemic.
In one of the paths I came across a Tommy walking up and down. He
looked very pale, but was convalescent.
“How are you getting on?” said I, but received no reply.
“I hope you will soon become a little bit of all right by and by,” I
tried once more in my very best colloquial English. Tommy only smiled
and looked at me.
“Is he deaf or is he mad?” I asked the doctor who accompanied us.
“No, he is Russian,” answered the doctor, laughing. But how this
Russian had got into Tommy’s uniform remains an unsolved riddle.
It is a rather significant fact that whilst the good-natured Russians
need only four per cent of guards, the self-conscious English require
ten per cent; in other words, four German soldiers look after a
hundred Russians, whilst a hundred English need ten guardians. The
reason may possibly be found in the inborn servility traceable to
generations of serfdom, but the principal reason of the difficulty in
handling the English prisoners is probably that they have no national
service and have not accustomed themselves to discipline. The cases of
insubordination in the prisoners’ camps are almost entirely confined to
the British prisoners. The punishment for the first offence consisted
in letting the culprit stand a couple of hours to guard the guns on a
little flat eminence near the camp, where the wind usually blew cold
and strong. After a graver offence the delinquent was usually tied to
a tree for an hour or two, but this latter punishment had only been
resorted to in isolated cases.
My impression of the treatment of prisoners at Döberitz confirmed all
that I had witnessed in this connection at the seat of war. But the
world _will_ be deceived and is deceived. Hence the educators of the
British nation spread broadcast the meanest calumnies concerning the
“Huns’ barbarity” to their unhappy prisoners.
The magnificent drawing-room inside the hall of the _Hotel Kaiserhof_
usually formed the rendezvous of a little Swedish colony in the
evening. Here I met Cavalry Captain Count Gilbert Hamilton, who had
become a German subject and officer in order to strike a blow in the
Germanic fight for existence. He was just on his way to his regiment
and was looking forward to a very different reveille from that he
was accustomed to at our own sleepy horse-guards barracks at home in
Stockholm. Here also I met once more my old friend Colonel Gustaf
Bouveng, who had spent two and a half months at the front and who,
among innumerable other impressions, was also taking home with him the
conviction that in a military sense Germany simply _cannot_ be defeated
by her present opponents. Instead of tiring and becoming decimated, the
German army grows in strength and numbers from month to month.
On the 12th of November I took my departure from the _Stettiner
Bahnhof_ and set out on my journey home to Sweden. As I reached
Sassnitz, dusk was descending over the Baltic. The passports and
effects of the passengers were subjected to a most careful scrutiny.
The same calm, the same sure self-possession, the same discipline and
order as I had noticed everywhere in Germany and in the firing lines,
made themselves felt here, too, on the outermost planks of the harbour
pier. At Sassnitz fourteen torpedo-boats lay ready for immediate
action, and in the roads a gigantic hospital ship was riding at anchor,
ready to receive wounded from the sea.
The ferry cast off her moorings. Little by little in the gathering
gloom we lose sight of land, that land whose seconds are as long as
years, whose people is now writing its _epos_ in runes of blood on
the pages of the world’s history--a united people, a virile people, a
people which stood ready in its hour of trial, armed for the defence
of its honour, its liberty and its future when the ravenous monster of
strife rose up upon its frontiers, a people which has the _will_ to win
and which therefore in the time to come will march at the head of the
ruling race upon our earth.
But the belt of sea between the ferry and the German coast grows wider.
The song “_Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein_” has long since died away.
The twilight, the transition between day and night, is over. And in the
north bides the deep impenetrable darkness.
INDEX
_Aboukir_, loss of H.M.S., 113
Abstinence from wine, 147
Adlercreutz, Major, 12
Ahrenberg, Duchess of, 208
Aire, the, 93
Aisne, the, 93
retreat of the Germans to, 152
Alaska, 22
Albert, King of the Belgians, 307
Aleppo, 214
Alers, Colonel von, 367
Algermissen, Dr., at Ostend, 278, 279
Algiers, 340
Allies, the, their use of foreign troops, 17, 163, 187, 250, 352-355
All Souls’ Day at Bapaume, 332-347
Almanach de Gotha, the, 27
Alost, 263
Alsace, French claim on, 29, 32
Alt, 36
Altefähr, 4
Altkirch, 186
America, its relations with Japan, 350
American Ambassador in Paris, 307
America, village, 358
Ancerviller, 373
Angers, 33
Anklam, 5
Antwerp, author visits, 216-228, 235-262, 297
forts of, 297, 298
hospital in, 257
neutral consulates in, 255
port of, 224-228, 237
siege of, 204, 213-219, 231 note, 253-255, 270, 295
supposed British ambitions for, 270
Zoological Gardens, 252
Apolda, the, 25
Archer, William, reviews the author’s work, v-vii
Ardenne Canal, the, 145, 146
Argentine Consul in Antwerp, 256, 259
Argonne, the, fighting in, 85, 92, 93, 188, 318, 327
_Ariadne_, sinking of the, 268-270
Arlon, 127, 128
Armentières, author visits, 309, 311
Arnim, Prince, in Luxemburg, 51
Arnoldi, Dr., Acting Chief of the Automobile Corps, 14, 16, 17
Arras, fighting at, 310, 318
Arrhenius, Professor Svante, 205
Artois, 348, 351
Asquith, Rt. Hon. H. H., at the Guildhall, 354
Attigny, hospital at, 156
Augustovo, 318
Australian troops, the, 250, 354
Austria-Hungary checks Russia, 384
its army, 187
Austrian artillery in Belgium, 236, 295, 313
Automobile Corps, Imperial Volunteer, constitution of, 14-16, 48, 55
Autry, 149, 166
Auxerre, 89
_Aventi_, s.s., 285
Aye, 204
Bach’s _Passion_, 335
Baedeker on Belgium, 248, 265, 281
Bagdad Railway, the, 56
Bailer, General, in Brussels, 243, 244
in Antwerp, 245, 252, 258, 297
Balakhani, the, 294
Baltic Sea, the, 4
Banér, Field-Marshal Johan, 27
Bantheville, 75
Bapaume, author visits, 296-309, 315-319, 332-342, 361-367
_Bapaumer Zeitung am Mittag_, 317-319
Barbas, 374-377
Bar-le-Duc, 89
Bavaria, Rupprecht, Crown Prince of, 344
Bavarian Army, the, warlike spirit of, 47
Landsturm, the, 333, 343
Beaumont, 146
Beelitz, 19
Beethoven, 250
Behr, Captain von, author accompanies, 150, 158, 169, 171, 189, 196
Count-Marshal von, attends the Crown Prince, 61, 62, 103, 104
Belfort, 186
Belgian Army, the, 354
brings loss upon itself, 207, 208, 220, 260
defends Antwerp, 217, 222, 227, 231 note, 251, 254, 271
German tributes to, 234, 260
its wireless stations, 128
uniforms of, 237
Belgian Cabinet leaves Ostend, 285
coast bombarded by the British Navy, 265-283
dogs, 261, 263
hospitals at Malines, 241
hospitals at Ostend, 289
Luxemburg, 125-129
police in Antwerp, 235, 251
prisoners of war, 33, 234, 284
railwaymen, 204
refugees, 225
refugees from Antwerp, 237, 246, 251, 254, 257, 260, 285
refugees in Ostend, 284
Belgium, author’s compassion for, 209, 258, 261
England’s policy with regard to, 247, 270, 284, 355
Belle Alliance, La, 211
Bellevue, Sedan, 136, 137
Bellman, poet, 308
Benares, 62, 353
Benckendorff, Count, his Tibetan policy, 248
Benedetti, Ambassador of the French, 34
Benz and Co., 307
Berchem, 224, 254
Bergen-op-Zoom, 254, 259
Bergues, 368
Berlin, author’s visits to, 6-19, 45, 53, 381
Geological Society, 295
Russian advance on, 284, 303
triumphal entry into, 192
University, 233
Bernhard, Captain, 88
Bernhard, Major-General, questions prisoners, 89
Bernhardi, General, xvi
Bertrix, 128-130, 201
Beseler, General von, 295
Bess, Captain, at Ostend, 268, 271, 275, 277, 281, 286, 288, 293
on the _Ariadne_, 268-270
Betz, Lieut.-Col., at Dun, 104, 111
Bible, author’s quotations from the, 193, 261
_Bierabend_, author enjoys a, 231
Bikanir, 62
Bildt, General, 306
Billeting, German methods of, 37
Birkenfeld, 172
Bismarck, Count, at Donchery, 137-139
tower, Apolda, 25
Bitterfeld, 22
Black Sea, Turkish fleet in the, 344
Blamont, author visits, 370, 373
Blankenberghe, author visits, 288
Bleichröder, Baron, in Sedan, 186
Blériot aeroplanes in use, 179
Blois, 110
Blücher, General, English debt to, 211, 212
Boer War, the, 356
Böhlau, Lieut.-Col., 196
Boiry, 310, 319, 330
Bois de Cheppy, 94
Bombay, author in, 214
Bordeaux, 64, 171, 172, 380
Börjeson, Rev., in Antwerp, 259
Bouchain, 300
Bouillon, 131
Boureuilles, 93, 94
Bournemouth, 284
Boussu, 300
Bouveng, Colonel Gustaf, 12, 386
Boy Scouts, motto of, 258
Braine le Comte, 299
Brandenburg, 5
Breitenfeld, 22
Breslau, 70, 200
Brialmont, General, fortifications of, 245
Briey, 370
Brighton, 284
British Army aviators over Ostend, 287
bombards Ostend, 263
foreign troops in, 17, 163, 187, 250, 352-355
in Antwerp, 217, 225, 227, 231 note, 251, 271
its artillery, 314, 359
personal courage of, 36, 360
British Navy bombards the Belgian coast, 265-284, 286-288
sinks the _Ariadne_, 268-270
Bruges, 285
author in, 264
Germans in, 243, 263
Brussels, author in, 210-216, 230-233, 238, 242-244, 263, 295
refugees from, 284, 288
under the Germans, 243
Bürger, Lieutenant, 176
Busch, Herr von, Minister in Luxemburg, 123
Calais, German advance on, 271
Calcutta, 352
Cambrai, author visits, 300, 310, 368
Cameroons, the, 79
Canadian troops, 250, 354
Cappellen, 260
Carignan, 201, 368
Cernay, 146, 165, 199
Challerange, 165
Chamier-Glisczinski, Captain von, at Vouziers, 173, 181
Champion, Convent of, 209
Charlemagne, Emperor, 51
Charles V., Emperor, 10, 249
Charles XII. of Sweden, vi, 96, 146, 168
Charleville, 125
Château-Salins, 372
Chauvency, 60, 117
Cheppy, 93, 94
Churchill, Winston, in Antwerp, 254, 270
Ciney, 204
Clairvaux, Bernard de, 334
Classen, Lieutenant, 219
Cleving, Herr, at Bapaume, 307, 315, 317, 335, 341, 361
Coal-mines, Belgian, 299
Coblenz, 34
Colmar, 278
Cologne, 117, 150
Colombo, 214
Condé, 149, 165
Constantinople, 91
Turks capture, 120
Cossart, Maître Emile, 302-305, 344, 367
Cousteumont, 127
Cramb, Professor, xvi
_Cressy_, loss of H.M.S., 113
Croisilles, 310
Crombez, M., 121
Cronstedt, Count, 173
Crown Prince, the German, 380 note
as an author, 78
at Dun, 112
author’s visits to, 46, 55, 61-64, 76, 80, 103, 104, 113, 114
on war, 63
visits the author, 78
Crown Princess, German, entertains the author, 382
Cunel, 74
Curzon, Earl, as Viceroy, 242, 248
his hope, 352
Dagobert, King, 29
Dahlgren, janitor, 248
_Daily Telegraph_, v
Dannevoux, 69
_Danzig_, cruiser, 269
Darmstadt, 132
Deffner, chauffeur, 19
Dellmensingen, General Krafft von, at Douai, 346
Demain, 300
Dendre, the, 263
Desserrey, Madame, and family, 76, 77, 115
Détaille, artist, 63, 159
_Deutschland in Waffen_, 78
Diaries, soldiers’, 90, 376
Dinant, 60, 207
destruction of, 244
Dixmude, 297
Döberitz, 309
author visits, 382-386
Donchery, 137
Donck, 260
Dorpfeld, 297
Douai, author visits, 310, 344-348
Douchy, 300, 333
Dreger, Captain, in Brussels, 214, 231
in Antwerp, 235
Dresden, 186
Dryhoek, 260
Duffel, 218, 298
Dug-outs, German, 75, 175, 180, 199, 322
Dun, author’s day at, 104-116
Germans in, 61, 66, 75, 81
Dunkerque, 265, 271, 275, 284
Düsseldorf, 335
Eastbourne, 284
Eastern front, length of the, 186
East Prussia, German victories in, 200
Eckeren, 260
Eclisfontaine, the author visits, 80-103
Eclo, 264
Eichstedt, Count von, at Vouziers, 158, 161, 169, 196
Eiffel, 172
Eisenach, 27
Eiserne Hand, the, 30
Eitel Friedrich, Prince, at the front, 326
Elbe, the, 20
Elert, Major, 245, 258
Elizabeth Sisters, the, 189
Eller, 35
Ems, the author at, 31-34
Engineers, their work in the Argonne, 188
England, author’s sorrow for, vi, 192
German hatred of, vi, 24, 29, 159, 360
her army and navy. _See_ British
her care for the Belgian refugees, 225, 247, 284
her newspaper press, xv, 17, 31, 55, 354, 380 note, 386
her relations with Russia, 248, 383-385
her rule in India, 352, 384
her supposed hatred of Germany, vi, 187, 270, 344
her supposed hysteria, 271
policy of, vi, 210, 212, 213, 230, 270, 284, 355
English prisoners of war, 33, 47
at Antwerp, 257
at Döberitz, 382-386
at Kruiseik, 359-361
at Namur, 210
at Roubaix, 348-351, 358
Eppeghem, 234
Erfurt, 27
Esschem, 254
Essen, Elizabeth sisters of, 189
Faidherbe, statue of, 317, 340, 341
Falkenhausen army, the, 371, 372
Falkenhayn, Lieut.-Gen. von, 168
at Douai, 346
in Brussels, 232
in Luxemburg, 48
Fifth Army, the German, 57, 60, 61, 64, 74, 75, 113, 188
_Figaro, Le_, 380 note
Finnish armies, 29
Fischer, Colonel, at the front, 175, 178
Flanders, Anglo-Belgian Army in, 271
Counts of, 264
Flushing, 252
Fock. _See_ Wilamovitz
Folkestone, 284
Forrières, 203
Fournaise, Madame, 138
Fourth Army, German, author follows, 145-181
its lines of communication, 140-144
Franco-Prussian War, 1870, Germany’s development after, 10, 34
incidents of, 136-139, 215, 302, 340, 378
_Franctireurs_, at Louvain, 240
German treatment of, 56-59, 75, 135, 169, 202, 203, 208
Frankfurt-on-Main, 29, 135
French Army, artillery, 70-74, 86, 167, 177, 189
aviation service, 36, 70, 148, 162, 165-167, 173, 179, 181, 312,
316, 328, 330, 343, 359, 363-366
constitution of, 17
foreign troops in, 17, 163, 187, 250, 343
German tributes to, 24, 65, 111, 178, 198, 303, 327
its mobilisation, 120
its use of wooded country, 58, 188
its vigilance and spy system, 321, 325, 327-330
Medical Service, 157, 158
respects the Red Cross, 180
uniform of, 41
French people, the author’s affection for, and sympathy with, 139,
184, 192
their hatred of Germany, 187
the Kaiser’s sympathy and respect for, 53, 54
under the German occupation, 183-186
French prisoners of war, author visits, 70, 98, 109, 111, 150, 171,
187
author visits the wounded, 31-33, 35, 38-41, 89-91, 101, 133
construct a railway, 60
in Belgium, 295, 302, 366
in Germany, 47
their dejection, 89, 110, 112, 117, 288
their diaries, 90
Fretzdorff, Colonel, at Dun, 111
Friederich, Major Hans, 205, 210 Major-General, in Ghent, 264
Fröhlich, Dr., author travels with, 200-202
Fuchs, Lieutenant, 196, 198
Fulda, 28
Funerals, German military, 31
Furnes, 275
Gambetta, General, 340
Geibel, Emanuel, quoted, 79
Gelnhausen, 28
Gembloux, 211
Geneva conventions, 158
Gerhard, Paul, 335
German Army, aerial service, 44, 117, 166, 171, 173, 176, 344, 357,
364-366; _see also_ Taube
admiration of the French, 303
ammunition of, 67, 161, 288
artillery, 71-73, 85-87, 109, 167, 174, 205, 271, 280, 311, 373-375
base hospitals, 115
cavalry corps, 82, 150
chaplains, 192-194, 199, 333, 335, 343, 375
commissariat arrangements, 133, 147, 148, 183, 276
consideration for civilians, 160, 170, 184-186, 208, 246, 255, 329,
330; _see also Franctireurs_
despatch riders, 149
discipline, xv, 170, 195, 223, 367
equipment of, 66
Field Gendarmes, 145
field hospitals and Medical Service, 37-42, 74, 98, 133, 148, 150,
152-158, 162-165, 200, 210, 241, 257, 290-293, 366
Field postal service, 145, 195-198
Field Telegraph Battalion, 17, 59
Field Telephone Service, 72, 84, 174-176, 178
Headquarters at Luxemburg, 14, 45, 48-50, 115
lines of communication, 140-144, 155, 168, 182
loyalty of, 123
methods of observation, 85, 93, 178, 330, 377
mobilisation of, 44, 172
pay-day in, 195
reinforcements, 66, 69, 74, 148, 163, 180
Service Corps, 66
supposed superiority of, 168, 187, 217
systematic organisation of, 17, 21, 111, 136, 140, 157
transport columns, 67, 71, 75, 80, 108, 118, 162
German treatment of prisoners, 31, 348, 382-386
trenches, 75, 177
wounded of, 88, 133, 151-158, 290
German atrocities denied, 11, 17, 55, 56
culture, war on, vii, 191, 231 note, 250, 270, 350
hatred of England, vi, 24, 29
imperturbability, 113, 174, 318
letters from the front, 24, 197
militarism, 355, 360, 383
German Navy, its losses, 268-270
power of the, 50, 53, 78, 242, 386
German Press, honesty of the, 318
prisoners in France, 33 note, 158, 180
railway system, 22, 46, 118, 126, 129, 130, 172, 182, 202
German Red Cross, the, 28, 30, 35, 36
Countess von Moltke works for, 45
its work in Luxemburg, 47, 48, 124
its work on the battlefields, 40, 83, 93, 102, 153, 180
nurses, 203
German schools continue work, 41
social democrats, 30, 376
unity of feeling, 9, 11, 34, 36, 96, 123, 143, 169, 192, 288, 335,
376, 386
victory, confidence of, vi, 34, 36, 79, 95, 96, 114, 192, 239, 242,
270, 289, 309, 373, 386
German South-West Africa, 375
Germany, captures the world’s trade, 257
its preparations for war, 50, 95
Ghent, 285;
author in, 294, 295
fall of, 243, 263
Germans in, 222, 224, 227, 230, 235, 238, 263
Ghistelles, 264, 295
Ghurkas, the, 163, 250, 352
Givet, 60
Gleiwitz, 107
Godfrey the Crusader, 132
Goër, Madame, 316
Goethe, genius of, 26, 250
Goltz, Baron von der, in Brussels, 214-216, 232, 296, 298, 306
Gontard, Lieut.-Gen. von, in Luxemburg, 50, 53, 123
Göppert, Councillor, 348
Gossler, General von, at Dannevoux, 69
_Göteborgs Handels_, 231 note
Gotha, 27
Göttingen, 316
Goumont, Château de, 212
Gräfenhainischen, 22
Grandpré, 149, 166
Graves, soldiers’, 107, 149, 170, 181, 234, 241, 257, 323, 337, 358,
369
Greifswald, 4
Greiner, Hans, 170
Grevenmacher, 44
Gross, Lieut.-Colonel, commands the Field Telegraph Battalion, 17
Grünewald, 335
Grupont, 202
Guadeloupe, 340
Guildhall War Meeting, 354
Gustaf, King of Sweden, 4
Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany, 21, 22, 24, 27, 29, 54, 191
Gwalior, 62
Gwinner, Hans von, acts as chauffeur, 56-61
Gyldén, Professor, 316
Haaf, Captain, 203
Haak, Lieutenant, in Ostend, 268, 277, 283, 286, 287
Haeseler, Count von, at the front, 85, 92, 97, 306
Hague Conventions, the, 158
Hahnke, Lieutenant-Colonel, 45
Hal, 299
Halle, author at, 22-24
Halske and Siemens, Messrs., 242, 299, 376
Hamburg, 292, 351
Hamelincourt, 319, 342
Hamilton, Count Gilbert, 386
Hamipré, 127
Hanau, 28
Hatrival, 202
Havre, Le, 284
Hayek, Professor Hans von, 348
Heidelberg, author in, 378
Heligoland, 268
Helmholtz, 250
Henry of Prussia, Prince, 48
Herat, 384
Heymann, 62
Heyn, Major, in Sedan, 135
Heyst op den Berg, 218
Hildebrand, Professor, 316
Hildesheim, 189
Hindenburg, Field-Marshal von, victories of, 6, 303, 344, 355, 380
note
Lieut. von, 165
Hirschberg, General von, at Namur, 205, 209
Hirson, 368
Hogne, 204
_Hogue_, loss of H.M.S., 113
Hohenlohe, Prince, 144
Hohenzollern, Prince Friedrich of, at the front, 307, 309
race, the, shed their blood for Germany, 124
Hoiningen, Baron von, 243
Holland, Belgian refugees in, 225, 246, 254, 259-261
Hollen, Rittmeister von, 342
Hollweg, Herr von Bethmann, in Luxemburg, 48, 124
visits Antwerp, 245
Hongkong, 214
Houyet, 203
Huisne, the, 122
Hünfeld in Hesse, 28
Hussars, German, 233
Hütten, Lieut. Doctor, visits Antwerp, 219, 221, 233, 235, 252
visits Louvain, 239
Idar, 62
Identification discs, 105, 165
Igel, 44
Ilberg, Dr., in Luxemburg, 51
Ilm, the, 25
Ilse, General, 168
India, Crown Prince in, 62
English rule in, 352-354
Lord Curzon, Viceroy of, 242, 384
Indian prisoners of war, 351
troops, the, 39, 351-354
Iron Crosses, the, 42, 326, 358
awarded to Lt.-Col. Schaubode, 258
bestowed by the Crown Prince, 61, 62, 80
chaplains earn, 193
shape used as tombstone, 107
Isolani, in Germany, 24
Ivangorod, 318
Jade Bight, 268
Jagow, Herr von, Foreign Minister, at Headquarters, 14, 48
Jakobson, Captain, 294
Japan, its relations with Russia, 248, 350, 384
Japanese occupy Tsingtau, 160
Jemelle, 201, 203
Jesuits at Vouziers, 187
Joachim, Prince, is wounded, 123
Joan of Arc, statue of, 311, 333, 348
statuette of, 106
Joffre, General, German admiration of, 303
Johannes, Lieutenant, 181
_Journal des Débats_, 380 note
Jung, General, 295
Jüterbog, 302
Kabylia, 340
Kamerun, 363
Kapellen, 136
Karlsruhe, 243, 380
Kashmir, 28, 62, 351
Kaufmann, Captain, 377
Kemnitz, Colonel von, 140
Kes, Dr. Walter, 219, 230
Khorasan, 384
Kilima Njaro, Mount, 114
Kioto, 202
Kipling, Rudyard, author quotes, 289, 308, 353, 356
Kirchhoff, Professor, 23
Kirn, 172
Kitchener, Earl, Crown Prince on, 62
Klefberg, Dr., 234 note
Kleinbettingen, 126
Kobe, 257
Koch, Frau Martha, her Red Cross work, 214, 215, 239
Kodak, author’s Eastman, 123
Kollmann, Lieutenant, 182
Kondratenko, General, 205
Königsberg, troops from, 200
Korte, private, 290
Kösen, 25
Kreidel, Privy Councillor, at Brussels, 243
Kreuznach, 172
Kriebel, Captain, 372
Kroeber, Dr. Hans, 26
Kruiseik, author visits, 358-361
Krum, Rittmeister von, acts as the author’s chauffeur, 15-55
Krupp’s factory, engineers from, 294
workmen at Namur, 206
42-cm. mortars, 214
Kübler, Doctor, in Ostend, 268, 275, 277, 281, 289, 294
Kummer, Herr, 315
Kuropatkin, General, 384
Kutch Behar, 62
La Chiers, 60, 117, 119
La Dormoise, 166
La Ferté, letter from, 35
Lahn, the, 31, 34
La Hulpe, 211
La Lys Canal, 357
Lamprecht, Captain, 258
Landsturm, German, at Vouziers, 169
drill the volunteers, 243
characteristics, 5
guards the railways, 22, 126, 129, 203
in Bapaume, 317, 333, 343
march-past of, 149, 222
Landwehr, German, 162, 176, 222, 264
Langen Schwalbach, 30
Lavaux, 127
Lawrence, Sir Walter, 242
Le Cateau, author visits, 368
Le Chesne, 146, 182
Leclerc, Alfred, 165
Leffinghe, 271
Leipzig, 115
battle of, 21
Leman, General, at Liège, 206
Le Mans, 121
Lemberg, battle of, 7
Lengagne, Mesdemoiselles, 302, 344, 367
Le Nouvion, 368
Leo XIII., Pope, 334
Lepsius, Doctor, 205, 210
Lewenhaupt, Count, 173
Libramont, 128, 200-202
_Liebesgaben_ for German troops, 74, 186
Liebrecht, 64
Liège, Krupp’s men at, 206
siege of, 61, 206
Lierre, 218, 298
Lille, author visits, 309-311, 315
author visits, 348, 351
Linder, Fru, 380
Linselles, 357
Liny, 67
Lippe, Doctor, 282, 289
Livland wars, the, 29
Lomme, 311
London, refugees in, 285
Guildhall meeting, 354
London, Jack, his dogs, 22
Longlaville, 57
Longlier, 127
Longuyon, author visits, 59, 119, 129, 369
Longwy, bombardment of, 48, 57, 119-122
Looting, instances of, 170, 195, 223, 367
Lopnor, sea of, 244
Lorraine, the author in, 57
Louis XIV., King, 121
Louis XVI. at Varennes, 93
Lou-lan, 121, 244
Louvain, author visits, 239, 240
destruction of, 55, 240, 244
Löwenstein, Prince, at Douai, 346
Lübke, Captain, escorts the author, 347, 348, 357
Ludwigshafen, 378
Luise, Dowager Grand Duchess, in Karlsruhe, 380
Lumm, Councillor von, 297
Lunéville, 56
Luther, 250
at Wittenberg, 20, 21
Lützen, 24, 27
Luxemburg, author at, 36, 44-56
German Headquarters in, 48-50, 122-124
prisoners in, 40
treatment of wounded in, 47, 48
Grand Duchess of, 45
Lwow. _See_ Lemberg
Machenhauer, Lieut.-Col., 88
MacMahon, Marshal, at Sedan, 146
Madras, 351
_Magdeburgische Zeitung_, author on the Kaiser in, 49
Main, the, 28
Malancourt, 73
Malines, 218, 234, 263;
author visits, 220, 221, 230, 234, 240, 245, 297, 298
Maltzahn, Baron von, 61
injured in a motor accident, 114, 115, 382
Mamer, 126
Manchuria, war in, 11
Mannheim, 378
Brewery, 136
Manuel of Portugal, ex-King, 307
Marche-les-Dames, 208
Margaret of Austria, statue of, 221
Marguth, Pastor, 191, 199
Mariakerke, author at, 286, 287
Marines, German, at Antwerp, 233-235, 241, 251, 257
at Ostend, 276
Marksuhl, 28
Marloie, 203
Marne, the, 152
Battle of the, vi
Marschall, Lieut.-Gen. von, at Douai, 346
in Luxemburg, 51
Marseilles, 70
Mars-la-Tour, 146
Martha, Sister (Frau Koch), 239, 257
Marville, 59, 119, 368
Massebus, Lieutenant, in Brussels, 214
Matthiasz, Major, accompanies the author under fire, 64, 68, 70-73,
80, 84, 97
Maubeuge, 286
Max, Prince of Württemberg, 168
Mayence Ammunition Park Depot, 125
Elector of, 29
Mecklenburg, Duke Adolf Friedrich of, as a chauffeur, 367-370
at Brussels and Bapaume, 296, 301, 306-320, 332, 344, 362, 367,
371, 372
at Douai, 346
at Roubaix, 350
Meiningen, Duke Georg of, 297
Meinze, Herr, 35
Melle, 263
Memel, 125
Menin, 358
Merseburg, 23, 24
Merwart, 202
Merxem, 259
Messempré-Messincourt, 132
Metz, 44, 56
author visits, 367, 376, 378
fortifications of, 217
Meuse, the, 60, 67, 105, 207
Mézières, 368
Middelkerke, 186, 285
artillery at, 265, 271, 275, 283
author at, 271-273, 275
Militarism, German, 356, 357
Mine-field off the Belgian coast, 293
Miraumont, sports at, 362
Mohammed Isa, 351
Moltke, Colonel-General von, in Luxemburg, 45, 55, 122
Chief of the General Staff, smooths the author’s road, 14, 45, 56,
76, 116, 144, 248, 379
Countess von, in Luxemburg, 45, 47, 55
General von, at Donchery, 1870, 137
Mönch, Commander, 289
Monchy-au-Bois, trenches at, 320-331
Mons, author at, 299
Montblainville, 94
Montenegrin troops, the, 354, 355
Montmédy, 60, 105, 118, 129
Mont St. Jean, 211, 212
Moroccan troops, 39
Moscow, 190
Moselle, the, 34-36, 44
Mudra, General von, at the front, 85, 92, 97
Mulde, 22
Müller, Admiral von, in Luxemburg, 51, 53, 122
Colonel, in Antwerp, 245, 258
Lieutenant, 196, 198
Major von, 62, 187
Münch, Franz Xaver, chaplain, 335-340, 366
Munich, 345
Mutius, Colonel von, in Luxemburg, 51
Namur, 60
author visits, 199, 201-210
Nancy, 104
Naninnes, 204
Napoleon I., at Leipzig, 21
at Waterloo, 211, 212
picture of, 138
bust of, 159
Napoleon III., Emperor, capitulation of, 136-139
Narbonne, 171, 172
Narva, 191
Nassau, 30
Naumburg, 24
Nethe, Major, 299
the, 218, 223, 242
Neufchâteau, 127
Neuville, artist, 63
_Newcastle Chronicle_, the, 380 note
New Guinea, 32
New Zealand, troops from, 250
Ney, Marshal, 211
Nicolai, Major, in Luxemburg, 122
Nieuport, 239, 265, 271, 275
Allies in, 272, 273
bombardment of, 284
Nietzsche, xvi
Nobel prize winners, 355
Noërs, 59, 368
Norway, William II. in, 50
_Novoye Vremya_, 384
Oetinger, General von, 380
Ohain, 212
Okuniev, 168
Oldershausen, Colonel von, 358
Omdurman, 62
Ooms, Karel, widow of, 227
Oskar, Prince, illness of, 123, 124
Ostend, author visits, 263-294
bombardment of, 268-283, 317, 346
Ostend, Churchill in, 255
Germans in, 243, 263, 265, 285, 289
Osterith, Mrs., 258
Overyssche, 211
Pappenheim in Germany, 24
Paris, fortifications of, 217
Parsohen, Captain, 170
Pasteur, statue of, 311, 348
Pawel, Lieut.-Gen. von, 362
Peene, the, 5
Peihmann, Baron von, 372
Pekin, 375
Pelkmann, General von, 370
Penang, 214
Peronne, 302
_Persia and the Persian Question_, Curzon’s, 384 note
Perthes, 179
Justus, 27
Peter the Great, Tsar, 146
Petri, Harald, Swedish Consul in Antwerp, 253-255, 259, 260, 263, 265
Petrograd, Poincaré in, 50
Pfeil, Count von, at the front, 85, 90
Photography, author’s, 123, 165, 210, 235, 317
Pius IX., Pope, 334
Pius X., Pope, 223
Planchenois, 212
Planitz, Major von der, 62
Plato, Major von, at Sedan, 132-135, 199, 200
Pless, Prince, in Luxemburg, 51
Plessen, Col.-Gen. von, at Douai, 346
in Luxemburg, 51, 123
Plettenberg, General von, 306, 316
Poincaré, President, at Petrograd, 50
Poland, Germans in, 344, 355
Polish roads, 16, 18
Pomerania, 5
Pompeii, destruction of, 121
Port Arthur, siege of, 205
Portuguese troops, the, 354-356
Posen, author in, 295
Potsdam, 35
author at, 19
Pousette, Herr, 239
Prenzlau, 5
Press, honesty of the German, 318, 355
methods of the English, 354-356
Prisoners of war, dismal fate of, 89
German, treatment of, 31-33, 40, 89-91; _see also under_
British, French, etc.
Prussian-Hessian State Railways, 125
Przemysl, 318
Putten, 254, 260
Quaterecht, 263
Quesnoy, 313, 371
Quiévrain, 300
Rambaldi, Lieut. Count, 176
Rath, Colonel von, at Dannevoux, 70
Rathgen, General, at Namur, 209
Rawalpindi, 28
Rechberg, Adjutant, 91
Rehnsköld, Field-Marshal Count, 24
Reichard, Dr., 320
Reichenau, von, German Minister in Stockholm, 13
Reischach, Baron von, in Luxemburg, 123
Rennenkampf, General, 303
Requisitions, German, 133, 147, 183, 184
Rheims, 146
bombardment of, 129, 200, 239
Germans in, 307, 315
Rhine, the, 34
Richthofen, Professor, 233
Rixingen, 372
Rodingen, 57
Romagne, Germans in, 74, 81, 83, 98-103, 104, 109
Romans at Igel, the, 44
Röntgen, 250
Rosebery, Lord, quoted, xvi
Rosendaal, 254
Rossignol, battle at, 32, 38, 187
Roubaix, English prisoners in 348-351
Roumania, King of, 307
Rouvroy, 147
Rubens, P. P., his house, 258
pictures of, 249
statue of, 250
Rügen, 4
Rupprecht, Crown Prince, of Bavaria, at the front, 344-347, 357
Russia, effect of victory for, 304, 354
its relations with England, 159, 248, 384
Russian Army, its advance on Berlin, 284, 303
possible depression of, 309
prisoners of war, 382
roads, 16
Russo-Japanese War, the, 11, 248
Saale, the, 24, 25
Saarbrücken, 44, 378
Salvius, Adler, 29
Sambre, the, 207
_Sans Souci_, 352
Sarthe, the, 122
Sassnitz, 4, 386
Sauer, the, 44
Sautier, Frau, 380
Savolaks, 29
Saxony, King of, 298, 373
Schaubode, Lieut.-Col., in Antwerp, 258
Scheerenberg, Lieut.-Col., in Brussels, 231
Scheldt, the, 224, 227, 236, 255
Schiller, 339
Schleswig-Holstein, Duke Ernst Günther of, 297
Schlüchtern, 28
Schlüter, Captain, 362
Schmidt, soldier, 64
Schmidt von Knobelsdorff, Lieut.-Gen., 62-64
Schoelvinck, Herr, 307
Scholander, Sven, 308
Schönfelder, Dr., at Ostend, 268, 282, 284, 288-290
Schröder, Admiral von, at Antwerp, 245
at Middelkerke, 275
at Ostend, 278
Schulenburg, Count von der, 342
Schumann, 159
Séchault, 146, 161
Seckendorff, Baron von, controls the Fourth Army, 140-145, 196
Secundinius Aventinus, 44
Sedan, author visits, 122, 125-144, 182-186, 196, 200, 204, 368
memories of 1870 in, 60, 134-136, 146
Semois, the, 130
Senegal, 340
Senegalese troops, the, 39, 250
Senegambia, 355
Septsarges, 64-71
Serajevo, assassination of the Archduke at, 50
Serbian troops, the, 354, 355
Sevron, 168
Shanghai, 214
Shaw, G. B., quoted, 354
Sick, Professor, 115
Simla, 353
Singapore, 214
Siemens, Herr K. F. von, 242, 299-301, 376
Skobeleff, General, 384
Slype, 271
Social democrats, German, 376
Soden, General von, 362
Soignies, 299
Somme Py, 147, 173, 181
Souain, burning of, 174, 177, 179, 180
Spy, profession of the, 23, 167, 327-330
Stålhandske, 29
_Standard, The_, 367 note
St. André, 103, 313
Stecho, Doctor, in Brussels, 231
Steffen, Professor Gustaf F., on Antwerp, 231 note
quoted, 352, 354, 367 note
Steglitz, 219
Stenay, 60, 97, 102, 117, 119
Sterpenich, 126
St. Étienne, 119
Stettin, 219
St. Francis, Day of, 189-194
St. Hubertus, Day of, 362
St. Kilian, statue of, 223
Stockholm, 3, 33, 44, 123, 248, 380, 386
German Minister in, 13
Poincaré in, 50
St. Privat, 370
Stralsund, 4
_Stralsund_, cruiser, 269
Strassburg, von Wedel, governor of, 9
Strauss, Richard, 159
St. Vincent, Sisters of, 189
Suhlmann, Captain, 97, 102
Sweden, danger from Russia to, 304, 384
its military attachés in Germany, 12
Landsturm of, 3
Swedish Army in Germany, vi, 21, 22, 24, 27, 29, 54, 146
its lines of communication, 141, 162
Consul in Antwerp, 253-255, 259
granite in Belgium, 263
letter of credit, author’s, 122, 239
Tacitus on the Germans, 20
Tägert, Captain, at Ostend, 266, 271, 278, 294
Tahure, 181
Taine, statue of, 194
Takla-makan, 202
Tannay, 146
Tannenberg, 7
Tappen, Colonel, at Douai, 346
_Tasmania_, s.s., 238
_Taubes_, German, author inspects, 44, 171, 275
damaged by French, 330
over Ostend, 280
Taube, Count, Swedish Minister in Berlin, 9
Tauchnitz, Baron von, in Metz, 370, 372
Taunus, the, 30
Telephone Service, Army, 328-330
Tellancourt, 119
Termonde, 252, 285
Tetanus, cases of, 152, 210
_Tête de Flandre_, Germans at, 236, 237
Tettenborn, Lieut.-Gen. von, 373, 377
Theft, German punishment of, 170, 195, 223, 367
Thiébaut, M., of Nancy. 104
Thüringer, Wald, the, 27
Tibet, the author in, 53, 62, 190, 248, 351
_Times, The_, quoted, 231 note, 367
Tirpitz, Admiral von, 50
in Brussels, 242
Togoland, German Governor of, 296
Trade, Germany captures the world’s, 257, 270
Treis, 35
Treitschke, xvi
Trelleborg, 3
Trenches, life in the, 75, 177, 188, 320-327
Treutler, Herr von, in Antwerp, 245
in Luxemburg, 51
Trèves, 145
the author at, 36-44
_Trèves Gazette_, 130
Trutz, Captain, 301
Tschammer, Baron von, at Vouziers, 158, 169, 196
Tsingtau, fall of, 79, 160
Tuaregs, the, 39
Tubize, 299
Turcos, the, 354
Turenne, statue of, 139, 185, 368
Turkey, von der Goltz in, 215
Turkish fleet, the, 344
Uhlans of the Guard, the, 17, 35, 74, 93, 112
in Belgium, 224, 230, 233, 236
Ukraine, 191
Vabitj, 191
Vacha, 28
Valenciennes, 300
Vandervelde, M., at Ostend, 285
Van Dyck, birthplace of, 235
pictures by, 220
Varennes, 107, 146
engagement at, 84-103, 113
Vauban, memorials at Longwy, 119, 121
Vauquois, 94
Vélu, château of, 316
Venduyne, 288
Verdun, fortress of, 46, 61, 65, 105, 127, 200, 239
Verhaghen, pictures by, 220
Verlinghem, 313
Vernier, Madame du, 64, 103, 115
Verrier, Lieutenant, 31-33, 38
Very, 94
Vienna, the author in, 9
Vilosnes, 68
Vionville, 146
Visby, 248
Vitry, battle of, 48
Voort, van der, carving by, 249, 250
Vosges, the, 239
Vouziers, the author at, 142, 144-146, 150, 169, 173, 182, 186-196,
200
_Wacht am Rhein, Die_, 235, 341
Wachtmeister, Count, 367
Waelhem, 221, 225, 230
Wagner, Richard, 159
Waldemar, Prince, in Brussels, 231
in Luxemburg, 48, 122
_War and Culture_, Steffen’s, 231, 352, 354, 367 note
War, its psychology, 11
of 1870, Franco-Prussian, 10, 34, 57, 136-139, 146
of 1914-15, probable outcome of, 10
Russo-Japanese, 11
Warsaw, 168
Wartha, the, 79
Wasserbillig, 44
Waterloo, the author at, 210-214
Wavre, 297
Wedel, Prince von, 9
Weddigen, sinks the _Cressy_, _Aboukir_ and _Hogue_, 113, 129
Wegener, Professor Georg, 233
Weimar, 125
author in, 26
Weller, Major von, 299
Wellington, 1st Duke of, at Waterloo, 211, 212, 230
on Antwerp, 270
Werder, General von, 272
Anton von, his pictures of the capitulation of 1870, 137, 138, 158
Werra, the, 28
Wervicq, 357
Wessling, Swedish officer, 146
Western front, length of the, 186, 239, 289
Widenmann, Professor, 62, 114
Wiesbaden, 30
Wilamovitz, Countess, 17
William I., King of Prussia, at Ems, 31-34
at Sedan, 136
statue of, 34
William II., Kaiser, at Douai, 345-347
author’s interviews with, in Luxemburg, 49-54, 123
creates a Navy, 50, 53, 242
grants the author leave to visit the front, 46
his efforts to avert war, 24, 49, 53, 192, 336
his health, 54
his jubilee, 49
his piety, 53
in Metz, 370
visits French prisoners, 32
William III., of England, King, 213
Wimpffen, General, at Donchery, 1870, 137
Winckler, Lieut.-Gen. von, 319, 323, 327
Wine, Germans do not practise abstinence from, 147, 183
Wittenberg, 20
Wittisch, Lieut.-Col., 272, 273
Wittlich, 36
Woevre, 211
Wounded, uniform treatment of, 35, 38-42, 47, 48, 69, 98-102, 133,
151-158, 257, 291
Württemberg, 15, 19
Duke Albrecht of, victory of, 127;
author meets, 165, 168
Landwehr, 74
troops, 93, 127, 196
Xivry, 369
Ypres, xv, 79, 317, 357
English prisoners from, 359-361
Yser Canal, the, 271, 284
fighting on, 290, 295, 317
Zeppelins over Antwerp, 251
Zimmermann, Herr von, Under Secretary of State, 14
Zinsser, Dr., at Vouziers, 150-152, 186
Zobeltitz, Lieut. von, 62
Transcriber's Notes
The following changes have been made to the text as printed.
1. Illustrations and end-of-page footnotes (marked with an asterisk)
have been located in appropriate paragraph breaks.
2. Obvious errors in spelling and punctuation have been silently
corrected.
3. Where a word is used repeatedly in the same way, spelling and
hyphenation have been made consistent, preferring the form most often
used in the printed work, or failing that the more usual form in
general use at the time of publication. No typographical change has
been made within direct quotes from other works.
4. The spelling of the following names has been changed to agree with
normal usage at the time of the original publication:
Page 135: "ordinarily a judge at Frankfort-on-Main" to "...
Frankfurt-on-Main".
Page 188: "In the Argonne forest much blood has flown" to "... has
flowed".
Page 261 (caption) and List of Illustrations: "Bergen-op-Zoon" to
"Bergen-op-Zoom".
Page 378 (chapter heading) and Table of Contents: "Trälleborg" to
"Trelleborg".
5. Index: some entries have been amended in accordance with the
corresponding body text.
6. No change has been made to the following place names, but it is
noted that:
Page 211: "Wawre" is a town in central Belgium, indexed as "Woevre",
now known as "Wavre".
Page 297: "Wavre" is a village near Antwerp, indexed as such, now
known as "Waver".
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