True Stories of the Great War, Volume 2 (of 6)
by unknown · English · Gutenberg #48941 · 624,054 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of True Stories of the Great War, Volume 2 (of 6)
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: True Stories of the Great War, Volume 2 (of 6)
Editor: Francis Trevelyan Miller
Release date: May 12, 2015 [eBook #48941]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48941
Credits: Produced by Brian Coe, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR, VOLUME 2 (OF 6) ***
TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR
TRUE STORIES
OF THE
GREAT WAR
TALES OF ADVENTURE--HEROIC DEEDS--EXPLOITS
TOLD BY THE SOLDIERS, OFFICERS, NURSES,
DIPLOMATS, EYE WITNESSES
_Collected in Six Volumes
From Official and Authoritative Sources_
(_See Introductory to Volume I_)
VOLUME II
Editor-in-Chief
FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER (Litt. D., LL.D.)
Editor of The Search-Light Library
1917
REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1917, by
REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY
CONTENTS
This collection of stories for VOLUME II has been selected by the
Board of Editors, according to the plan outlined in "Introductory"
to Volume I for preserving the "Best Stories of the War" from the
most authentic sources in Europe and America. These pages record 144
personal adventures and episodes told by twenty-four Diplomatists,
Attachées, Aviators, Naval Officers, French Mothers, German Spies,
Soldiers and Eye-Witnesses. Full credit is given in every instance to
the original source.
VOLUME II--TWENTY-FOUR STORY-TELLERS--144 EPISODES
"BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY" 1
Told by Edward Lyell Fox (Permission of Robert M. McBride and Company)
THE "EMDEN"--AN EPIC OF THE GREAT WAR 24
EXPERIENCES ABOARD A GALLANT LITTLE FIGHTING SHIP Told by
Kapitanleutnant Hellmuth Von Mücke (Permission of Ritter and Company)
"THE WAY OF THE CROSS"--A TRAGEDY OF THE RUSSIANS 45
THE MILLIONS WHO HAVE BECOME BEGGARS Told by V. Doroshevitch
(Permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons)
THE NOTEBOOK OF AN ATTACHÉ IN THE EMBASSY AT PARIS 61
A DISPATCH-BEARER IN THE AMERICAN DIPLOMATIC SERVICE Told by Eric
Fisher Wood (Permission of The Century Company)
'NEATH VERDUN--BEHIND THE CROWN PRINCE'S ARMY 79
Told by Lieutenant Maurice Genevoix (Permission of Frederick A.
Stokes Company)
ON THE ANZAC TRAIL--WITH THE FIGHTING AUSTRALASIANS 101
ADVENTURES OF A NEW ZEALAND SAPPER Told by "Anzac" (Name Suppressed)
(Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company)
WITH BOTHA'S ARMY IN GERMAN SOUTHWEST AFRICA 121
ON THE ROAD TO CAPETOWN Told by J. P. Kay Robinson (Permission of E.
P. Dutton and Company)
LAST WORDS OF A "SOLDIER AND DRAMATIST" 140
LETTERS OF HAROLD CHAPIN (Permission of John Lane Company)
THE RUSSIAN ADVANCE--PERSONAL EXPERIENCES OF AN AMERICAN WAR
CORRESPONDENT 158
Told by Stanley Washburn (Permission of Doubleday, Page and Company)
A FRENCH MOTHER IN WAR TIME 170
BEING THE JOURNAL OF MADAME EDOUARD DRUMONT Translated by Grace E.
Bevir (Permission of Longmans, Green and Company)
"THE FALL OF TSINGTAU"--THE WAR IN THE FAR EAST 186
WITH THE JAPANESE IN THE ORIENT Told by Jefferson Jones (Permission
of Houghton, Mifflin and Company)
WITH MY REGIMENT--BRITONS ON THE FIELD OF HONOR 195
FIGHTING FROM THE AISNE TO LA BASSEE Told by a "Platoon Commander"
(Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company)
THE STORY OF COUNT SEILERN 204
A TRAGEDY OF THE HAPSBURGS (Permission of Wide World)
TURNING HEAVENS INTO HELL--EXPLOITS OF CANADIAN FLYING CORPS 228
BATTLE IN AIR WITH ONE HUNDRED AEROPLANES Told by Officer of Royal
Canadian Flying Corps (Permission of New York Herald)
"THE LEGION OF DEATH"--WOMEN SOLDIERS ON THE FIRING-LINE 235
HOW THE RUSSIAN, SERBIAN, AND GERMAN WOMEN GO TO WAR Told by Officers
and Eye-Witnesses from the Battlefields
THE TALE OF THE "TARA" OFF THE AFRICAN COAST 253
RESCUED BY "TANKS IN THE DESERT" Told by Survivors, set down by Lewis
R. Freeman (Permission of Wide World)
THE WHITE SILENCE--WINTER IN THE CARPATHIANS 274
IN THE SNOW-CLAD MOUNTAINS WITH THE AUSTRIANS Told by Ludwig Bauer
(Permission of New Yorker Staats-Zeitung and New York Tribune)
"MY TEN YEARS OF INTRIGUE IN THE KAISER'S SECRET SERVICE" 282
THE PLOT TO DYNAMITE THE WELLAND CANAL Told by Horst Von Der Goltz
(Permission of Robert M. McBride and Company and New York World)
REAL-LIFE ROMANCES OF THE WAR 298
Told by Malcolm Savage Treacher (Permission of Wide World)
THE IRISHMEN OF THE FIGHTING TENTH AT MACEDONIA 326
Told by One of the Fighting Irishmen (Permission of London Weekly
Despatch)
THE ARTIFICIAL VOLCANO 334
AN INCIDENT OF THE ITALIAN CAMPAIGN IN THE DOLOMITES Told by Capitano
Z----, of the Royal Italian Engineers (Permission of Wide World)
LAST HOURS OF EDITH CAVELL ON NIGHT OF EXECUTION 342
EXPERIENCE OF AMERICAN DIPLOMAT IN EFFORT TO SAVE LIFE OF ENGLISH
NURSE Told by Hugh Gibson (Permission of World's Work)
A BAYONET CHARGE IN PICARDY 353
Told by a British Army Captain (Permission of Current History)
THE SLAUGHTER AT DOUAUMONT 359
Told by a French Soldier
[Illustration: British Official Photo, by International Film Service.
BASEBALL PLAYERS AND CRICKETERS MAKE GOOD GRENADE THROWERS
_Position No. 1 in Bombing_]
[Illustration: THE HELL OF "LIQUID FIRE" WHICH HAS BECOME A REGULAR
PART OF WAR]
AN AMERICAN "BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY"
_Told by Edward Lyell Fox, Special Correspondent with the Kaiser's
Armies and in Berlin_
This vivid and authentic narrative covering five months of thrilling
experience with the Kaiser's Armies in France, Belgium, Austria,
Russia and Germany, is the first hand impressions of an American
writer whose special credentials from the German Government enabled
him to go everywhere and see everything through official courtesies
not extended to other observers in the field. Mr. Fox has interviewed
the Kings of Bavaria and Saxony, the Crown Prince, General von
Hindenberg, the Governor General of Belgium, and the President of
the Reichstag. He has witnessed the campaigning at close range in
the trenches at Arras and Ypres, has lived with the German officers
at headquarters, has surveyed the battlefield from an aeroplane and
a Zeppelin and has enjoyed the unique sensations of scouting under
the sea in a submarine, and as a final unprecedented experience has
covered with an official escort the whole length of General von
Hindenberg's battle line in Russia. One chapter of his experiences is
here recorded from his book: "Behind the Scenes in Warring Germany,"
by courtesy of his publishers, _Robert M. McBride and Company_, New
York: Copyright 1915.
[1] I--STORY OF A NIGHT ON THE BALTIC SEA
In the lingering twilight, the Baltic's choppy swells turned dark and
over the bow I saw a vague gray strip of land--Germany! I was at the
gateway of war.
For two hours the railway ferry had plowed between the mines that strew
the way to Denmark with potential death, and as slowly the houses of
Warnemunde appeared in shadow against the darkening day, some one
touched my arm.
"Safe now."
He was the courier. He had traveled with me from New York to
Copenhagen, a bland, reserved young man, with a caution beyond his
years. I had come to know he was making the trip as a German courier,
and he was an American with no Teutonic blood in his veins! Knowing the
ropes, he had suggested that he see me through to Berlin.
"It's good we came over the Baltic," he remarked, "instead of making
that long trip through Jutland. We save eight hours."
"Yes," I agreed, "nothing like slipping in the back door."
And being new to it then, and being very conscious of certain letters
I carried, and of the power implied in the documents which I knew he
carried, I wondered what the frontier guard would do. During the two
hours we ferried from the Danish shore the passengers talked in a
troubled way of military search given every one at Warnemunde and I
smiled to myself in a reassuring way. Yes, they would be searched, poor
devils!... But the courier and I? I wondered if the German Lieutenant
at Warnemunde would ask us to take coffee with him. I even took out my
watch. No, it could hardly be done, for by the time the soldiers had
finished searching all these passengers the train would be leaving. Too
bad! Coffee and a chat with some other lieutenant, then.
"Yes," the courier was saying as the ferry docked and we caught, under
the glint of the sentries' rifles, a glimpse of the _Landwehr_ red and
blue, "it will be so easy here--just a formality, whereas if we had
taken the other route it no doubt would have been harder. You see," he
explained, "when a train crosses the Kiel canal a soldier is posted in
every compartment, the window shades are pulled down and the passengers
are warned not to look out on penalty of instant death. Of course that
is necessary for military reasons. Naturally the whole inspection at
that frontier is more severe because of the Kiel canal."
By this time the big boat had been made fast to a long railroad pier
and as we crossed the gang plank we made out in the bluish haze of an
arc lamp, a line of soldiers who seemed to be herding the passengers
into what appeared to be a long wooden shed newly built. Crowds are
the same the world over, so no one held back, all pushing, luggage and
passports in hand, into the frame structure built, I realized, for
purposes of military inspection.
II--STORY OF THE GUARDS AT GATES TO GERMANY
Sluggishly the mass moved forward. Presently I saw it divide half-way
down the room, to pause before two openings at which six soldiers
waited, like ticket takers in a circus. I was near enough now to
observe the lantern light dimly shining upon two crude desk tops,
slanting down from the wall which gave entrance through a doorway to a
larger room beyond; and everywhere gleamed the glint of gun barrels,
the red and blue or gray of military hats, while an increasing flow of
German, punctuated with "_Donnerwetter!_" and "_Das ist genug_," was
heard above the shuffle of feet and the thumping of trunks and bags on
the counters in the room beyond. I wondered what two men in civilian
clothes were doing among the soldiers; I saw them dart about, notebooks
in hand. Later I learned more of these men who seemed to have it in
their power to make the passengers they challenged either comfortable
or uncomfortable.
And then it was my turn. Having seen the passenger in front throw both
hands over his head, unconsciously inviting the kind of search given a
criminal, I decided such submissiveness a blunder. As I expected, the
soldier was a perfectly sane human being who did not begin punching a
revolver against me--which certain printed words I had read in New York
implied was the usual prelude to a German searching party--rather this
soldier most courteously asked to see my wallet. I gave it to him. I
would have given him anything. Our coöperation was perfect. There was
no need for me to bring my exhaustive knowledge of the German language
into play. Talking fluently with my hands, now and then uttering
"_danke_," I tried to assist his search, meanwhile hopelessly looking
about for the courier. I was depending not only upon his fluent German
but also upon his superior knowledge of the situation to help me to
pass serenely through this ordeal. Alas, the crowd hid him.
Suddenly my soldier grunted something. Until now we had been getting
along splendidly and I could not conceal my surprise when he took from
my wallet a handful of letters and stared at them in bewilderment. The
more he stared the more his regard for me seemed to vanish. Although
he could not understand English he could recognize a proper name, for
the letters bore the addresses of decidedly influential men in Germany.
They challenged his suspicion. Thoroughly puzzled he opened the letters
and tried to read them. When he compared my passport with a letter I
saw his face light up. I realized that he had recognized my name in the
contents. Whereupon, greatly relieved, assured now that everything was
all right, I held out my hand for both letters and wallet. Not yet. A
rumble of words and the soldier called one of those busy civilians
with the notebooks.
This person spoke a little English. The letters interested him. Where
had I found them?... My spine began to feel cold. I replied that they
had been given me in New York and remembering that I had the courier
to rely on, I suggested that they have a word with him. It was then
that I heard an excited deluge of words and, glancing over my shoulder,
I observed that the courier was thoroughly flanked and surrounded by
five _Landwehr_ who apparently were much in earnest about something.
Concluding that some cog had slipped I racked my wits to make the best
of what was rapidly becoming a difficult situation.
The soldier having turned me over to the civilian I noticed several
suspicious glances in my direction, and blessed the luck that had
impelled me to go to the American Legation and the German Consulate in
Copenhagen for visés. That the civilian who was taking such an interest
in me belonged to the secret service, I was certain. I appealed to his
sense of discretion.
"Your passport seems all right," he thoughtfully observed, and opened
a little book. "Where are you going?"
I told him to Hamburg but could not tell him where I would stay, for
the excellent reason that not the name of a single Hamburg hotel was
known to me.
"Only for a few days, though," I said, adding hopefully; "after that I
go to Berlin to Hotel Adlon."
As fast as his pencil could move he wrote the address in his book.
"These letters," he said reluctantly, tapping them on his hand, "I
must take now. If everything is all right, they will be sent to you in
Berlin."
"But it is important that I have them," I protested, "they are my
introductions. You cannot tell me how long I may have to wait for them?
You can see from them that I am a responsible person known to your
people."
"I know," he replied, "but they are written in English, and to bring
letters written in English into Germany is forbidden. I am sorry."
He was thus politely relieving me of all my credentials when I happened
to think that in my inner waistcoat pocket lay a letter I had yet
to show them--a communication so important to me that I had kept it
separate from the others. Moreover I remembered it was sealed and that
properly used it might save the day. It was worth a trial.
Realizing that the thing had to be staged I impressively drew the
police spy aside and employing the familiar "stage business" of side
glances and exaggerated caution I slowly took the note--it was a mere
letter of introduction to the Foreign Office--from my waistcoat. If
the soldier's eyes had opened wide at the other addresses, the police
agent's now fairly bulged. Handing him the envelope I pointed to
what was typed in the upper left-hand corner--_Kaiserliche Deutsche
Botschaft, Washington, D. C._--and simply said "_Verstehen sie?_"
He _verstehened_. Being an underling he understood so well that
after a few moments he returned all the letters he had appropriated
and instantly changing his manner, he facilitated the rest of the
inspection. After my baggage was examined by more soldiers (and those
soldiers did their duty, even going through the pockets of clothes in
my trunks) I was told I might go.
"_Gute reise_," the police agent called--"Good journey."
Although treated with all courtesy I was afraid somebody might change
his mind, so hurrying out of the last room of the long wooden shed I
proceeded down the platform to the train at a pace that must have
shown signs of breaking into a run. There in my compartment the
thoughts that came to me were in this order:
There must be reason for such a rigid inspection; no doubt spies must
have been caught recently trying to enter Germany at Warnemunde.
If I hadn't lost the courier in the crowd there would have been plain
sailing.
III--STORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS PAPERS
The minutes passed. It was nearly time for the train to start. Where
was the courier? Presently, rather pale, nervous in speech, but as
reserved and cool as ever he limply entered the compartment and threw
himself on the cushions.
"They took everything," he announced. "All they left me was a pair of
pajamas."
"What! You mean they have your papers?"
"All of them," he smiled. "Likewise a trunk full of letters and a
valise. Oh, well, they'll send them on. They took my address. Gad, they
stripped me through!"
I began laughing. The courier could see no mirth in the situation.
"You," I gasped, "you, who by all rights should have paraded through,
from you they take everything while they let me pass."
"Do you mean to say," he exclaimed, "that they didn't take your
letters?"
"Not one," I grinned.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he said.
Locked in the compartment we nervously watched the door, half expecting
that the police spy would come back for us. We could not have been
delayed more than a few minutes, but it seemed hours, before, with
German regard for comfort, the train glided out of the shed. It must
have been trying on my companion's good humor, but the absurdity of
stripping a courier of everything he carried, was irresistible. Perhaps
it was our continued laughter that brought the knock on the door.
Pushing aside the curtains we saw outside--for it was one of the new
German wagons with a passageway running the entire length of one side
of the car--a tall, broad-shouldered, lean man with features and
expression both typical and unmistakable.
"An Englishman!"
We saw him smile and shake his head. I hesitatingly let fall the
curtain and looked at the courier.
"Let him in," he said. "He's got the brand of an English university boy
all over him. We'll have a chat with him. You don't mind, do you?"
"Mind!" In my eagerness I banged back the compartment doors with a
crash that brought down the conductor. I saw my companion hastily
corrupt that official whose murmured "_Bitte schon_" implied an
un-Teutonic disregard for the fact that he had done something
_verboten_ by admitting a second-class passenger into a first-class
coupé; and the stranger entered.
We were gazing upon a strikingly handsome, fair-haired man not yet
thirty. His eyes twinkled when he said that he supposed we were
Americans. His manner and intonation made me stare at him.
"And you?" we finally asked.
"I'm going first to Berlin, then to Petrograd," he said, perhaps
avoiding our question. "Business trip."
We chatted on, the obvious thought obsessing me. Of course the man was
an English spy. But how absurd! If his face did not give him away to
any one who knew--and my word for it, those police spies do know!--he
would be betrayed by his mannerisms. His accent would instantly cry
out the English in him. Of what could Downing Street be thinking? It
was sending this man to certain death. One began to feel sorry for him.
Feeling the intimacy brought by the common experience at Warnemunde, I
presently said:
"You certainly have your nerve with you, traveling in Germany with
_your_ accent."
"Why?" he laughed. "A neutral is safe."
Expecting he would follow this up by saying that he was an American I
looked inquiring and when he sought to turn the subject I asked:
"Neutral? What country?"
"Denmark," he smiled.
"But your accent?" I persisted.
"I do talk a bit English, do I not? I had quite a go at it, though;
lived in London a few years, you know."
Nerve? I marveled at it. Stark foolhardy courage, or did a secret
commission from Downing Street make this the merest commonplace of
duty? Charming company, he hurried along the time with well-told
anecdotes of the Russian capital and Paris, in both of which places he
said he had been since the war began. As we drew near Lübeck, where a
thirty-five minute stop was allowed for dinner in the station, and the
stranger showed no signs of going back to his own compartment, I could
see that the courier was becoming annoyed. Relapsing into silence he
only broke it to reply to the "Dane" in monosyllables; finally, to my
surprise, the courier became downright rude. As the stranger, from the
start, had been extremely courteous, this rudeness surprised me, more
so, as it seemed deliberate. Bludgeoned by obvious hints the stranger
excused himself, and as soon as he was gone my companion leaned towards
me.
"You were surprised at my rudeness," he said, and then in an undertone;
"it was deliberate."
"I saw that. But why?"
"Because," he explained, "seeing we are Americans that fellow wanted to
travel with us all the way through. He must have known that American
company is the best to be seen in over here these days. He might have
made trouble for us."
"Then you think he's English?"
"Think! Why, they must have let him through at Warnemunde for a reason.
He has a Danish passport right enough. I saw it in the inspection
room. But I'll bet you anything there's a police spy in this train,
undoubtedly in the same compartment with him."
One felt uncomfortable. One thought that those police spies must
dislike one even more now.
"That means we may be suspected as being confederates," I gloomily
suggested.
Whether he was getting back for my having guyed him about losing his
papers I do not know, but the courier said we probably were suspected.
Whereupon the book I tried to read became a senseless jumble of words
and our compartment door became vastly more interesting. When would it
open to admit the police spy?... Confound the luck! Everything breaking
wrong.
IV--STORY OF A RIDE FROM LÜBECK TO HAMBURG
But at Lübeck nothing happened--nothing to us. A train load of
wounded had just come in and our hearts jumped at the sight of the
men in the gray-green coats of the firing line, slowly climbing the
long iron steps from the train platforms. Hurrying, we saw them go
clumping down a long, airy waiting room and as they approached
the street their hobbling steps suddenly quickened to the sharper
staccato of the canes upon which they leaned. Hurrying too, we saw
there a vague mass of pallid faces in a dense crowd; some one waved a
flag;--it stuck up conspicuously above that throng;--some one darted
forth;--"_Vater!_"--"_Liebes Mütterchen!_"
Past the burly _Landsturm_, who was trying his utmost to frown his
jolly face into threatening lines that would keep back the crowd, a
woman was scurrying. One of the big gray-green wounded men caught her
in his arm--the other arm hung in a black sling--and she clung to him
as though some one might take him away, and because she was a woman,
she wept in her moment of happiness. Her _Mann_ had come home....
Forgetting the dinner we were to have eaten in the Lübeck station, we
finally heeded a trainman's warning and turned back to our car. There
remained etched in my mind the line of pallid, apprehensive faces, the
tiny waving flags, the little woman and the big man. It was my first
sight of war.
From Lübeck to Hamburg the ride was uneventful. The hour was not late
and beyond remarking that the towns through which we passed were
not as brilliantly lighted as usual, the courier could from the car
window observe no difference between the Germany of peace and of war.
Here and there we noticed bridges and trestles patroled by _Landwehr_
and outside our compartment we read the handbill requesting every
passenger to aid the government in preventing spies throwing explosives
from the car windows. From the conductor we learned that there had
been such attempts to delay the passage of troop trains. Whereupon
we congratulated ourselves upon buying the conductor, as we had the
compartment to ourselves. One thought of what would have happened had
there been an excitable German in with us and while the train was
crossing a bridge, we had innocently opened a window for air!
It was almost ten when the close, clustered lights of Hamburg closed in
against the trackside and we caught our first glimpse of the swarming
_Bahnhof_. Soldiers everywhere. The blue of the Reservists, the
gray-green of the Regulars--a shifting tide of color swept the length
of the long platforms, rising against the black slopes of countless
staircases, overrunning the vast halls above, increasing, as car after
car emptied its load. And then, as at Lübeck, we saw white bandages
coming down under cloth-covered helmets and caps, or arms slung in
black slings; the slightly wounded were coming in from the western
front.
All this time we had forgotten the Englishman, and it was with a start
that we recalled him.
"If he spots us," advised my companion, "we've got to hand him the cold
shoulder. Mark my words, he'll try to trail along to the same hotel and
stick like a leech."
Again he was right. At the baggage room the Englishman overtook us,
suggesting that we make a party of it--he knew a gay café--first going
to the hotel. He suggested the _Atlantic_. Bluntly he was informed we
were visiting friends, but nothing would do then but we must agree to
meet him in, say, an hour. Not until he found it an impossibility did
he give us up and finally, with marvelous good nature, he said good
night. The last I saw of him was his broad back disappearing through a
door into a street.
The courier nudged me.
"Quick," he whispered, "look,--the man going out the next door."
Before I could turn I knew whom he meant. I saw only the man's profile
before he, too, disappeared into the street; but it was a face
difficult to forget, for it had been close to me at Warnemunde; it was
the face of the police spy.
"I told you they purposely let him get through," continued my friend.
"That police fellow must have come down on the train from Warnemunde. I
tell you it's best not to pick up with any one these days. Suppose we
had fallen for that Englishman and gone to a café with him to-night--a
nice mess!"
It was in a restaurant a few hours later that I saw my first Iron
Cross, black against a gray-green coat and dangling from a button.
In _Bieber's_, a typical better class café of the new German type,
luxurious with its marble walls and floors, and with little soft rugs
underfoot and colored wicker tables and chairs, one felt the new spirit
of this miracle of nations. On the broad landing of a wide marble
staircase an orchestra played soldier songs and above the musicians,
looking down on his people, loomed a bust of Wilhelm II, _Von Gottes
Gnaden, Kaiser von Deutschland_. About him, between the flags of
Austria-Hungary and Turkey, blazed the black, white, and red, and
there where all might read, hung the proclamation of August to the
German people. We had read it through to the last line: "_Forward with
God who will be with us as he was with our Fathers!_"--when we heard
an excited inflection in the murmurings from the many tables--"_Das
Eiserne Kreuz!_" And we saw the officer from whose coat dangled the
black maltese cross, outlined in silver. His cheeks flushed, proud
of a limping, shot-riddled leg, proud of his Emperor's decoration,
but prouder still that he was a German; he must have forgotten all of
battle and suffering during that brief walk between the tables. Cheers
rang out, then a song, and when finally the place quieted everybody
stared at that little cross of black as though held by some hypnotic
power.
So! We were Americans, he said when we finally were presented. That
was good. We--that is--I had come to write of the war as seen from the
German side. Good, _sehr gut_! He had heard the Allies, especially the
English,--_Verfluchte Englanderschwein!_--were telling many lies in the
American newspapers. How could any intelligent man believe them?
In his zeal for the German cause his Iron Cross, his one shattered leg,
the consciousness that he was a hero, all were forgotten. Of course
I wanted to hear his story--the story of that little piece of metal
hanging from the black and white ribbon on his coat--but tenaciously he
refused. That surprised me until I knew Prussian officers.
So we left the man with the Iron Cross, marveling not at his modesty
but that it embodied the spirit of the German army; whereas I thought
I knew that spirit. But not until the next night, when I left Hamburg
behind, where every one was pretending to be busy and the nursemaids
and visitors were still tossing tiny fish to the wintering gulls in
the upper lake; not until the train was bringing me to Berlin did I
understand what it meant. At the stations I went out and walked with
the passengers and watched the crowds; I talked with a big business man
of Hamburg--bound for Berlin because he had nothing to do in Hamburg;
then it was I faintly began to grasp the tremendous emotional upheaval
rumbling in every Germanic soul.
V--STORY OF THE SOLDIERS IN BERLIN
My first impression of Berlin was the long cement platform gliding by,
a dazzling brilliance of great arc lamps and a rumbling chorus of song.
Pulling down the compartment window I caught the words "_Wir kämpfen_
_Mann für Mann, für Kaiser and Reich!_" And leaning out I could see
down at the other end of the Friederichstrasse Station a regiment
going to the front.
Flowers bloomed from the long black tubes from which lead was soon to
pour; wreaths and garlands hung from cloth-covered helmets; cartridge
belts and knapsacks were festooned with ferns. The soldiers were
all smoking; cigars and cigarettes had been showered upon them with
prodigal hand. Most of them held their guns in one hand and packages of
delicacies in the other; and they were climbing into the compartments
or hanging out of the windows singing, always singing, in the terrific
German way. Later I was to learn that they went into battle with the
"_Wacht am Rhein_" on their lips and a wonderful trust in God in their
hearts.
I felt that trust now. I saw it in the confident face of the young
private who hung far out of the compartment in order to hold his wife's
hand. It was not the way a conscript looks. This soldier's blue eyes
sparkled as with a holy cause, and as I watched this man and wife I
marveled at their sunny cheer. I saw that each was wonderfully proud
of the other and that this farewell was but an incident in the sudden
complexity of their lives. The Fatherland had been attacked: her man
must be a hero. It was all so easy, so brimming with confidence. Of
course he would come back to her.... You believed in the Infinite
ordering of things that he would.
Walking on down the platform I saw another young man. They were all
young, strapping fellows in their new uniforms of field gray. He was
standing beside the train; he seemed to want to put off entering the
car until the last minute. He was holding a bundle of something white
in his arms, something that he hugged to his face and kissed, while the
woman in the cheap furs wept, and I wondered if it was because of the
baby she cried, while that other childless young wife had smiled.
Back in the crowd I saw a little woman with white hair; she was too
feeble to push her way near the train. She was dabbing her eyes and
waving to a big, mustached man who filled a compartment door and who
shouted jokes to her. And almost before they all could realize it, the
train was slipping down the tracks; the car windows filled with singing
men, the long gray platform suddenly shuffling to the patter of men's
feet, as though they would all run after the train as far as they could
go. But the last car slipped away and the last waving hand fell weakly
against a woman's side. They seemed suddenly old, even the young wife,
as they slowly walked away. Theirs was not the easiest part to play in
the days of awful waiting while the young blood of the nation poured
out to turn a hostile country red.
I thought I had caught the German spirit at Lübeck and at the café in
Hamburg when the hero of the Iron Cross had declined to tell me his
tale; but this sensation that had come with my setting foot on the
Berlin station--this was something different. Fifteen hundred men going
off to what?--God only knows!--fifteen hundred virile types of this
nation of virility; and they had laughed and they had sung, and they
had kissed their wives and brothers and babies as though these helpless
ones should only be proud that their little household was helping their
Fatherland and their Emperor. Self? It was utterly submerged. On that
station platform I realized that there is but one self in all Germany
to-day and that is the soul of the nation. Nothing else matters; a
sacrifice is commonplace. Wonderful? Yes. But then we Americans fought
that way at Lexington; any nation can fight that way when it is a thing
of the heart; and this war is all of the heart in Germany. As we walked
through the station gates I understood why three million Socialists
who had fought their Emperor in and out of the Reichstag, suddenly
rallied to his side, agreeing "I know no parties, only Germans." I felt
as I thought of the young faces of the soldiers, cheerfully starting
down into the unknown hell of war, that undoubtedly among their number
were Socialists. In this national crisis partisan allegiance counted
for nothing, they had ceased dealing with the Fatherland in terms of
the mind and gave to it only the heart.
Even in Berlin I realized that war stalks down strange by-paths.
It forever makes one feel the incongruous. It disorders life in a
monstrous way. I have seen it in an instant make pictures that the
greatest artist would have given his life to have done. It likes to
deal in contrasts; it is jolting....
With General von Loebell I walked across the Doeberitz camp, which is
near Berlin. At Doeberitz new troops were being drilled for the front.
We walked towards a dense grove of pines above which loomed the sky,
threateningly gray. Between the trees I saw the flash of yellow flags;
a signal squad was drilling. Skirting the edge of the woods we came to
a huge, cleared indentation where twenty dejected English prisoners
were leveling the field for a parade ground. On the left I saw an
opening in the trees; a wagon trail wound away between the pines. And
then above the rattling of the prisoners' rakes I heard the distant
strains of a marching song that brought a lump to my throat. Back there
in the woods somewhere, some one had started a song; and countless
voices took up the chorus; and through the trees I saw a moving line of
gray-green and down the road tramped a company of soldiers. They were
all singing and their boyish voices blended with forceful beauty. "In
the Heimat! In the Heimat!" It was the favorite medley of the German
army.
The prisoners stopped work; unconsciously some of those dispirited
figures in British khaki stiffened. And issuing from the woods in
squads of fours, all singing, tramped the young German reserves,
swinging along not fifteen feet from the prison gang in olive drab--"In
the Heimat!" And out across the Doeberitz plains they swung, big and
snappy.
"They're ready," remarked General von Loebell. "They've just received
their field uniforms."
And then there tramped out of the woods another company, and another,
two whole regiments, the last thundering "_Die Wacht am Rhein_," and
we went near enough to see the pride in their faces, the excitement in
their eyes; near enough to see the Englishmen, young lads, too, who
gazed after the swinging column with a soldier's understanding, but
being prisoners and not allowed to talk, they gave no expression to
their emotions and began to scrape their rakes over the hard ground....
VI--STORY OF "THE HALL OF AWFUL DOUBT"
I stood on the Dorotheenstrasse looking up at the old red brick
building which before the second of August in this year of the world
war was the War Academy. I had heard that when tourists come to Berlin
they like to watch the gay uniformed officers ascending and descending
the long flights of gray steps; for there the cleverest of German
military youths are schooled for the General Staff. Like the tourists,
I stood across the street to-day and watched the old building and the
people ascending or descending the long flights of gray steps. Only
I saw civilians, men alone and in groups, women with shawls wrapped
around their heads, women with yellow topped boots, whose motors
waited beside the curb, and children, clinging to the hands of women,
all entering or leaving by the gray gate; some of the faces were happy
and others were wet with tears, and still others stumbled along with
heavy steps. For this old building on Dorotheenstrasse is no longer the
War Academy; it is a place where day after day hundreds assemble to
learn the fate of husband, kin or lover. For inside the gray gate sits
the Information Bureau of the War Ministry, ready to tell the truth
about every soldier in the German army! I, too, went to learn the truth.
I climbed a creaking staircase and went down a creaking hall. I met
the Count von Schwerin, who is in charge. I found myself in a big,
high-ceilinged room the walls of which were hung with heroic portraits
of military dignitaries. My first impression was of a wide arc of desks
that circling from wall to wall seemed to be a barrier between a number
of gentle-spoken, elderly gentlemen and a vague mass of people that
pressed forward. The anxious faces of all these people reminded me of
another crowd that I had seen--the crowd outside the White Star offices
in New York when the _Titanic_ went down. And I became conscious that
the decorations of this room which, the Count was explaining, was the
Assembly Hall of the War Academy, were singularly appropriate--the
pillars and walls of gray marble, oppressively conveying a sense of
coldness, insistent cold, like a tomb, and all around you the subtle
presence of death, the death of hopes. It was the Hall of Awful Doubt.
And as I walked behind the circle of desks I learned that these men of
tact and sympathy, too old for active service, were doing their part
in the war by helping to soften with kindly offices the blow of fate.
I stood behind them for some few moments and watched, although I felt
like one trespassing upon the privacy of grief. I saw in a segment of
the line a fat, plain-looking woman, with a greasy child clinging to
her dress, a white-haired man with a black muffler wrapped around his
neck, a veiled woman, who from time to time begged one of the elderly
clerks to hurry the news of her husband, and then a wisp of a girl in a
cheap, rose-colored coat, on whose cheeks two dabs of rouge burned like
coals.
Soldiers from the Berlin garrison were used there as runners. At the
bidding of the gentle old men they hastened off with the inquiry to one
of the many filing rooms and returned with the news. This day there was
a new soldier on duty; he was new to the Hall of Awful Doubt.
"I cannot imagine what is keeping him so long," I heard an elderly
clerk tell the woman with the veil. "He'll come any minute.... There he
is now. Excuse me, please."
And the elderly clerk hurried to meet the soldier, wanting to intercept
the news, if it were bad, and break it gently. But as he caught sight
of the clerk I saw the soldier click his heels and, as if he were
delivering a message to an officer, his voice boomed out: "_Tot!_" ...
Dead!
And the woman with the veil gave a little gasp, a long, low moan,
and they carried her to another room; and as I left the gray room,
with the drawn, anxious faces pushing forward for their turns at the
black-covered desks, I realized the heart-rending sacrifice of the
women of France, Belgium, Russia, England, Servia, and Austria, who,
like these German mothers, wives, sweethearts, had been stricken down
in the moment of hope.
VII--STORY OF A NIGHT IN BERLIN
That night I went to the Jägerstrasse, to Maxim's. The place is
everything the name suggests; one of those Berlin cafés that open when
the theaters are coming out and close when the last girl has smiled
and gone off with the last man. I sat in a white and gold room with a
cynical German surgeon, listening to his comments.
"It is the best in town now," he explained. "All the Palais de Danse
girls come here. Don't be in a hurry. I know what you want for your
articles. You'll see it soon."
Maxim's, like most places of the sort, was methodically banal. But
one by one officers strolled in and soon a piano struck up the notes
of a patriotic song. When the music began the girls left the little
tables where they had been waiting for some man to smile, and swarmed
around the piano, singing one martial song upon another, while officers
applauded, drank their healths, and asked them to sing again.
Time passed and the girls sang on, flushed and savage as the music
crashed to the cadenzas of war. What were the real emotions of these
subjects of Germany; had the war genuine thrills for them? I had talked
with decent women of all classes about the war; what of the women whose
hectic lives had destroyed real values?
"Get one of those girls over here," I told the surgeon, "and ask her
what she thinks of the war."
"Do you really mean it?" he said with a cynical smile.
"Surely. This singing interests me. I wonder what's back of it?"
He called one of them. "Why not sing?" Hilda said with a shrug. "What
else? There are few men here now and there are fewer every night. What
do I think of this war? My officer's gone to the front without leaving
me enough to keep up the apartment. _Krieg? Krieg ist schrecklich!_ War
is terrible!"
My German friend was laughing.
"War?" he smiled. "And you thought it was going to change that kind."
But I was thinking of the woman with the veil whom I had seen in the
Hall of Awful Doubt; and outside the night air felt cool and clean....
But my symbol of Berlin is not these things--not bustling streets
filled with motors, swarming with able-bodied men whom apparently the
army did not yet need. Its summation is best expressed by the varied
sights and emotions of an afternoon in mid-December.
Lodz has fallen; again Hindenburg has swept back the Russian hordes.
Black-shawled women call the extras. Berlin rises out of its calmness
and goes mad. Magically the cafés fill.... I am walking down a side
street. I see people swarming toward a faded yellow brick church. They
seem fired with a zealot's praise. I go in after them and see them
fall on their knees.... They are thanking Him for the Russian rout....
Wondering I go out. I come to another church. Its aisles are black with
bowed backs; the murmur of prayer drones like bees; a robed minister is
intoning:
"Oh, Almighty Father, we thank Thee that Thou art with us in our fight
for the right; we thank Thee that----"
It is very quiet in there. War seems a thing incredibly far away. The
sincerity of these people grips your heart. I feel as I never felt
in church before. Something mysteriously big and reverent stirs all
around.... Then outside in the street drums rattle, feet thump. A
regiment is going to the front! I hurry to see it go by, but back in
the church the bowed forms pray on.
(This American observer now leaves Berlin to go to the battle-front
with the German armies. He continues to narrate his experiences in some
of the world's greatest battles. He tells the first complete account of
the great battle of Augustowo Wald in which the Russian army of 240,000
men was annihilated, and how he was a guest of honor at the "Feast of
Victory.")
FOOTNOTE:
[1] All numerals throughout this volume relate to the stories herein
related--not to chapters in the original book.
THE "EMDEN"--AN EPIC OF THE GREAT WAR
_Experiences Aboard a Gallant Little Fighting Ship_
_By Kapitanleutnant Hellmuth Von Mücke, of His Emperor's Ship, The
"Emden"--Translated by Helene S. White_
The tale of the _Emden_ is one of the greatest sea stories in all
history. Fighting its way through the China Seas, into the Bay of
Bengal, and across the Indian Ocean, knowing that sooner or later it
must face death, the crew of this gallant ship defeated and captured
twenty-four enemy ships, destroying cargoes and property valued at
$10,000,000--in two months roving the high seas. The romantic voyage
began on September 10th and ended on November 9th, 1914. It was a
crew of "jolly good fellows" that sailed under Commander von Müller;
their adventures won the admiration not only of their enemies but of
the whole world. An authentic story of this epic of the seas is told
by Lieutenant Captain von Mücke, of the _Emden_ in a volume relating
its exploits. He has also written a book bearing on the adventures
of the landing squad in "The Ayesha." There is nothing more
sensationally adventuresome in fiction than these voyages. The most
improbable romance is outdone by the exploits of the gallant German
seamen. Commander von Müller of the _Emden_ is a prisoner of war in
England at the time that these accounts are written. Selections are
here given from the volume on the _Emden_, with permission of the
publishers, _Ritter and Company_, Copyright 1917.
[2] I--STORY OF ADVENTURES ON THE YELLOW SEA
"All hands aft," shrilled the whistles of the boatswain's mate through
all the ship's decks. Quickly all the officers and crew assembled on
the after deck. Everyone knew what it was for.
It was at two o'clock on the afternoon of the second day of August,
1914, while our ship lay far out in the Yellow Sea, that Captain von
Mueller appeared on the poop, holding in his hand a slip of paper such
as is used for messages by wireless. In eager expectancy three hundred
pairs of eyes were fixed upon the lips of our Commander as he began to
speak.
"The following wireless message has just been received from Tsingtao:
'On August first, his Majesty, the Emperor, ordered the mobilization
of the entire land and naval forces of the Empire. Russian troops have
crossed the border into Germany. As a consequence, the Empire is at war
with Russia and with France...."
* * * * *
Three cheers for his Majesty, the Emperor, rang out over the broad
surface of the Yellow Sea. Then came the order that sent every man to
his post,--"Clear ship for action."
And so it had come to pass--the war was upon us!...
* * * * *
"Guns ready!" "Torpedo service ready!" "Engines and auxiliary engines
ready!" "Leak service ready!" "Steering service ready!" "Signal and
wireless service ready!"
Rapidly, one after the other, the reports from all over the ship were
now coming in, and demanded my attention to the exclusion of all
further thought and reflection. A quick tour of inspection through the
ship assured me that all was in readiness, and I could report to our
Commander, "The ship is clear for action."
At a speed of fifteen nautical miles we were proceeding toward the
Strait of Tchusima. When darkness came on, the war watch was begun on
the _Emden_, which is done in the following manner: Half of the men of
the crew remain awake and on duty at their posts,--at the guns, at the
searchlights and lookouts, in the torpedo room, in the engine and fire
rooms, etc., while the others are allowed to go to sleep with their
clothes on, and ready, at a moment's notice, to get to their posts. The
commander of the ship takes charge of one of these watches, and the
other one is in command of the first officer.
After passing through the Strait of Tchusima, the _Emden_ steered
northward. There was no moon, and the night was pitch black. It was
too dark to see anything even in our immediate vicinity. We were,
of course, traveling with all lights screened. Not a ray of light
was allowed to escape from the ship, nor the least bit of smoke from
her funnels. There was a moderate sea running, and the water was
unusually bright with phosphorescence. The water churned up by our
screws stretched away behind the ship in a shimmering wake of light
green. The waves dashing high up against the bow, and the water
tumbling and breaking against the sides, splashed the whole ship with
a phosphorescent glitter, and made her appear as though she had been
dipped into molten gold of a greenish hue. Occasionally, there appeared
in the water large shining spots of great length, so that a number of
times the lookouts reported undersea boats in sight.
At four o'clock in the morning the port war watch, which I commanded,
was relieved. The Commander now took charge. The day was just dawning.
I had just gone to my cabin, and had lain down to rest, when I was
wakened by the shrill call of the alarm bells and the loud noise of
many hurrying feet. "Clear ship for action," the order went echoing
from room to room. In an instant everyone was at his post. Were we
really to be so fortunate as to fall in, on our very first day, with
one of the Russian or French ships that had been reported to us as
being in the vicinity of Vladivostok?
By the trembling of the ship we could tell that the engine had been
put on high speed. In the gray of the early morning we sighted, ahead
of us and a little to the right, a vessel somewhat larger than our
own, which was also traveling with screened lights, and looked like a
man-of-war. Our commander ordered a course toward her at high speed.
Hardly had she seen us when she turned hard about, took the contrary
course, and ran away from us, the dense column of smoke rising from her
funnels indicating that her engines were working at maximum power. The
pursued ship took a course directly toward the Japanese Islands, lying
about ten miles distant. A black cloud of smoke streamed behind her,
rested on the water, and, for a while, hid her from sight entirely. We
could see nothing of her but the mast tops, and so found it impossible
to discover the nature of the vessel with which we were dealing. That
she was not a neutral was evident enough from her behavior. Therefore,
after her with full speed!
II--STORY OF CAPTURE OF THE RUSSIAN "RJESAN"
Meanwhile, daylight had come. The signal: "Stop at once!" was flying at
our foremast. When this demand was not complied with after a reasonable
time, we fired a blind shell, and when this also failed to have the
desired effect, we sent a quick reminder in the form of a couple of
sharp shots after her. The fleeing ship could no longer hope to reach
the neutral waters of Japan. When our shots fell into the water close
beside her, she stopped, turned, and set the Russian colors in all her
topmasts. So, on the very first night after the war had begun, we had
taken our first prize. It was the Russian volunteer steamer _Rjesan_.
In time of peace she had plied as a passenger steamer between Shanghai
and Vladivostok. She was now to be armed with guns and to serve as an
auxiliary cruiser. She was a speedy and very new ship, built in the
German ship yards of Schichau.
In the sea that was running, the _Emden_ and her prize rolled badly.
It was therefore no easy matter to get the cutter, that was to carry
the prize crew from the _Emden_ to the _Rjesan_, into the water. There
was danger that it would be pounded to pieces against the sides of the
ships. However, everything passed off satisfactorily. In a short time
we saw the officer of the prize crew, followed by a number of men, all
armed with pistols, climbing up the gangway ladder. The Russian flag
was hauled down, and in its place the German colors were run up.
As the steamer was one that could serve our own purposes excellently
well--she could be transformed into a very good German auxiliary
cruiser--our commander decided not to destroy her, but instead to
take her to Tsingtao. At a speed of fifteen miles we made our way
southward. Behind us, in our wake, followed the _Rjesan_. A commanding
officer with a prize crew of twelve men remained aboard of her, to make
certain that the service of the ship and the engines, etc., would be
according to our wishes.
* * * * *
From the newspapers, we had learned that the main body of the French
fleet, consisting of the armored cruisers _Montcalm_ and _Dupleix_,
besides a number of torpedo boat destroyers, was lying somewhere off
Vladivostok. With these ships the _Emden_ must not be allowed to come
in contact by daylight. As we were rounding the southern extremity of
Corea, the look-out in the top suddenly sang out, "Seven smoke clouds
in sight astern!" To make quite sure of it, the Commander sent me
aloft. I, too, could distinctly see seven separate columns of smoke,
together with the upper structure of a small vessel, the one nearest to
us, just above the horizon. Upon hearing my report, the commander gave
orders to change our course. We swept a wide circle, and so avoided
the enemy. Without meeting with hindrance of any kind, we arrived at
Tsingtao.
On the way we caught up an interesting wireless message. The Reuter
Agency, so celebrated for its rigid adherence to facts, was sending a
telegram abroad, informing the credulous world that the _Emden_ had
been sunk. How many sympathetic people must have shuddered as they
read,--and so did we, of course!
During the following night, our prize occasioned us some further
trouble. Naturally, her lights, as well as our own, had to be screened.
It was a much easier matter to give orders to that effect, however,
than to see to it that they were carried out. On the steamer were
several women passengers, who, from the outset, were filled with
mortal terror as to what the barbarous Germans would do with them. Most
of them were fat Russian Jewesses. Every few minutes they would turn on
the electric lights in their cabins, so that finally there was nothing
left for the officer of the prize crew to do but to have the electric
light cable in the engine capped....
III--IN THE HARBOR AT TSINGTAO
At Tsingtao our commander found orders awaiting him from the Admiral
of our squadron, Count von Spee, who, with the armored cruisers,
_Scharnhorst_ and _Gneisenau_, and the small cruiser, _Nürnberg_, was
in the South Pacific, steering northward. The _Emden's_ orders were to
join this squadron at a stated point of meeting in the South Pacific.
* * * * *
At sunrise on the following day the _Emden_ left Tsingtao in the
company of a large number of German ships, all bound for the south,
where they were to join the Admiral's squadron.
* * * * *
With fair weather and a smooth sea the _Emden_ slipped out of the
harbor moles. Our band played "The Watch on the Rhine." The entire
crew was on deck, singing as the band played. Cheers rang from ship to
shore, and back again. Everyone was confident and in high spirits.
* * * * *
Cautiously the _Emden_ made her way between the mines which barred the
entrance to the harbor. The sun had just risen. Behind us lay Tsingtao,
the gem of the far East, brightened by the golden-red beams of the
young day--a picture of peace....
As we gazed, there was not one of us who was not conscious of a strange
tugging at his heart. But duty called with an imperative voice.
Therefore, farewell to the fair scene we were leaving behind us! For
us, it was, "Onward, to the South!"
We were accompanied by the _Markomannia_, the other ships taking
different courses. The _Markomannia_ remained our faithful companion
for a number of months.
* * * * *
On our way to the South Pacific we learned, by wireless, of the rupture
in the relations between Germany and England, and of the latter's
declaration of war.
A few days later we learned of Japan's remarkable ultimatum, without
its causing us any special anxiety. It might as well all be done up at
one and the same time, was the general feeling among us.
* * * * *
On the twelfth of August, in the evening, we had reached the vicinity
of the island where we were to join our cruiser squadron, and soon we
fell in with some of the ships that were serving as outposts. As we
approached the group of assembled warships, we saw the stanch cruisers
_Scharnhorst_ and _Gneisenau_ lying in the midst of them, each with
a coal tender alongside, and engaged in coaling. To the left lay the
slender _Nürnberg_, also busy with taking on coal. Distributed about
the bay, many larger and smaller auxiliary ships and tenders of the
squadron could be seen. The _Emden_ was ordered to an anchorage close
beside the flagship, in the right-hand half of the bay. Rousing cheers
were sent from deck to deck, as we passed by the other ships, and soon
our anchor rattled seaward, and to the bottom,--it was to be the last
time for many a long day.
Our commander went aboard the flagship to report to the Admiral of
the squadron, and to submit to him the proposal that the _Emden_ be
detached from the squadron, and be sent to the Indian Ocean, to raid
the enemy's commerce.
On the following day the squadron steered an easterly course, the ships
keeping a long line, one behind the other, with all the coal tenders
bringing up the rear. The Admiral had, for the present, reserved his
decision with regard to our Commander's proposition, and we were all
impatient to learn what it would be. At last, toward noon, signal flags
were seen running up on the flagship. They read, "_Emden_ detached.
Wish you good luck!" Sweeping a wide curve, the _Emden_ withdrew from
the long line of warships, a signal conveying her Commander's thanks
for the good wishes of the Admiral fluttering at her mast head. There
was still another signal from the commanding officer of the squadron,
ordering the _Markomannia_ to attend the _Emden_. Ere long we had lost
sight of the other ships of the squadron, which now were steering a
course contrary to our own, and we all knew full well that we should
never meet again.
* * * * *
These days were strenuous ones for our men, as the war watch was
continued without intermission, in order that the ship might be ready
at a moment's notice for any emergency. There was no opportunity to
give the crew even a short season of rest. For us, there was not one
harbor of refuge where we might lie free from danger....
To reach the open sea, our course now led us through a number of
narrow water ways. These straits swarmed with fishing boats and other
small sea craft. The nights were bright with moonlight, which made it
possible to recognize the _Emden_ at a considerable distance. To meet
so many boats was a source of anxiety to our Commander, who expressed
himself as apprehensive that our presence in these waters, and our
probable course also, would be noised about by some of these vessels.
All English ships have either two or four funnels, whereas the _Emden_
had three.
The happy thought came to me that much might be gained if the _Emden_
were provided with a fourth funnel....
Out of wooden laths and sail-cloth we soon had constructed a funnel of
most elegant appearance, and, when it had been placed in position, the
_Emden_ was the exact counterpart of the British cruiser _Yarmouth_....
IV--STORY OF EXPLOITS ON THE BAY OF BENGAL
In this way, by the end of the first week in September, we had got as
far as the Bay of Bengal. For a period of about five days an English
man-of-war, most likely the _Minotaur_, kept a course close beside
our own, which we learned from the frequent wireless messages that
we caught up. Gradually, her messages became less distinct, and then
ceased altogether. At no time had she come within sight of us.
It was not until the night of September tenth that our work began in
real earnest. A steamer came in sight, and we approached her very
cautiously, so as to give her a closer inspection. Quietly, and with
lights screened, we crept up behind our intended victim. Our Commander
ordered an approach to within one hundred meters of the steamer, which
was peacefully and unsuspectingly proceeding on her course, and,
after the manner of merchantmen, was paying little heed to anything
except what was ahead of her and showing lights. Suddenly, through the
stillness of the perfectly calm night, rang out our challenge through
the speaking trumpet:
"Stop at once! Do not use your wireless! We are sending a boat!"
The steamer did not seem to realize what was meant by this order.
Perhaps she did not expect, here in the heart of Indian waters, to run
across an enemy's man-of-war. Or she may have thought it the voice of a
sea god, and therefore no concern of hers. At any rate, she continued
on her way undeterred. So, to explain the situation, we sent a blank
shot whizzing past her. This made an impression, and, pell mell, her
engines were reversed--we truly regretted the start we had given her
dozing engineers--and with her siren she howled out her willingness to
obey our order.
One of our cutters, with a prize crew in it, glided swiftly to
water, and thence to the steamer, of which we thus took possession.
An unpleasant surprise was now in store for us, for soon there came
flashing back to us a signal given by one of the men of our prize crew:
"This is the Greek steamer, _Pontoporros_." ...
The _Pontoporros_ was loaded with coal from India, the very dirtiest
coal in the world....
I had, in jest, entreated our Commander to capture, as our first prize,
a ship loaded with soap, instead of which we now got this cargo of
dirty Indian coal. My disappointment was so great that I could not
refrain from reproachfully calling our Commander's attention to it,
and, with a laugh, he promised to do his best toward providing us with
the much-needed soap. And he kept his word.
On the morning of the eleventh of September, only a few hours after we
had made the first addition to our squadron, there appeared, forward,
a large steamer, which, in the supposition that we were an English
man-of-war, manifested her delight at meeting us by promptly running
up a large English flag while still a long way off. We could not help
wondering what sort of expression her captain's face wore when we ran
up the German colors, and politely requested him to remain with us for
a while.
The steamer hailed from Calcutta, had been requisitioned to serve as an
English transport for carrying troops from Colombo to France, and was
fitted out with an abundance of excellent supplies....
We also found aboard the ship a very handsome race horse. By a shot
through the head, this noble creature was spared the agony of death
by drowning. But our sympathy was hardly sufficient to extend to all
the many mounts for artillery, which occupied as many neatly numbered
stalls that had been built into the ship. They had to be left to become
the prey of sharks a half hour later. The ship's crew was sent aboard
our "junkman."...
During the next few days our business flourished. It was carried on
in this way: As soon as a steamer came in sight, she was stopped, and
one of our officers, accompanied by ten men, was sent aboard her. It
was their duty to get the steamer ready to be sunk, and to arrange
for the safe transfer of the passengers and crew. As a rule, while we
were still occupied with this, the mast head of the next ship would
appear above the horizon. There was no need of giving chase. When the
next steamer had come near enough to us, the _Emden_ steamed off to
meet her, and sent her a friendly signal by which she was induced to
join our other previously captured ships. Again an officer and men
were sent off, boarded her, got her ready to be sunk, and attended
to the transfer of all hands aboard her, etc., and, by the time this
was accomplished, the mast head of the third ship had usually come in
sight. Again the _Emden_ went to meet her, and so the game went on....
V--SEA TALES FROM CEYLON TO CALCUTTA
In this way we cleaned up the whole region from Ceylon to Calcutta.
In addition to our old companion, the _Markomannia_, we were now
accompanied by the Greek collier _Pontoporros_, which, in the
meanwhile, had relinquished the rôle of "junkman" to the _Cabigna_.
The latter was an English steamer carrying an American cargo, the
destruction of which would have resulted in nothing but unnecessary
charges.
The _Cabigna_ continued with us for several days, although she, the
_Markomannia_, and the _Pontoporros_ were not the only companions
of the _Emden_ during that night. We had captured more prizes,
whose destruction, however, was deferred to the following day in
consideration of the passengers, because of the darkness, and the high
seas running. All told, we had six attendants that night. Three of
these disappeared in the sea on the coming morning, and the _Cabigna_
was discharged to land her passengers.
Aboard the _Cabigna_ were the wife and little child of the captain. The
position at sea, where the other steamers had been sent to the bottom,
was so far distant from the nearest shore that it would have been quite
impossible for any boats to have reached land. Before the captain of
the _Cabigna_ had been told that he would be allowed to proceed, and
in the assumption that his ship also was to be sunk, he begged that he
might be allowed to take a revolver with him for the protection of his
wife and child....
When the captain was informed that it was not our purpose to destroy
his ship, he was overcome with joy. I, myself, was aboard his ship for
several hours, and he could not find words sufficient to express his
gratitude, begging me to convey his thanks to our Commander, and
finally handing me a letter to deliver to him.
I had a long conversation with the captain's wife, also, and she
expressed sentiments much like those contained in her husband's letter
to our Commander. When she discovered, from something I said, that my
oil-skins were going to pieces, she pressed me to accept her husband's.
Besides this, upon learning that our supply of smoking tobacco was
getting low, she urged us to take as many cigarettes and as much
smoking tobacco with us as we could carry. These, she declared, were
but trifling gifts in comparison with the gratitude she felt. It is
hardly necessary to say that we took with us neither the tobacco nor
the oil-skins.
At the time that the _Cabigna_ was discharged, her deck was full of
passengers, all people from the steamers we had captured. At our order,
"You may proceed!" three cheers--"Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"--rang back
to us, one for the Commander, one for the officers, and one for the
crew of H. M. S. _Emden_, in which every person on the crowded deck
joined.... There were, at the time, about four hundred persons aboard
the ship.
In the further progress of our activities we never failed to get three
cheers from our discharged "junkmen," as they departed with their
collection of passengers from captured steamers....
This seems a fitting place to speak about the attitude taken by the
Englishmen when we captured their ships. Most of them behaved very
sensibly. After they had recovered from the first shock of surprise,
they usually passed into the stage of unrestrained indignation at their
government, at which they swore roundly. With but one exception, they
never offered any resistance to the sinking of their ships. We always
allowed them time enough to collect and take with them their personal
possessions. They usually devoted most of this time to making certain
that their precious supply of whiskey was not wasted on the fishes. I
can say with truth that seldom did we send off a wholly sober lot of
passengers on any one of our "junkmen."
* * * * *
VI--TWO SHELLS AT MADRAS--AND AN EXPLOSION
One captain was especially amusing. His was the unenviable duty of
taking a bucket-dredger from England to Australia. No seafaring man can
help sympathizing with the unfortunate who has to conduct one of these
rolling tubs, with a speed of not more than four nautical miles at
best, all the way from Europe down to Australia. And so, from a purely
humane standpoint, we could fully appreciate this English captain's
joy at being captured. Rarely have I seen anyone jump so high for joy.
He must have been a past master in the art of jumping to be able to
keep his feet in spite of the terrible rolling of his ship. Tears of
gratitude coursed down his weathered cheeks as he exclaimed, "Thank
God, that the old tub is gone! The five hundred pounds I was to have
for taking her to Australia were paid me in advance."
* * * * *
On the eighteenth of September, in the evening, the _Emden_ entered the
harbor. It so happened that this was the day after the one on which
the joyful tidings of the _Emden's_ destruction had been officially
announced. To celebrate the happy occasion, a large company had
assembled for dinner at the Club. As we were not aware of this, it was
hardly our fault that the _Emden's_ shells fell into the soup. Had we
known of the dinner party, we would, of course, gladly have deferred
our attack until another day, as it is the part of wisdom never to
exasperate the enemy unnecessarily. A due regard should always be shown
for sacred institutions, and _dinner_ is an institution with regard to
which the English are always keenly sensitive.
We approached to within 3,000 meters of Madras. The harbor light
was shining peacefully. It rendered us good service as we steered
toward shore, for which we again take this opportunity to express our
gratitude to the British Indian government. A searchlight revealed
to us the object of our quest,--the oil tanks, painted white and
ornamented with a stripe of red. A couple of shells sent in that
direction, a quick upleaping of tongues of bluish-yellow flame, streams
of liquid fire pouring out through the holes made by our shots, an
enormous black cloud of dense smoke,--and, following the advice of
the old adage, "A change is good for everybody," we had sent several
millions' worth of the enemy's property up into the air, instead of
down into the sea, as heretofore.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the coaling question had come to be a source of annoyance
to us. Our faithful _Markomannia_ had no more coal to give us. To be
sure, our prize, the _Pontoporros_, with her cargo of coal from India,
was still with us. But this Indian coal is far from being desirable
fuel, as it not only clogs the fire kettles with dirt, but, while it
gives out a minimum of heat, it sends forth a maximum of smoke, and
so our prize was not an unmixed joy to us. However, this vexed coal
question was happily solved for us by the English Admiralty in a most
satisfactory manner. Before many days had passed, a fine large steamer
of 7,000 tonnage, loaded with the best of Welsh coal, en route for Hong
Kong, and destined for their own use, was relinquished to us by the
English in a most unselfish manner.
So, for the present, we were most generously supplied with the best
of fuel, and all further anxiety on this account was dismissed to the
uncertain future. The captain of our new coal-laden prize seemed to
have no scruples with regard to transferring himself, together with his
ship, into German service. Willingly and faithfully he coöperated with
the officer of the prize crew that was, of course, placed in command of
his ship, all the while cheerfully whistling "Rule, Britannia."
In the meantime, even the English government itself had become
convinced that the destruction of the _Emden_ had, after all, not been
accomplished.
* * * * *
VII--STORY OF LIFE ABOARD THE FLYING DUTCHMAN
We knew quite well that sixteen hostile ships were in pursuit of
us,--British, French, and Japanese. We never had any information with
regard to the position of these ships, nor of their character, which,
after all, could matter very little to us, since the _Emden_ was the
smallest and least formidable of all the war ships in the Indian Ocean.
There was not a hostile cruiser, that she was likely to meet, that was
not her superior in strength. That the _Emden's_ career must soon be
cut short was therefore a prospect of which everyone aboard her felt
certain. Many hounds are certain death to the hare.
Our Commander had set this aspect of affairs before us, sharply and
clearly, at the very outset of the _Emden's_ career, pointing out that
the only future ahead of the _Emden_ was to inflict as much damage as
possible upon the enemy before she herself should be destroyed, which,
in any event, could be but a question of time.
The devotion of the _Emden's_ crew to their Commander was touching in
the extreme. The men appreciated the high qualities of their leader,
were proud of their ship, and gloried in its successful career. If, at
any time when they were singing, or were otherwise noisy, the word was
passed along, "The Commander is tired," they would become instantly
quiet. At a word of encouragement from him the men would accomplish
some truly wonderful feats in connection with difficult undertakings,
such as coaling at sea under most adverse conditions, and in spite of
extreme fatigue.
Of "_Emden_ yarns" ... there was an untold number. On board ship
we kept a scrap-book in which they were all preserved, but this,
unfortunately, was lost, together with much that was of higher value.
Amusement of a different nature was afforded the officers' mess by
our "war cats," as we called them. On the day before we left Tsingtao
a cat had come on board, and so had come along with us. In course of
time, this cat experienced the joys of motherhood. Lying in my hammock
one morning, I opened my eyes upon a charming scene of family life.
Just beneath me, a little to one side, on a mattress on the floor of
the deck, lay Lieutenant Schall, sleeping the sleep of the just. Close
beside him, on the same mattress, lay the cat, with a family of five
newly born kittens. After I had quickly wakened the other officers who
were sleeping near, so that they might enjoy the sight of this peaceful
domesticity, we poked Lieutenant Schall until he, too, opened his eyes
upon the scene. At first he did not seem to share our pleasure in it,
however, but, with a muttered oath, hurried off to the washroom.
Our kittens were not the only animals that the war had brought
aboard our ship. If some one had dropped from the sky, and landed on
the _Emden_ on one of these days, he would have opened his eyes in
wonderment at sight of this "man-of-war." Forward, in the vicinity
of the drain pipe, he would have discovered one or two pigs, grunting
with satisfaction. Near by, he would have seen a couple of lambs and
a sheep or two, bleating peacefully. By a walk aft he would, in all
probability, have scared up a whole flock of pigeons that had been
sitting on the rails which served for the transportation of ammunition,
and that, at his approach, would take refuge in the pigeon house that
had been fastened against one of the funnels. In his further progress
he would most likely have frightened up a few dozen hens that would
then have run cackling about his heels, the noise they made being
only outdone by the still louder cackling of a flock of geese engaged
in unsuccessful attempts at swimming in a large half-tub aft, and at
the same time trying to drink salt water. We always had a great deal
of live stock on board, all of which we had taken from the captured
steamers.... We had a less practical, but more ornamental addition to
our menagerie in a dwarf antelope, which I came upon one day in the
forward battery. How the dainty creature got there has always remained
a mystery to me.
VIII--LAST DAYS OF THE GALLANT "EMDEN"
Every afternoon the ship's band gave us quite a long concert. At such
times the men all sat cozily about on the forecastle, listening to
the music, some joining in with their voices, while others smoked or
danced. In the evening, after darkness had set in, the singers aboard
usually got together, and then every possible and impossible song was
sung by a chorus that was excellent both in volume and quality. The
"possible" songs were, to a great extent, our beautiful German national
melodies, and these were always well rendered. The "impossible" ones
were frequently improvised for the occasion. In these, clearness of
enunciation was always a greater feature than either rhyme or rhythm.
The singing invariably closed with the "Watch on the Rhine," in which
all hands on deck joined.
Distributing the booty we had taken from a captured ship was always an
occasion about which centered a great deal of interest. Anything of
a useful nature, especially everything in the line of food, was, as
a matter of course, taken aboard the _Emden_. As a result, veritable
mountains of canned goods were stored away in a place set apart for
them on the forward deck. Casks full of delectable things were there.
Hams and sausages dangled down from the engine skylight. There were
stacks of chocolate and confectionery, and bottles labelled "Claret"
and "Cognac," with three stars....
So as to be able to do justice to all that fortune bestowed upon us, an
extra meal or two had to be tucked in between the usual ones. So, with
our afternoon coffee we now had chocolate or bonbons. For the smokers
there were more than 250,000 cigarettes stored away, and when, in the
evening, they had been passed around, the deck looked as though several
hundred fireflies were flitting about it.
* * * * *
So we spent the passing days, while certain death lurked round about
us. In sixteen ships our enemies were burning their coal, and racking
their brains in vain attempt to catch us.
(Here the Lieutenant-Captain of _The Flying Dutchman_ narrates the
adventures of those wonderful days; how they kept the enemy seas
fraught with danger; how they were hunted through the oceans; how
they lived their gay life of "gentlemen buccaneers," knowing that
each day brought them nearer to death and the bottom of the seas. He
describes vividly "Our Baptism by Fire;" he tells how they torpedoed
the Russian destroyer _Schemtschuk_; how they fought the French gunboat
_D'Iberville_; how they sunk the French destroyer _Mousquet_; how
they wrapped the French dead in the French flag and buried them with
naval honors in the sea; until the last fight of the _Emden_ when she
met her champion, the Anglo-Australian cruiser _Sydney_ and went down
gloriously in the Indian Ocean. The Lieutenant-Captain's description of
this last fight is one of the classics of the Great War.)
FOOTNOTE:
[2] All numerals relate to the stories herein told--not to the chapters
in the book.
"THE WAY OF THE CROSS"--A TRAGEDY OF THE RUSSIANS
_The Millions Who Have Become Beggars_
_Told by V. Doroshevitch, Famous Russian Journalist_
This is probably the first piece of Russian War literature translated
into English. It presents the terrible picture of the Russian and
Polish fugitives flying from the German invasion in the autumn
of 1915. The narrator is a famous Russian journalist, who first
contributed his experiences to the _Russkol Slovl_. He went from
Moscow to meet the incoming flood of refugees and then passed through
to the rear of the Russian Army. At first he met the survivors who
were forced ahead in the procession; afterwards they came thicker and
thicker until they were a moving wall. He tells how they camped in
the forests, how they died by the way, how they put up their crosses
by the side of the road, how they sold their horses and abandoned
their carts, how they starved, how they suffered. His articles have
been collected by Stephen Graham and published in book form by _G. P.
Putnam's Sons_: Copyright 1916. These breathless, desperate stories
breathe a tender love. The style is typically Slavic and has been
preserved in the excellent translations. A single typical story
is here told of "The Desolation of Roslavl" by permission of the
publishers.
In 1812 Moscow made a funeral pyre for herself, and burned--for
Russia's sake. A hundred years have passed. And the red glare of
Moscow's fire has paled. The Moscow of those days! A wooden city. The
burning of it was appalling. The ground burned under the feet of the
Napoleonic soldiers: even the roadways of Moscow were made of wood at
that time.
But now! More than ten provinces have been laid waste by the enemy.
Millions of people have become beggars. And have fled. From the places
of their birth to the far centre of Russia stretches the way of the
Cross for these people.
And on this way, as on that other way--of Golgotha, are places, where
the people faint under the burden of the Cross: Bobruisk! Dovsk!
Roslavl! These are names full of affliction. Especially: The memory of
Roslavl is terrible.
* * * * *
[3] I--STORY OF DESOLATION OF ROSLAVL
Roslavl, on the River Oster, is a quiet little town in the province
of Smolensk. Ordinarily, when you drive along the high-road coming
from the West, in Rogachef, in Cherikof, in Propoisk, in Krichef, they
will tell you that Roslavl is the first Russian town. From here to the
eastward, Great Russia begins.
When you arrive at Roslavl you will be awakened in the morning by the
soft yet powerful baritone of its marvellous bell, sounding from the
height of the Transfiguration monastery on the hill.
And you will hear this, like music--for the first time on the whole of
your journey from the West up till then.
* * * * *
Now Roslavl is choked and drowned. There is neither sugar nor salt in
the town. In the streets fugitives stop you and ask,
"Friend, where can I buy any salt here? I've been trying to get some
all day."
"Little father, where can we get any sugar? Even if it's only half a
pound or a quarter of a pound."
You go into a baker's shop and ask:
"Have you any white bread?"
The shopman looks at you in wonder.
"We bake no white. Only black, and even that's all taken for the
fugitives."
"The fugitives will eat us up," says Roslavl in terror.
But the wave of fugitives comes on and on, and a stench is given forth
from it. Here the great river stops, and its waters turn round and
round, like a whirlpool. Roslavl is overwhelmed; the tide rises above
its head.
The reason?--the railway. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of
thousands of people will remember with horror the desolation of
Roslavl. Here is enacted a dreadful scene: "The completion of the
process"--the fugitives giving up their horses. First they were as
"gipsies," but now they have turned into a Khitrof market.[4] Numbers
of the fugitives, the great majority of them, having exhausted their
last strength and reached the railway.
Have the last thing to do as peasants. They sell their horses. And
thence go onward--in the train. Waiting in an open-air camp in
Roslavl for a week or so, until they are given places. And with what
desperation do they cling to the possession of their horses.
II--STORY OF THE PEASANT--AND THREE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN
Here I made the acquaintance of a fugitive--a bitter man. His wife died
two weeks before the final ruin and he has three children, two very
young, and a baby. He had owned some land and was a farmer. He had paid
12,000 rubles for it. The payment had been spread over seven years and
all had been paid. He had only just begun to make a living. And now
"this had happened." He had managed to bring away all his cattle. And
four horses. He had gone a long way.
But in Minsk province, where a continuous marsh extends for tens and
tens of versts, an order had come to clear the high-road, and the
cattle had been driven on to the marsh.
"My little son," said he, "who had gone on in front with the cattle,
ran back to meet me at a turn of the road, crying, 'Daddy, Daddy, the
cattle are all drowned in the marsh.' I ran to him. The herd of cattle
were twisting and writhing in the bog. Bellowing. And among them I saw
mine."
He spoke sadly but calmly about the death of his wife, about his land
that had "cost so much money."
"But I'd rather have been blinded than see such a sight. A second ruin.
All my property perishing in the quagmire, and I stand on the road and
become a beggar. Three horses died on the way. One remained. A little
shaggy horse, ten years old, but active."
In Roslavl he found a kind man who permitted him to live in his
_banya_, bath-house. A black _banya_. But that was a palace!
"Day and night I never cease to pray to God for the kind man who saved
my children," says he.
He has found a footing at Roslavl and will remain there--drives a cab.
"Two rubles a day shall I earn, think I. One and a half will feed the
horse, and the fifty kopecks which remain must suffice for us four."
"Not a large budget. And what if you were to sell the horse and go
farther?"
He looked at me straight in the eyes with terror.
"Master!" said he, "I have a horse, and so all the same I remain a man!
A human being! But without a horse, what sort of a being should I be?
What should I be?"
III--STORY OF THE PROCESSION--AND THE COFFINS
On all sides you hear:
"Well, at least we have a horse! So we can still count ourselves human
beings! Still peasants!"
And if the money be all spent, and the peasant cease to be a peasant.
What then? The last thing that connects him with the past, the last
thing that binds him to life.
Along the main street of Roslavl from earliest morning till the
darkness of night without interruption, without ceasing, go two
processions, one one way, the other the other. On one side of the road
come an endless series of grey carts, one after another endlessly--and
pass away towards that stretch of the road where yesterday we saw
innumerable camp bonfires. On the other side coming from that place
come refugees on horseback, some astride, some sitting sideways,
on little worn-out horses. They go to the bazaar. Betwixt the two
processions is the long empty alley of the middle of the street.
On both sides there is silence as if funeral processions going in
opposite directions were meeting one another. Not even looking at one
another, in fact, as if they did not remark one another.
To the town:
--To seek salt?
To know:
--What further orders have been given? Whither should they go now?
No, no, they are carrying coffins through--mostly children's. A peasant
is carrying a coffin on his shoulder. Silently after him and without
weeping strides his peasant wife. Clinging to her skirts also silently
and without weeping come frozen barefooted children.
Look, here comes a large coffin. From the hardly shut lid hang new
and bright coloured cottons. It is a girl that has died. Four girls
are carrying the coffin. They will bury her in the right way, with
the ritual. The little procession went past, simple, beautiful,
melancholy. No one stopped to look round, to turn the head. No one
meeting the procession crossed himself, nor drew off his hat, nor gave
any attention. As if the people had ceased to see with their eyes.
And there stretches, stretches, along the footways, along the margin of
the road, without respite, without interval, without interruption, the
two processions ever coming towards one another and passing.
Grey carts, carts, carts. Horses, horses, horses, fugitives wandering
like shadows, horses, children's coffins, and again horses, horses,
horses. The head turns giddy looking at the endless movement. It
becomes difficult to breathe because of that which passes before the
eyes.
In this little town through which comes such an ocean of people, it is
as quiet as if it were all one great funeral. I had hardly come into
the market-place before the crowd swirled round me with quick movements
and feverish eyes. Whence had they come to Roslavl? Whence had so
many come? There were all dialects. Great Russian, Russian and Little
Russian accent, with Polish accent.
IV--STORY OF THE PEASANT'S HORSE MARKET
"_Panitch!_ Do you want horses? You can buy them very reasonably. Ah,
so reasonably! A horse that cost a hundred rubles, you can buy for
twenty-five. Do you wish to buy?"
"Wait for me, wait for me. I'll take you to the horses."
"Mr. Squire, Mr. Squire, here are horses. Farm horses! And cheap!
Cheap! I'll bring them to you."
There's no getting through the horses in the market--no possibility of
penetrating through. There stands one great solid crowd. Quick people
even slip about under the horses. What the prices are you may judge
from separate exclamations.
"If there's such a bargain anywhere else on God's earth I'd like to
hear of it!" says a fugitive, turning over and turning over again the
dirty notes which he has received.
"Don't get rid of them here. Better sell their skins in Kalutsk."
"Take the twelve rubles now. Take them now. To-morrow you'll be glad to
sell at ten."
"By to-morrow she'll drop down dead if you go on!"
"What! Fifteen rubles not good money? Did you say that? You?"
"Ten rubles as they stand! From hand to hand!" says a tall, dark
peasant with a long beard, standing beside a cart to which are tied six
horses, all skin and bone.
He says in a contemptuous tone:
"You see the horses. A red note for each. Altogether. Take them. It
will mean money. Without money there's no doing anything."
I say to a fugitive:
"Don't you know that in Muchin yard, beyond the town, they're buying
for the Government. There you would get a fairer price."
The fugitive does not succeed in answering for himself. Once more the
crowd of people with quick movements and feverish eyes.
"The Government? There, you'll never get a turn! It's necessary to
stand three days. He's got to hurry for the train. See what a lot of
people are coming in. He will be late, and have to wait a month in the
open. The autumn rains will start. And cold. All his children will
freeze. From Bobruisk another five hundred thousand are coming. Who are
you, Mister? Are you someone from the Government or a Relief Committee?"
"Our little children are just freezing to death," says another fugitive.
And at this market where horses and people are crushed in one compact
mass where from the heat of bodies and the smell of horses it is
difficult to breathe, if any one is cheerful, it is only the purchaser.
The fugitives have not much to say for themselves, and that in a
low voice--as if stunned. They sell their horses and stand as if in
perplexity. They go away--horseless, peasants no longer, wordless. In
appearance so calm and indifferent: as if nothing had happened. No
expression of the grief, of the deadly melancholy which is in the soul.
V--STORY OF THE HOMELESS PEASANT WOMEN
A silent land. In the same street as the market-place, by the Petrograd
Hotel, from dawn until late evening, the crowd is like stone. There's
no getting through. The hotel is occupied by the Committee--of
"Northern-Help." Here it is arranged for the fugitives where each has
to go.
I attempt to pass through the crowd and get as far as the gateway.
Farther is impossible. The stench is such that the head simply goes
round. May God give strength to the Relief delegates working in this
stench--to remain healthy!
"We've been waiting for days!"--complain the fugitives,--"and standing
without a bite of food from morning."
"What's a day! You stand a day and at the end of it go away. To-morrow
you come again and have had nothing to eat."
I cast a glance at the Town Hall, where is a crowd of peasant women. In
a corner is a table. With the notice:
"Employment Bureau."
A stout lady sitting there says to a peasant woman standing with a
child in her arms:
"With us, my dear, the conditions of employment for servants are
usually ..."
Tiny Roslavl. How is it possible to find employment here for tens of
thousands of people! The peasant women stand in the waiting rooms.
They stand patiently, they stand all day. And having obtained nothing
whatever, go away.
In the street you are stopped by people, saying:
"Are you not in need of workmen in your village?"
"Are you not hiring people?"
And all in such melancholy, hopeless, gentle voices. I drive back to
the place where last night I saw a horde of nomads--an actual horde.
From the high bank of the Oster, on that side from which the forest
has been cleared, you see for versts and versts a cloud of bluish,
half-transparent smoke. That's the evening camping-ground.
I walk farther and farther into the forest over the soft wilted grass.
Everywhere are glades, everywhere people, huts of pine-branches, and
from all sides is heard the sound of axes. How many thousands of people
are there here! People tell you various enormous numbers.... How many
drops of water are there in the river?
What a terrible smoke in the forest! Because of the smoke the eyes of
all are red and painful.
"It is damp at night, the smoke settles down, and there's no getting
out of the wood," says a small farmer to me, "but it's warm in the
smoke. Just like sitting in a dark _izba_. Hot, even. We warm the
forest. That's what it's come to for us."
"Perhaps it's just the smoke that saves us," says his neighbour, also a
farmer--"everyone is coughing all around, some are spitting blood, but
in the smoke every microbe perishes."
VI--STORY OF THE PRIESTS--AND REFUGEES
Going farther into the forest I come upon a crowd. A priest is
explaining to them how and where to go that their horses may be
properly inspected and priced, how to go to Muchin yard, sell their
horses, and receive the money; how to go to the railway station and
wait their turn for a seat in the train, how much will be given to each
man for food.
"And I will drive ahead and meet you at such and such a station."
That's so many versts away. This is a priest from the province of Holm,
and he is explaining to his flock. Many of the priests of Holm province
accompany their refugees. And the help which they give is colossal.
They get some sort of understanding of the situation for themselves and
explain everything to their people.
It is asked: "Where are the numberless local officials, the people
looking after the village in time of peace, where are they now in the
time of terror and calamity, where have they betaken themselves--where,
saving themselves, do they receive their former official salary? How
they have abandoned this illiterate people who do not even understand
the Russian language well, in such a moment."
They looked after them all the time like children, and then, in the
difficult moment, abandon the children to the will of Fate! Had they
come with their own refugees, had even the least important of them
come, there would have been someone to whom to turn for information,
to find out things. But abandoned, left entirely to themselves, the
fugitives grope about, and feel their way like people with bandaged
eyes.
* * * * *
I made acquaintance with a priest. He spoke bitterly. There was
desperation in his voice.
"We try to preserve ourselves together. But we are assigned to places!
Assigned! One part of the flock to Riazan, another to Kazan, a third to
Orenburg!"
Here in the wood are fugitives at the last limit of their strength,
making a decision: To deprive themselves of the last thing--to sell
their horses. They sell them in the market-place, in Muchin yard, to
"Northern-Help," to the Government, _fkaznu_, as they say. Then they
are already not muzhiks; they wander over from this camp to the camp
near the railway station. And whilst they are encamped in the wood they
go backwards and forwards between the relief points of "Northern-Help"
and the "Municipal Alliance."
On the great highway--a promenade--as one of the numerous gendarmes
keeping order put it. Not only is it difficult to drive through, but
difficult to walk through. The people flock first one way, then the
other, with downcast visage, to the forest, from the forest, from one
side of the highway to the other side of the highway. At the bonfires
they warm their red and chilblained hands. Horses pass through the
crowd. With triangular brandings on their hind legs.
Many horses wander about lost. They come to the high-road, to the
people, to the other horses. They wander about quietly, somehow
helplessly, looking around them with their wise, sad eyes. As if
they were seeking their own people. Horses at the last gasp of their
strength. But no one pays any attention to them. Neither do the horses
pay attention. They stumble upon people.
In the peasant huts occupied as relief points bread is taken in at the
back door, cut up there, and handed out from a little window in the
front. So from morning to night bread flows in an uninterrupted stream.
Sentries keep the order of those who are waiting for bread. In front
of the bread windows range endless ranks of fugitives. Thousands and
thousands of people. One person moves an inch, another person moves an
inch, and from the midst is heard wails.
"You're suffocating me! Oh, suffocating!"
People fall unconscious. Here indeed only the stronger can stand the
strain. The hungry crush the hungry in order that they may squeeze into
a better place in the line and receive their bit of bread sooner. The
women, the children, with wide staring eyes, with deathly pale faces.
Quietly and silently the fierce and cruel struggle goes on. All around
the people swarm like flies.
A man in a uniform has only to appear, or even a gentleman in civil
attire, and the fugitives swarm about him.
"Your high nobility! Show us your official mercy!"
Where have I heard this melancholy, hopeless tone, these very words of
humiliation?
* * * * *
"What is it you want?"
"Give us a certificate!"
Food is only given out to those who have certificates--according to the
number of souls in the family. Such certificates ought to have been
obtained from the village authorities at the point from which they
started.
"They did not give us them! We had not time to get them."
--"Lost!"
--"We shall die of hunger."
--"Your high nobility!"
They come for everything, they come to make complaints.
"Your high nobility! Permit me to explain. The _starosta_ advised me
to wait for the Germans and not go away. I did not agree. He got angry
and refused to give me a certificate. Decide for yourself! Show God's
mercy, and give me one now."
VII--STORY OF THE WANDERING MULTITUDES--AND THEIR PRAYERS
Down below, under the cliff, is an immense marshy meadow, and there,
what a wild, what a strange picture.... At that point I thought of the
late V. V. Verestchagin. Only he with his gray tones could have painted
the gray horror of this life, only he could have painted the dreadful
picture in all its horror.
For several acres the whole meadow was covered with abandoned and
broken carts. The iron parts had been unloosed and taken away, wheels
lay separately, tilts separately. How many were there there? Tens of
thousands. The whole plain was gray with carts, with wheels, with
shafts and single shafts. Having sold their horses for cash, the
fugitives abandoned their carts here, only taking with them the iron
parts they could unfasten.
Among this gray wilderness of ruin fugitives were wandering. These
people who preserved their horses and could still go on--in their own
carts. They sought here any bits of harness or shafts or wheels that
could serve them better than their own. From various separate parts
they put together whole carts. Some of the branded horses had come
here. Seeking perhaps, by scent or by instinct, the carts to which
they had once been harnessed. They wandered and stumbled like shadows,
hardly keeping their feet. They fell. There lies one. He breathes
heavily, suddenly quivers tremulously. In his round, glassy eyes there
is suffering. He tries to raise his head from the ground. He has not
strength to hold it up, and lets it fall again. Then suddenly he begins
to wail, just like a man. A little farther off lies a horse already
stiff, and its long, long, lean legs stretch out.
* * * * *
The crowd does not melt away but increases. Here it is cold, here there
is no forest. And the fugitives press together closely, family to
family. Only warming themselves in the smoke of their bonfires. There
are bonfires day and night. Wandering women go from house to house in
the neighbourhood. They stop outside the doors, crying:
"Give, for Christ's sake, give us wood."
And, the heart anguished, they give.
--More still is stolen!
* * * * *
Irritated by fear for themselves, frightened at these "unheard-of
people," the little towns and hamlets and the "all-understanding"
villages ... one can only express astonishment at the celerity with
which man adapts himself to circumstances. Where and when have
these peasants of yesterday learnt so quickly to build dens and
dwelling-places from any sort of rubbish? It's as if they were born
nomads. It simply makes one wonder. Out of what was all this put
together? How does it hold? Some slates stolen from one place, a
paling broken somewhere else, an armful of hay, rags brought in by the
children--and behold, a dwelling-place.
"And, O Lord, how to thank Thee that there is no longer any rain!"
--They freeze, get ill, watch their children die, and wait. It's not
possible to breathe. All around is human filth. In certain stinking
horrible ponds, the peasant women with feet blue from the cold, are
washing clothes. And these ponds also are tainted with filth....
And when I come here in the morning, whilst the ground all around is
covered with hoar-frost and the half-expired bonfires glimmer beside
the marsh on which the camp is set, the spectacle is dreadful. How
reckon up the sufferings? It's no use even thinking of going across the
station platform. For passage there is only the merest margin above
the rails where one might go along as on a tight-rope, and sideways.
The whole platform is occupied by the fortunate ones. By those who
have gone through all the trials of the way of affliction, lost their
horses, frozen in open camping-grounds for weeks whilst they waited; by
the people who have at last obtained:
--Their turn.
And they will travel, no one knows where, no one knows to what end.
On immense bundles, on top of mountains of household furniture, lie
people, lie or sit, and you can see that no force could prevail on them
to abandon their positions. When the bell rings, indicating the arrival
of a goods train, wild scenes are enacted.
In the cattle-trucks it will at once become warm, because of the many
people, and the fugitives rush to take the train by storm, crushing one
another as they push forward. And they lug along their bundles.
And how much of the strangest, most unnecessary rubbish do they pull
along with them into the trucks, and heap up in the places which might
otherwise be occupied by extra people! Rubbish for us--but the last
possessions for them. That is all that remains.
* * * * *
I return to the town. In endless series, meeting one another and
passing on, go the two processions up and down the street. They come,
they come, they come, without respite, without interruption, the gray
carts. They are all like one. One like another. And on the other side
of the road come the fugitives on horseback, to sell their horses. And
in this whirlpool of the river of human grief, little and dreadful
Roslavl has choked and drowned.
Such was the coming of the fugitives into Great Russia.
(The Russian narrator tells many tragic stories of "Meeting the
Fugitives;" "Along the Kief Road;" "The Forests of Mogilef," and many
other vivid sketches of Russian suffering.)
FOOTNOTES:
[3] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
book.
[4] A notorious district in Moscow, where beggars, tramps and thieves
congregate, and where there are many doss-houses.
THE ADVENTURES OF AN AMERICAN ATTACHÉ
_A Despatch Bearer in the Diplomatic Service_
_Told by Eric Fisher Wood, Attaché at the American Embassy in Paris_
This young American tells of his experience in the Diplomatic Service
in Europe during the Great War. Ambassador Herrick placed him in
charge of the interned Germans, Austrians and Hungarians in France.
He was sent to the front four times where he saw parts of the battles
of the Marne and the Aisne and the struggle for Calais. His most
interesting adventures, however, was as a despatch bearer between
the American Embassies of practically all the European countries. He
tells how he carried secret documents between Ambassador Herrick,
Ambassador Gerard, Ambassador Page, Ambassador Penfield. This gave
him unusual diplomatic opportunities for seeing and hearing things
of extraordinary interest and significance. These are related in his
book: "The Note Book of an Attaché" (_The Century Company_: Copyright
1915) which gives sidelights on some of the most stupendous events of
the last one hundred years.
[5] I--A STORY OF THE STRANDED AMERICANS IN PARIS
When the war-storm suddenly loomed over Europe at the end of July,
1914, I was quietly studying architecture in the Ecole des Beaux-Arts
at Paris. When Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia on July 24th, the
atmosphere of the city became so surcharged with excitement that to
persist in study was difficult. Within a week I myself had been swept
into the vortex of rushing events, from which I did not emerge until
seven months later....
_Paris, Tuesday, August 4th._ When I arrived to-day the _Chancellerie_
presented an astounding sight. Around the outer door were huddled
a compact crowd of Germans, men and women; they pressed about the
entrance; they glanced furtively over their shoulders and their blue
eyes were filled with dumb apprehension. Inside the _Chancellerie_
was chaos. Hundreds of Americans and Germans crowded together seeking
audience and counsel. German women sank down in corners of the halls or
on the stairs, weeping for joy to have found a haven of refuge. Scores
of Sovereign American Citizens stood in the busiest spots and protested
with American vehemence against fate and chance. Each S.A.C. was
remonstrating about a separate grievance. Most of them reiterated from
time to time their sovereignty, and announced to no one in particular
that it was their right to see "their Ambassador" in person. They
demanded information! They needed money! They wished to know what to
do with letters of credit! What was "the government" going to do about
sending them home? Was Paris safe? Would there be immediate attacks by
Zeppelins? Could they deposit their jewels in the Embassy vaults? Were
passports necessary? WHY were passports necessary? They asked the same
questions over and over, and never listened to the answers....
II--IN THE AMERICAN LEGATION AT BERNE
_Berne, Saturday, November 28th._ Donait and I left Paris at nine last
evening for Lyons, Culoz, and Geneva with dispatches for Berlin. For
many reasons we are particularly anxious to see Germany and Austria in
war time, and look forward keenly to the experience which we face.
We arrived in Geneva at noon. We were very tired, for our train and
compartment were overcrowded and we had to sit up all night. The
responsibility of the sack of official papers which we carried, and on
which one of us had constantly to keep his mind, hand, and eyes, was an
additional element of fatigue.
* * * * *
Our legation in Berne has always been the most isolated, humdrum spot
on earth. People stationed here nearly died of ennui; nothing ever
happened, until all Europe suddenly was plunged into the conflagration
of war, and then Berne became, of necessity, the clearing house for
the continent for dispatches, mail, telegrams, money, prisoners, and
refugees. Every telegram which the American Embassy in Paris sends to
the Embassies in Germany, Austria, or Italy is directed: "American
Legation, Berne. Repeat to Gerard"--or Penfield or Page, as the case
may be....
Donait and I were sent by Minister Stovall to make a verbal report on
the situation of the Germans in France to Baron Romberg, the German
Minister to Switzerland. I was much impressed in this my first touch
with a German official. He is rather small, slim of body, but keen of
mind, with excellent repose and control. Like all German diplomats, he
speaks faultless English. A startling evidence of the efficiency of the
German Information Bureau was furnished by the fact that he already
knew to the minutest details nearly as much about my work in Paris in
caring for German subjects as did I myself.
_Tuesday, December 1st._ We reached the Swiss-German frontier at noon
to-day. We descended from the train at Basle and drove three miles to
the frontier. Here there were two barriers straight across the road,
the nearer one guarded by numerous Swiss soldiers; the farther, some
twenty yards behind, by soldiers wearing the spiked helmet. Before we
were allowed to pass the first barrier our papers and luggage were
minutely examined by Swiss military and customs officers. We then
walked across the twenty yards to the second, or German, barrier, where
we were conducted into a little guard-house. Here some dozen soldiers
were sleeping or playing cards on cots in the background along the
walls. An efficient sergeant examined our papers and then allowed us to
pass the second barrier into Germany, showing marked respect for the
Herr Lieutenant and the Herr Attaché....
I was momentarily embarrassed and self-conscious when first I found
myself rubbing shoulders with gentlemen in spiked helmets. During the
past four months I had seen them only as prisoners or dead men, and
their only greetings had been by way of their shells and bombs....
III--AWAKENED BY THE SECRET SERVICE MEN
_Mannheim, Wednesday, December 2d._ At half-past seven this morning I
was awakened from a sound sleep by a pounding at my door. I climbed
sleepily out of bed and, in pajamas, opened the door to two extremely
polite and suave Secret Service men who, nevertheless, examined my
papers with the greatest thoroughness and as carefully cross-questioned
me as to my race, color, and previous condition. They asked to see my
dispatches, whose seals they studied in order to be certain that I was
really carrying some sort of official messages. Having listened with
close attention to my story, they asked me out of a clear sky where
Donait was and why he had left me. They capped the climax by reminding
me that at Leopoldshöhe I had told the sergeant we were bound for
Berlin, which was exactly what I had told him, not having considered
the brief stop at Mannheim of sufficient importance to be mentioned.
When they had received a satisfactory explanation of the discrepancy
(the conversation having staggered along in German, of which my
knowledge is limited) they thanked me politely and withdrew....
IV--AT THE AMERICAN EMBASSY IN BERLIN
_Berlin, Thursday, December 3d._ Donait and I had a whole compartment
to ourselves last night, which shows how normally German railroads are
running. We arrived in Berlin at eight o'clock this morning, bathed,
dressed, and had breakfast, at eleven o'clock presented ourselves at
the American Embassy and delivered our precious dispatch pouch to Mr.
Grew, the First Secretary....
The Emperor is in popular estimation not much lower than God Almighty,
and the two seem inextricably mingled in the public mind. The
world-wide amusement created by "_Me und Gott_," or by the Emperor's
firm conviction that he and he alone is worthy of divine aid and
approval, is an amusement not shared by any Germans. If you say to
them, "the Emperor seems to think the German people are the one race
chosen of God and that He works only for them and their advancement,"
the Germans will promptly and emphatically reply: "Why, of course; all
our past history proves that." The God they appeal to, however, is the
God of Battles of the Old Testament and of the ancient Hebrews, who
slew His enemies, destroyed nations, and annihilated races, who was
cruel and vindictive.
* * * * *
_Berlin, Friday, December 4th._ In Berlin, restaurants, cafés,
theaters, and concerts are going at full blast. Donait, Iselin, and I,
who have for months been working like dogs in Paris, which is as dull
as a country village and where cafés close at eight and restaurants at
nine and no places of amusement are open other than a few poor cinemas,
are thoroughly enjoying the contrast....
People who one day read the announcement of the death of a son, a
father, or a brother, are seen the next day in the streets or cafés
going about quietly, expressing or betraying neither sorrow nor regret.
The loved one has died "_für Gott, für König, und für Vaterland_." That
is glory enough, and neither the Emperor nor the people feel that it is
appropriate to mourn for one who has died for his country....
_Berlin, Sunday, December 6th._ About the atrocities in Belgium there
is, apparently, no question, but considering the way the Germans
controlled themselves in France, some explanation of their brutality
farther north in Belgian Flanders is necessary. The Germans say that
the cruelties were not all on one side; that the Belgians practised
sniping, impeded the German army, and mutilated German wounded. The
only one of these charges that seems to have been proved is that
of sniping, but even if other cruelties were committed it must be
remembered that the moral status of the Belgians was entirely different
from that of the Germans. The Belgians were aroused to blind fury by
the disregard of their neutrality rights and the unwarranted invasion
of their peaceful country....
Recently I had a long conversation with a German statesman of
ambassadorial rank, who spoke with intense feeling of the plight
of the thousands of German subjects, men, women, and children, who
had been caught in France at the opening of the war and interned in
detention camps. He said: "It is ridiculous for the French to suspect
any of these people of being spies, for German spies are not weak or
unprotected, but strong, picked men and women, highly trained to make
technical observations."
_Tuesday, December 8th._ I went to the American Embassy this morning to
obtain the necessary paper for my departure to-morrow for Vienna. Mr.
Grew called me into his private office and said that Ambassador Gerard
was particularly anxious that I should go to London instead as he had
dispatches of the utmost importance to send and would feel indebted to
me if I could take them. He warned me that the undertaking would not be
pleasant or altogether safe. I promptly accepted the mission,--indeed
such requests are, in the Army, the Navy, and the Diplomatic Service,
made only to be accepted. I am to leave Berlin Thursday morning at 8:59
and go through Germany and Holland to Flushing, where I shall take a
boat across the North Sea to Folkestone and thence to our Embassy in
London.
V--ON THE WAY TO HOLLAND--SHADOWED BY DETECTIVES
_Thursday, December 10th._ Soon after the train left Berlin this
morning I judged that I was being shadowed. When it pulled out of the
station there were four people, including myself, in the six-place
compartment, the two middle seats being vacant, one on my left as I
sat next the window and the other diagonally facing me. Soon after the
train was well started two men came in and occupied these seats. This
in itself was suspicious, since people do not seek seats while a train
is in motion. Both moreover had the air of being detectives. I, by this
time, know the type well, for I have been constantly shadowed ever
since my arrival in Germany and am perfectly certain that my rooms have
several times been searched while I was absent. I simply continued to
behave with the greatest possible circumspection, the two detectives
meanwhile staring at me constantly with fixed intensity.
It was a bit unpleasant because I did not certainly know the nature
of the dispatches I carried, but realized that they were extremely
important. They were in a small leather mail pouch, padlocked and
sealed, which I had set on the floor between my feet and knees.
Everything went quietly for some two hours. I could not look out of
the window in towns and yards because I might have seen troop-trains,
factories, etc., and that would have been "indiscreet." The part of
Germany from Berlin to Holland is utterly flat and uninteresting,
so that there was no pleasure in looking at the countryside between
stations. I pretended to doze, or read three German weeklies which
I had bought. One of these finally precipitated matters. It was the
_Fliegende Blätter_, a comic paper of about the class of _Life_ or
_Punch_. There was in it a joke in German argot which had been too much
for my scant knowledge of the language and the courier who had escorted
me from the Embassy had by the merest hazard translated it for me. In
my desperate efforts to amuse myself I was looking through this sheet
again and encountering this joke thought, "If I don't write down the
English I shall forget it." Whereupon I took out a pencil and wrote the
translation interlinearly.
Soon afterwards one of the detectives got up, went out into the
corridor, and came back with three conductors who, in Germany, of
course, are military officials. The three civilians who had shared
the compartment left us as if they had been rehearsed. One of the
detectives then suddenly burst into a perfect berserker rage, getting
quite purple in the face, and snatching up the _Fliegende Blätter_
proceeded carefully to turn over the pages again and again, holding
each page against the light. It was altogether melodramatically
ridiculous. Taking the paper from me in this way, although inoffensive,
was perhaps within his rights since it concerned me only in a personal
and not in an official way, and so I sat quite calmly in my seat and,
biding my time, made no move of any kind. I paid no attention to the
conductors, judging the detective to be the kingpin and the conductors
merely dragged in as a matter of routine. None of them could read
English and they chose to regard the interlineation (one line of about
ten words) as extraordinarily suspicious.
The detective asked me for my passports and did so without going
through the customary formality of showing his police card. I demanded
as a matter of routine that he do this and began to draw out of my
pocket the large envelope in which I keep all my documents in order to
take out my Eagle-stamped German courier's paper. Without complying
with my request he grabbed for this envelope, while at the same moment
someone jerked at the bag which was between my knees. All this was
an affair totally different from that of the _Fliegende Blätter_. I
had thoroughly thought out what I would do in an emergency if German
officials should attempt to take my pouch from me, and had decided
that I should make enough of a resistance so that there should be no
possibility of disputing the fact that physical force had been used and
an assault committed. This would "let me out," since a dispatch-bearer
cannot be expected successfully to defend himself against the whole
German army. Incidentally I might add that interference in any way
with the dispatch-bearer of a neutral country is a very heinous
international and diplomatic sin. I therefore jerked my envelope of
papers rudely out of the detective's hand and gave him a vigorous
shove, resisting an almost overwhelming temptation to hit him with all
my might on his fat, unprotected jaw. I had half risen to my feet,
meanwhile keeping a grip on the dispatch bag with my knees, and at
the same time I vigorously swung my hips and freed myself from the
man below. The detective struck the opposite wall of the compartment
and bounced off toward the doorway, where he and the conductors stood
jabbering and waving their arms and ever getting more and more purple
in the face.
VI--OUTWITTING THE PRUSSIAN SPIES
Finally the detective showed his police card, and I then extended to
them my Eagle-stamped courier passport, following it with my Embassy
credential and my certificate of identity or personal passport. These
three made a complete case and I refused to show anything more,
insisting that my status had been adequately established. The officials
continued to jabber and argue, having been continuously impolite during
the entire episode, a mode of behavior which was a notable divergence
from my previous experiences with agents of the Imperial Secret
Service. The chief detective, whose name was Werther, continued to hang
around, trying to talk with me, evidently determined to get further
information about my plans.
I do not pretend to judge whether all this was mere accidental
clumsiness and rudeness on the part of stupid detectives or if it was
something very much deeper, prompted by someone higher up. One is,
however, inclined to doubt inefficiency in the Prussian Secret Service
and there may have been reasons why German authorities would count it
of great importance to know the contents of my pouch....
I was followed constantly thereafter, as previously, the men being
cleverly changed at every opportunity. My every step was dogged. At
Wesel a detective sat at the same table in the station restaurant
while I ate dinner. Such being the case I was, to say the least, a bit
annoyed.
At Essen during a fifteen-minute wait for a change of trains, I
withdrew to one end of the platform after having rechecked the two big
mail-sacks. I was standing alone, with a detective, as usual, off in
the background, when a man who looked a typical raw-boned Englishman
drew near and hung around, staring at me. I looked him up and down and
then turned my back thinking, "Another detective!" It was impossible
to believe that an Englishman could be, of all places, in Essen.
He finally approached me, saying in English of a most perfect and
pronounced British accent, "Are you an American?" I replied, "Yes, are
you a police officer? If so, please show me your card." He replied,
"No, I am in a delicate position. I am trying to go to England this
evening. I have American papers. You must see me through. I am ----."
I cut him short by saying that I regretted, etc., and deliberately
walked away. From that time on this man dogged me everywhere, trying
to pass through gates with me and to get into the same compartments,
even following me to the same hotels and restaurants, and trying to
make anything he could out of my presence. I never lost sight of him
for long until we finally set foot in England, where he did finally
arrive, in spite of some very close shaves. I last saw him giving me a
very ugly look as I landed at Folkestone. Whatever his nationality, he
certainly was a spy in the German service.
VII--SAFE ARRIVAL AT EMBASSY IN LONDON
_London, Saturday, December 12th._ We had an exciting trip across the
North Sea, taking zigzag courses to avoid mine-fields and sighting
numerous destroyers and one sunken ship. We successfully avoided either
hitting a mine or running into a torpedo. The boat was packed down with
Belgian and French refugees. One Luxembourger had been a whole month
getting to Flushing from his home in Belgium. I was much relieved when
I arrived at Victoria Station with my pouch and found a clerk from the
Embassy waiting for me, and still more relieved when we had deposited
all the bags safely at their destination.
* * * * *
_Sunday, December 13th._ Imagine the face of any British telegraph
operator if I were to hand him a cable saying: "I am leaving again
for Berlin and Vienna," which is exactly what I am to do. I return
immediately with dispatches from England to our Embassies in Germany
and Austria. My plans are subject to modification by official orders,
but I shall probably remain in Berlin only one day and then go to
Vienna and Budapest. The bag I am to take to Berlin contains not only
official dispatches, but a large sum of money....
_On the North Sea, December 16th._ It has been a wonderful stormy
day to-day; as an officer said: "a typical North Sea winter day"--a
leaden sky, roaring wind, smothers of rain, great black-green waves all
flecked and blotched in white, big sea birds and little gulls dipping
down the wave valleys and soaring up the wave mountains, and the ship
taking the most foolish and impossible angles....
Two hours out a British destroyer came dashing up in our wake, making
two feet to our one. She was a most picturesque sight, long, low, and
speedy, painted black; her towering knife-prow thrust out in front and
the long, low hull strung out behind. She "brought us to" with a shot
across the bows, and as we wallowed in the trough of the sea, she went
by to starboard fairly shaving our side. The officer on her bridge,
over which great waves of spray and water broke at every moment,
"looked us over" and then bellowed orders to our captain through a
megaphone....
VIII--EXPERIENCES AT THE EMBASSY IN VIENNA
_Vienna, Saturday, December 19th._ I remained in Berlin only one day
and started this morning for Vienna with dispatches, arriving late in
the evening after an uneventful fourteen-hour journey.
_Sunday, December 20th._ I presented myself at the American Embassy
this morning and delivered my dispatches....
_Monday, December 21st._ I had a walk and talk with Ambassador Penfield
this morning; took luncheon with Mr. Grant-Smith and went afterward to
the Embassy. Later in the afternoon I went with Count Colloredo von
Mansfeld to the Austro-Hungarian Foreign Office and then called on the
Countess Potatka to whom I had brought letters of introduction.
_Tuesday, December 22d._ After luncheon to-day Mr. Grant-Smith
presented me to Wilhelm Prince zu Stollberg Wering Rode, Conseiller
of the German Embassy in Vienna, who made an appointment with me for
Thursday.
I am meeting many officials, American, German, and Austrian, but at
present I cannot, without indiscretion, state just what they discuss....
_Thursday, December 24th._ I made a verbal report to Prince zu
Stollberg this morning on the situation of German subjects in
France. After luncheon I had a most interesting talk with Mr. Nelson
O'Shaughnessy, of Mexican fame, who is Conseiller at the Embassy.
Later I went for a most delightful automobile ride with Ambassador
Penfield....
* * * * *
Count Berchtold, whom I have seen on several occasions, is a wiry man
of medium height, always grave, intent and all-observing under a mask
of stolidity. He never "talks" and seldom speaks. When he does he is
terse and speaks out of one corner of his mouth as if reluctant to
let the words escape. He is, however, noted for the most unfailing
and perfect manners. It is said he can hear perfectly every separate
conversation that may be carried on in any room where he happens to be
present, and not only hears what is spoken but catches every little
motion or hint of important matters. Such is the man whose hand struck
the match that lit the long-prepared conflagration in which the total
military casualties alone already far exceed five million.
* * * * *
IX--IN A CASTLE AT BUDAPEST
_Budapest, Tuesday, December 29th._ I left Vienna at nine o'clock this
morning and reached Budapest at two. I had tea with Mrs. Gerard, who is
in Budapest visiting her sister, Countess Sigray. I called at the home
of Count Albert Apponyi to leave my card and letters of introduction.
I dined with Mrs. Gerard and the Count and Countess Sigray.
* * * * *
The Austrian Emperor is a little man, slightly stooped, rather
shriveled-up and possessed of a pair of keen, shrewd eyes. He is
an able follower of the Emperor Ferdinand who once replied to the
statement that a certain one of his subjects was a patriot by saying:
"I don't care if he's patriotic for the country, but is he patriotic
for me?" Franz Josef is cold, pitiless, and does not hesitate to ruin
in a moment his most faithful servitor if he is at any time guilty
of failure, or commits a blunder. Even when a minister or general
is forced to carry out an order in spite of strong protests, he has
relentlessly broken him if any catastrophe has resulted. A notable case
is that of the general who commanded the Austrian armies in the battle
of Sadowa.
At the request of the Countess X. I had written to her mother, the
Countess W., before leaving Vienna, and found her answer awaiting me at
the Consul's office when I arrived in Budapest. I learn that she also
communicated with Count Berchtold, the Prime Minister of the Empire,
with Count Szecsen, ex-Ambassador to France, and with the Hungarian
Premier, so that in case I missed her letters (she sent me one to
Vienna and one to Budapest) these gentlemen would see to it that I
went to visit her, as she wished to thank me personally for what I had
been able to do for her daughter, and also to hear direct news of her
grandchildren.
I left Budapest early this afternoon and arrived after dark at
Békéscsaba, which is about half-way to Belgrade. I was met by a
major-domo who appropriated my luggage and led me to a private car on
a private railroad belonging to the Countess. We started immediately
and ran in about twenty minutes to the gate of the estate where she
usually resides. Here I was carefully transferred into a waiting
carriage and was tenderly tucked into numerous fur rugs by two or
three strong men. The two splendid horses turned through the gates for
a ten-minute drive across a beautiful park to the castle--and such a
castle! It is equal in size and charm to some of the famous French
châteaux along the Loire which I studied last spring.
I was carefully unpacked again under a splendid porte-cochère and
ushered by numerous flunkies into the presence of the Countess. She
received me in a tremendous room with a lofty ceiling, and in a
preliminary talk of an hour she took off the first keen edge of her
appetite for news.
My bedroom is perfectly huge and has two ante-rooms--for the personal
servants whom I do not possess. We dined at eight, there being at
the table, besides the Countess, a daughter and her companion, a
Frenchwoman. During dinner the Countess mentioned that the war
necessitated frequent readjustments in the management of her estates;
that the military authorities had recently taken another five hundred
of her men for service in the army. She asked me if I enjoyed hunting
and, upon receiving an affirmative answer, said that she would send me
for an hour or two with the pheasants in the morning. She warned me
that the shooting would be poor because no care had been taken of the
preserves since her sons departed for the war.
X--WITH THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN
_Saturday, January 9th._ Yesterday on my arrival in Budapest I found
awaiting me an invitation from Count Albert Apponyi to visit him at his
castle at Eberhard, near Pozsony. I left Budapest at eight, reached
Pozsony about eleven, and drove to Eberhard, where I was received by
the Count.
I was extremely impressed on meeting Count Apponyi. I had anticipated
something unusual, but he was quite beyond my expectations. He is about
six feet three inches tall, has a splendidly erect carriage, and is a
most impressively handsome man. He has a broad, well-shaped forehead
sloping back steeply, splendid blue-gray eyes, the biggest, thinnest
nose in the world, enormous nostrils, a strong, sensitive mouth, and a
grayish, square-cut beard. The "grand old man of Hungary" looked up to
his title.
He has been a member of the Hungarian Parliament for forty-two years
and has several times held ministerial portfolios....
He has twice been in America. He has several times visited ex-President
Roosevelt at the White House and at Sagamore Hill, and the Colonel has
been a guest here at Eberhard....
At luncheon there were as guests the Count and Countess Karolyi Hunyadi
and two of their sons, and the Countess Herberstein, whose husband is
a general in the army.
_Sunday, January 10th._ I had the honor of a very interesting walk
and talk with Count Apponyi this morning. Among other things he said:
"I sometimes let my younger daughter (aged 12) play with the children
of the peasants on the place. It gives her an understanding of life,
and besides, there is no one of her own age and rank in this part of
the country." This for a Hungarian nobleman is an extremely democratic
remark.
(And so this American Attaché continues to write in his notebook the
impressions which he received on his official journeys through the
war-ridden countries, which were so soon to become the enemies of his
own country. His diary is one of the most interesting records of the
war.)
FOOTNOTE:
[5] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
book.
'NEATH VERDUN--BEHIND THE CROWN PRINCE'S ARMY
_By Lieutenant Maurice Genevoix--Translated by H. Grahame Richards_
This extraordinary narrative by a young Lieutenant in the French
Army gives the most vivid impression that has been recorded of the
Great War. The author was a student at the Ecole Normale, Paris, at
the outbreak of the War. He received his baptism of fire in August,
1914--and what a baptism it was! It has been truly said by critics
that his narrative is one which will be read and reread and handed
on to posterity. He lays bare the soul of the War. Under his magic
touch, we stand at Verdun; we see the army at "The Crossing of the
Meuse"; we stay with them through "The Days of the Marne"; we march
with them "Behind the Crown Prince's Army"; we fight with them "In
the Woods." We here reprint portions of his narrative by permission
of his American publishers, _Frederick A. Stokes Company_.
[6] I--STORY OF THE LIEUTENANT AT VERDUN
Half-past one in the morning! Kit bags on the ground, rifles piled,
lines in sections of four, at the edge of a little wood of birch trees
struggling for life on a stony soil. The night is cold. I place a
listening post well forward and return and seat myself near my men. The
stillness is palpitating; the passage of time interminably long-drawn.
The dawn begins to lighten the sky. I look around me and see the pale
and tired faces of my men.
Four o'clock. A dozen rifle shots to the right cause me to leap to my
feet just as I am making myself comfortable. Out of a small neighboring
wood a dozen Uhlans are flying at a gallop--they must have passed the
night in the covert.
The day breaks clear and fresh. My Nubécourt bed-fellow produces his
inexhaustible flask, and we sip a drop of brandy which possesses no
bouquet at all and seems like raw alcohol. The Captain joins us at last
and explains the situation in a few words:
"A German army corps," he says, "is marching towards the southeast,
having for flank-guard a brigade which follows the valley of the Aire.
The --th Corps is going to engage the said German corps, while it
remains for us to deal with the flanking brigade."
For the first time I am going to experience war in all its reality!
* * * * *
Clac! Clac! Two bullets have struck immediately to my left. The noise
at once surprises and slightly amazes me; these bullets seem less
dangerous when they sing and whistle. Clac! Clac! Stones, pieces of
dried earth, spurts of dust fly into the air; we have been seen and
they have got the range of us. Forward! I am leading, seeking a ditch,
a slope, a fold in the earth wherein to shelter my men after the first
rush--even the hedge of a field, or anything which will render them
less visible to the Boches will do. A movement of my right arm shortens
the line by half. I hear the tramp of feet, the rustle of the stubble
lying in our course. And while we are running forward the detachment
in support fires rapidly but steadily. Then when I raise my cap, that
detachment in its turn charges at the double, whilst all around me my
men's rifles come into play and speak unceasingly.
A strangled cry to the left. I have scarcely time to see the man sprawl
flat on his back, his two legs still moving as though to carry him
forward. A second, and all his body stiffens and then relaxes and the
man is no more than an inert thing, dead flesh which to-morrow the sun
will commence to decompose.
Forward! To remain still would cost us more dearly now than the most
furious assault. Forward! The men are falling rapidly, stopped dead in
full course, some crashing prone without a word, others halting and
staring stupidly, while feeling with their hand for their wound. And
they say: "I have got it," or, "Mine has arrived!" Often it is no more
than a single expressive word. Almost all of them, even those whose
wounds are slight, turn pale at the shock.
* * * * *
"Oh!..." The cry escaped a dozen of us at once. A high explosive burst
clean among the Saint Maixenter's platoon. And he, I saw it distinctly
with my own eyes, received the shell full in his body. His cap vanished
into space, a part of his coat, an arm. And there he is lying on the
earth a shapeless mass, white and red pulp, a body stripped well-nigh
naked, shattered. His men, finding themselves leaderless, give way and
scatter.
* * * * *
We march through an inferno of smoke, from time to time obtaining a
glimpse, through momentary clearings, of the village and the river
running beneath the trees. But there is no truce to the shells which
follow us in hundreds.
I recollect passing one of my sergeants being carried by two of the
men on crossed rifles; he pointed out to me speechlessly, his torn and
blood-stained shirt and his side terribly lacerated by an explosion. I
could see the raw edges of the flesh....
I march onwards and onwards exhausted and stumbling. I take a long gulp
of the water that remains in my flask. Since yesterday evening I have
eaten nothing.
When we reach the edge of the stream, the men halt and throw themselves
down and commence to lap the muddied waters like dogs.
It must be seven o'clock now; the sun is sinking into a bed of
virgin gold. The sky above us is a pale and transparent emerald. The
earth darkens, colors vanish. It is quite dark by the time we leave
Sommaisne. We become mere shadows trailing along the road.
* * * * *
Not a wink of sleep. The noise of the shells hurtling through the air
is constantly in my ears, while the acrid and suffocating fumes of
explosives haunt my nostrils. Scarcely yet is it midnight before I
receive orders to depart. I emerge from the trusses of wheat and rye
among which I had ensconced myself. Bits of stalk have slipped down my
collar and up my sleeves, and tickle me all over. The night is so dark
that we stumble over the stones and irregularities of the ground. We
pass very close to some 120's drawn up behind us; I hear the voices of
the artillerymen, but only with difficulty can I distinguish the heavy
sleeping guns.
* * * * *
Hallo! The German guns are speaking early this morning! Before us
shrapnel is bursting noisily and spitefully. Over the plain they have
thrown a barrage. Nevertheless we have to go through it. Our first
section detaches itself; in a line, long-drawn and thin, it moves
across the fields towards a small wood which the captain has indicated
as the objective. Rifles crackle away to the left. Bullets sing and
throw up the dust about the marching section. Then shrapnel bursts
right over the men. The undulating line becomes still, taking cover
behind a ridge of earth shaped like a gigantic caterpillar.
II--STORY OF THE CHARGING GERMANS
"Hurrah! Hurrah! Vorwärts!"
How many thousands of soldiers are surging down upon us then? The moist
earth quivers beneath the tramp of their heavy feet. Most surely must
we be smashed to pieces, trampled down, broken. For there are not more
than sixty of us all told, and how may sixty men extended in single
file hope to resist the tremendous pressure of these ranks upon ranks
of men rushing down upon us like a herd of maddened buffaloes?
"Rapid fire! _Nom de Dieu!_ Fire!"
The crackling of the rifles rends the air; spurts of flame shatter the
darkness. The rifles of my platoon have spoken simultaneously!
And now there is a gap in the very heart of the charging mass. I hear
shrill screams of agony as of beasts mortally stricken. The dark
figures divide to flow right and left, just as if, before the trench,
and extending its whole length, a tempest had raged and laid men to the
earth, as the breath of the gale bends down the growing wheat.
Some of the men about me say:
"Look, Lieutenant! See, they are lying down!"
"No, my friend! It is not so. They have fallen down!"
And ... (Censored.)
Once more I repeat:
"Fire! Fire! Let them have it! Put it into them! Fire!"
* * * * *
"Hurrah! Vorwärts!"
I am surrounded by Boches; it seems impossible that I can escape,
separated as I am from all my men. Nevertheless I grasp my revolver
in my hand and pray only I may be permitted to give a good account of
myself.
Suddenly I am sprawling face downwards, nose to the earth, having
stumbled over something hard and metallic. Lying in the mud is the
body of a dead German whose helmet has rolled a little away from him.
Instantly an idea seizes me. I pick up the helmet and place it on my
own head, passing the strap beneath my chin to secure it.
There follows a mad flight for the safety the chasseurs will afford.
Without hesitating a second, I rush by groups of Boches who are
wandering about doubtfully, their original plans having been rather
upset by our fusillade. As I pass them I cry:
"Hurrah! Vorwärts!"
Like them, too, I keep repeating the word to which they seem to attach
great importance, which is:
"Heiligtum!"
The rain stings my face: the mud adheres to my soles until only with
difficulty can I raise boots which have become enormously big and
heavy. Twice I fall on my hands and knees, only to rise again and
instantly resume my flight, notwithstanding my aching legs. Singing and
whistling bullets pass over me into the darkness beyond.
Out of the blackness at my feet a man rises and the words on his lips
are French.
"Is it you, Letty?"
"Yes, Lieutenant; I've got one in the thigh."
"That's all right, old man; we'll get there yet!"
Already there are no more harsh-voiced brawlers around us. Manifestly
they must reform before continuing the assault. So I throw away the
helmet and replace my cap of which I have taken good care.
Before reaching the chasseurs I overtake four Boches, in each of whom,
either in the back or in the head, I put a revolver bullet. Each one
drops in his tracks with a long, strangled cry.
(Censored.)
* * * * *
Skirting the base of a steep slope, I pass through a fire zone where
the bullets in hundreds, whining and shrilling, tear up the soil all
about me. Then I encounter a group of men, standing at the foot of a
tree. There is a dying officer in the center, supported against the
tree-hole. A glimpse I have of a dark blue tunic wide opened, of a
shirt stained with bright blood. The wounded man's head sags heavily
down to his shoulder, and in the whitened, tortured face, moist from
fearful agony, I recognize my own major.
But I must not stay!
* * * * *
I question a lieutenant who is marking the fall of the shells through
his glasses, shaking from head to foot the while from excitement.
"Things going well? Eh?"
He turns towards me. The joy which fills him is plainly legible in his
face. He laughs exuberantly:
"I should say they are going well. The Germans are giving
way--deserting their positions like rats a sinking ship."
He laughs once more. "Listen to our 75's! They are making them dance
like madmen! That is the way to carry on, what? They are being kicked
in the sterns now, the swine!"
A staff captain on foot is watching the delighted gunnners. He laughs
also and repeats several times in a loud voice: "Good! Very good!"
III--STORIES TOLD AFTER THE BATTLE
Heavily and dreamlessly I sleep, and awake to find myself in precisely
the same attitude as that in which I flung myself down the preceding
night. The straw wraps me in grateful warmth, rather moist, perhaps,
because the water in my saturated clothes has evaporated during the
night....
We find that in the night the torrent has well-nigh filled the trenches
with liquid mud. Some sappers, however, come to our assistance, and,
thanks to them, we are able to shelter ourselves from the worst of the
downpour.
The men work easily, flinging jests one to the other. The incidents of
the night attack are revived and acquire a totally new force by reason
of the simple words in which they are related.
"I was all right at the beginning," says Martigny, one of my men. "But
all at once, while I was still firing, down toppled a Boche right on
top of me, without so much as a "by your leave!" I was on my knees and
he lay across my calves. It's not easy to fire in such a position as
that! Little by little the weight forced my knees down into the mud;
the water rose almost up to my hands: how was I to refill my magazine?
I could not see the animal, but you can take my word for it, he was
heavy."
And a second:
"A good job for me that I was once fencing-sergeant in the regulars!
Otherwise I should not be here now. Not even time to fix my bayonet
before I found one of the ugly pigs on top of me with his skewer. I
thought to myself: 'What's all this about? But you are going to find
you can joke once too often, my Boche!' And there we were all in and
at it. I parried a thrust with the stock of my rifle, but what sort of
defence could I put up, seeing that my weapon was much shorter than
his? Only he didn't manage to get his bayonet into me!... There wasn't
even a cartridge! I tell you that Boche kept me jumping from side to
side until I felt like dying from weariness. You know what a job it is
to parry, when you can no longer feel your own fingers? Still jumping,
I said to myself: 'What in the name of glory are those asses right and
left fooling about? Are they going to stand by and see me knocked out?'
Oh! but they were there all right, and it was Gillet to the right who
put a bullet into him while he was pausing to take a breath. Then I
stuck on my bayonet and filled my magazine. There were others still
coming up, you understand!"
"Sons of pigs, these Boches!" rasps a miner from the North. "And what
mugs they are too, _Mon Dieu_! When I saw them swarming over towards
me, 'Martin,' said I to myself, 'you're done for this time!' And then:
'Hurrah!' they're off! Bang, bang, bang! And I knew no more."
"Martin, you are babbling," grunts a huge Champenois, who is smoking
his pipe and listening with eyes atwinkle. "Hammer away at the earth,
seeing that is what you were born for; but don't mix yourself up in
conversations, because you can't talk."
He spits on his hands, rubs them against each other, and taking up his
pick starts digging again with long, steady, powerful strokes.
* * * * *
In the evening we go into the village. I stroll slowly towards the
barn where my section is billeted. In the square, a group of noisy
soldiers is gathered before a house which has nothing in particular to
distinguish it from its neighbours. With much pushing and stretching of
necks they are contriving to scan a big placard stuck on the wall....
The first word that encounters my eyes, however, gives me a violent
shock. I can see nothing else but that word, which instantly seizes
upon my excited imagination and seems to presage things marvellous,
superhuman, incredible. The word is:
"Victory!"
It sings in my ears, that word. It echoes through all the streets, it
bursts on me like a triumphant fanfare.
"Victory!" Thrills pass through me, enthusiasm seizes upon me and stirs
me so violently as to make me feel almost sick. I feel that I am too
small to contain the emotion to which the sacred word gives rise.
"_The retreat of the 1st, 2nd and 3rd German Armies is becoming
pronounced before our left and centre. In its turn, the enemy's 4th
Army is beginning to fall back to the north of Vitry and Sermaize._"
So that is it, then! We have been progressing everywhere. We have
grappled with them, badly torn them, wounded them! Oh! that it may run
and run, that German blood, until every particle of strength shall have
streamed out of them!...
IV--STORIES OF THE GRAVES--AND CROSSES
_Marats-la-Grande._ We do not pass through the village. Some mounted
batteries are passing and scaling the sloping fields towards the road.
The riders are shouting and whipping their horses, already straining
at the collar. Poor beasts! So thin that one can count their ribs,
sides chafed raw by the harness, heads hanging, they strain and strain
until their laboured breathing is audible, while their large bleared
eyes speak eloquently of their sufferings.
A grave; two posts have been tied to form a cross! On the horizontal
one a deep notch has been made with a knife, revealing the white heart
of the wood. Someone has written in pencil the name of the soldier
whose body is lying in the earth, his uniform for his shroud. The
number of his regiment, his company and the date of his death, the 9th
of September, are also inscribed. Four days! Only four days ago that
decomposing something lying beneath the mound of earth was a man in the
full flood of life, hoping, perhaps, soon to be reunited to the dear
ones waiting for him. Four days!... His parents would not have heard
yet.
More graves. They are not laid out in any particular order, or even in
groups. At irregular intervals, they line the road we are following,
which is no more than a trampled-down track over fresh grass between
trees in leaf. Everywhere one can see these sad little crosses, on
almost all of which a red cap hangs. Without halting, the men read
aloud the inscriptions. The 8th of September, the 9th of September, the
10th of September....
And here is one which is not marked with the little cross of branches.
A stake has been simply driven into the ground, bearing a burnt-in
inscription to tell passersby the name of the dead man; on the
newly-turned earth some white stones have been arranged in the form
of a cross--they seem to protect him who lies there better and more
intimately.
Hastily-made graves, turned out with small trenching tools, how I
wish you were much deeper! Your lines suggest the shape of the body
you hide from our eyes. The rain must have soaked you these last days
and nights! But at least calm and peace are with you. The enemy is far
away, never to return. Guard well, then, your poor dead, until the day
dawns when the old men and women shall come to demand of you the bodies
of their loved ones!
We march onwards a few minutes longer and reach a bare plain studded
with shell-craters. The sun is sinking, the rays of its golden light
striking obliquely. Mutilated horses are lying about, their stiff legs
crossed or thrust up towards the sky.
V--TRAMP! TRAMP! TRAMP! ALONG THE ROAD OF CORPSES
"Fall in!"
New orders have just arrived and we are to move on again.
Before leaving, I pick up a fragment of shell over which I stumbled.
It is fifty centimetres long by fifteen wide, with jagged edges like
the teeth of a saw. I contemplate this terrible thing lying heavy in
my hand. To what kind of a shell, swift and growling, must it have
belonged? This fragment must be one of those which cleanly sweep away
an arm or leg, tear off a head, or cut a man completely in two. And
holding it thus in my hand, heavy and cold, I remember a poor little
cyclist who was killed close to us in Septsarges Wood--one leg taken
away at the hip and the lower part of his abdomen laid open.
Trees and a shimmer of green on a wide road, away to the north. Night
is falling. Suddenly through the grayness we find ourselves looking
upon some ruins--we have reached Erize-la-Petite.
* * * * *
Another road skirting the line which links Rembercourt with Vauxmarie
and Beuzée. In the ditches, hunched up or stretched at full length, are
human corpses. A single corpse is a rare spectacle. As a rule they are
lying huddled together as if seeking to warm each other. The failing
light reveals blue coats and red trousers; Frenchmen; more Frenchmen,
in fact nothing but Frenchmen! Judge my enthusiasm on finding some
Boches among them! I fall out several times to make sure that these
really are Boches. The foe cannot have had the time to hide away that
lot!
The night becomes black and corpses are no longer visible. But they
are always there, at the bottom of the ditches, on the slopes at the
very edge of the road. We realize their presence even in the dark. By
shielding the eyes and peering hard, it is possible to see the eerie
heaps which have lost all resemblance to that of which they are made....
Not a word in the ranks; nothing but the regular tramp, tramp, before
and behind me; occasionally someone coughs, a little dryly, or a man
spits. That is all. It must be cold, yet my head and hands are burning,
and my will struggles to subdue an uncontrollable inclination to turn
to my right where the cool waters of the Aire, flowing by the roadside,
are betrayed by the stagnant pools under the trees.
An unexpected halt! The men bump their noses against the packs of the
file in front. Confusion and much swearing. Then quick commands:
"Quartermasters prepare rations for distribution."
It is the best of all signs. The day's march is ended.
* * * * *
Come! Head erect and fists clenched! No more of that weakness that a
moment ago assailed me. We must look unmoved on these poor dead and
seek from them the inspiration of hate. It was the Boche in his flight
who dragged these sorry things to the side of the road, who arranged
this horrid spectacle for our express benefit, and we must never rest
until the brute has drunk our cup of vengeance to the dregs.
Impotent and childish is the fury that only inspires us with rage
and the passion for vengeance instead of fear, as our foe hopes and
believes.
Besides, every step forward now presents us with eloquent testimony of
the completeness of the defeat they have suffered--helmets torn and
pierced by our bullets, crushed and shattered by our shells; rusty
bayonets; broken cartridge-belts, still full. To the left of the road
in the fields are some overturned ammunition wagons and gun-carriages
in pieces, the horses lying dead in a heap. In the ditch is the
carriage of a shattered machine-gun; one can see the hole made by the
shell--a 75. What a state the gun on that carriage must have been in!
And the machine-gunners? At the bottom of the hole! Ammunition belts of
coarse white canvas lie coiled in puddles.
We pick up some boots full of rain-water. I wonder whether the men
from whom we took them walked barefooted through the mud merely for
pleasure? In another hole we find the men themselves. Further on again
we encounter crosses bearing German inscriptions. Here then are the
Ottos, the Friedrichs, the Karls, and the Hermans! Each cross bears
four, five and even six names. The Germans were in a hurry; they buried
their men in bunches.
A cross higher than the others attracts and holds our attention; it
bears no more than three words deeply carved in big capitals:
ZWEI DEUTSCHES KRIEGER
Is there still another challenge hidden behind this? If so, it is
obscure. For who killed you, you two German soldiers?
VI--TALES OF THE NIGHTMARE DAYS
Over the trampled roadway, newspapers, post-cards and letters flutter.
I pick up a photograph on the back of which a woman has written a few
lines:
"My Peter, it is a long time since we received any news from you and
we are naturally very anxious. I think, however, that very shortly
you will be able to tell us of still further victories and that you
will return in glory to Toelz. What a fête you shall have then...."
And then further on: "The little one has grown and is becoming quite
strong. You could never imagine what a little treasure he is. Do not
be too long in returning, or he will not be able to recognize you."
Sad enough, indeed, is it not? Whose, however, is the fault? Remember
our dead of a short while ago; remember the captain flung almost
across the road. What has he done, of what is he capable, this Peter,
this German whose photograph shows him with lowered face, cold eyes,
heavy-jawed, resting his hand on the back of a chair on which his wife
is seated, smiling but negligible? Pity at such a moment would shame
us. Let us harden our hearts and keep them hard until the end comes.
* * * * *
And so in memory I live again through bad days, nightmare days--the
_réveil_ in the furious, stinging rain; the arrival at Louvemont,
that indescribable village little better than a sewer. I had gone
over to the quarters of the adjoining section because before their
barn a little chimney-piece had been erected with some paving stones.
There had been a fire of flaming logs, hissing and spluttering. We
had stripped ourselves to the waist to let the grateful warmth of the
flames play on our chests and backs and shoulders. Sitting on a bundle
of straw we had found an old, white-bearded soldier, dreaming. I had
gone up to him and said:
"Hallo, M----! So you are better! Beginning to feel alive once again,
eh?"
"Oh, yes, Lieutenant. But it has been a hard pull, a very hard pull!..."
And he had repeated in a low voice, as though experiencing again
hardships still recent: "Very hard!"
Poor old man! He had gone through the campaign of '70 as a volunteer,
and since those days had lived outside France. For thirty years, I
believe, he acted as a notary in California, until the very day, in
fact, which had brought this war upon us. Then, when France was once
more attacked and menaced, he had flung everything aside and had come
back to shoulder his rifle. He had described himself as being robust,
smart and well able to endure any hardships. They had accepted his
statement and sent him up to face the Boches with the first batch of
reinforcements. He had joined up with us in the woods at the very
moment we were setting out for those nightmarish advance posts; those
two succeeding days were the first of his service. Poor old man!--and
he was sixty-four years of age!
* * * * *
We had crossed the line from Verdun to Conflans, marching ankle-deep
in wet coal-dust. Before a smoke-blackened house at the barrier some
enormous girasols thrust forth their yellow and black corollæ, their
colours rendered more brilliant by the recent rain. We passed some
quads of territorials with their tools on their shoulders, artillerymen
from the big fortresses, slow-moving country wagons laden with forage,
tree-trunks and wine casks. Wooden huts had been erected along the
roadside, each of which had a name inscribed on it, such as: Happy
Villa; The Good Children's Castle; Villa Piccolo, etc. Verses adorned
some of them, not of high poetical attainment, but something after this
fashion:
"You never see us weeping here--
Often you'll see us drinking beer.
War may not be the best of fun,
But we'll stick it till we've smashed the Hun!"
* * * * *
An interruption. A woman appears, thin and dirty, pushing before her a
little yellow-haired girl, whose eyes are red-rimmed and tear-stained.
The doctor having been consulted, prescribes for colic.
"And what do I owe you for that, doctor?" asks the woman.
"Nothing at all, madam."
But she draws from beneath her apron a dusty bottle. "I must
'recompinse' you somehow. There is not very much in it, but what there
is tastes good. It is good: oh, but indeed it is!"
It is Toul wine, dry, thin and somewhat sharp. A brawn, turned out on
to a plate, gives us an excellent lunch.
In the afternoon we pass to the observation trench. We overtake a group
of lame men, without weapons, coats open, almost all of them limping
along with a stick. Among them I recognize a friend of pre-war days.
We shake hands and speak eagerly and with pleasure of common memories,
before approaching the inevitable regrets. As he belonged to a regiment
which was compelled to give way before the Boches, I asked him how it
had come about. He shrugged his shoulders despondently.
"Masses of infantry; an endless hail of shell; not a gun to support us
... don't let's talk about it, old man."
* * * * *
The thunder of the 75's almost splits our ears. Occasionally a German
shell flies past us with a shrill whistle and peppers the trees with
a volley of shrapnel. Into the midst of this tumult we march and take
up position. My section occupies about fifty yards of a trench already
full of corpses.
"Out with your tools," I say to my men, "and dig for all you are worth."
VII--THE DEATH WAILS OF THE WOUNDED
Night falls. The cold increases. It is that hour when, the battle
ended, the wounded who have not yet been brought in, cry aloud in
their suffering and distress. And those calls, those appealings, those
moanings, awaken anguish in all those compelled to listen to them; an
anguish the crueler for the fighters who are chained to their posts
by stern duty yet who long to rush out to their gasping comrades, to
dress their wounds, to speak words of comfort to them, and to carry
them to safety where fires burn brightly and warm. Yet we must not do
so; we are chained to the spot, our hearts wrung, our nerves quivering,
shivering at the sound of soul-stricken cries brought to us unceasingly
by the night.
"A drink!..."
"Are you going to leave me to die here?..."
"Stretcher-bearers!..."
"Drink!..."
"Ah!..."
"Stretcher-bearers!..."
I hear some of my men say:
"Where the devil are the stretcher-bearers!"
... (Censored.) ...
"They are like fleas--you can never find them when you look for them."
And before us the whole plain wrapped in darkness seems to shiver from
the agony of those undressed wounds.
Voices soft, weary from having cried so long:
"... (Censored.) ...
....?"
"Mother, oh, mother!"
"Jeanne, little Jeanne.... Oh! say that you hear me, my Jeanne!"
"I am thirsty.... I am thirsty.... I am thirsty.... I am thirsty...."
Voices in anguish, panting and gasping:
"I won't die here like a rat!"
"Stretcher-bearers! Stretcher-bearers!... Stretcher-bearers!!!"
"... (Censored.) ...
....?"
"You fellows, finish me off, for God's sake! Ah!..."
A German not more than twenty yards away, cries out incessantly:
"Kamerad! Franzose! Kamerad! Kamerad! Franzose!"
And in a lower voice:
"Hilfe! Hilfe!"
His voice wavers and breaks into a wailing as of a crying child; then
his teeth snap fiercely; then he shatters the night stillness with a
beast's cry, like the howling of a dog baying at the moon.
Terrible beyond the power of words, that night. Every minute either
Porchon or myself were jumping to our feet. The whole time we were
under fire and the cold was truly cursed.
The nearer we approach the village, the more numerous become the
wounded men returning from the fight. They come in groups, carefully
selecting the shorter grass to walk over, seeking the shade to avoid
the burning sun, which makes their wounds smart intolerably. There are
a few Germans mingled with our men; one big-built man, fair, ruddy and
with blue eyes, is assisting a little French infantryman, who limps
along jesting and laughing and displaying all his teeth. With a wicked
glance towards us, he cries aloud to the Boche:
"Is it not true, you pig, that you are a good pig?"
"I understand," exclaims the German gutturally. "Pig, good pig! I
understand!"
And an unctuous laugh spreads all over his greasy face, happy at this
display of camaraderie which promises so well for him, as vile and
loathsome as are all Boches when at the mercy of a conqueror....
In the clear, cool night, to the accompaniment of many voices, the
sections assemble and line up, and the companies are reformed. How
attenuated, how mutilated they look!
My poor battalion! To-day's fight has once again cost us dearly. The
5th, which was so terribly cut up two weeks ago in the trenches at
Vauxmarie, has also suffered cruelly again.
As for my own men, I know only too well those who are missing. Lauche,
my sergeant, the only one left to me since Vauxmarie--it is always
Vauxmarie!--I had seen him, as Vauthier put it, clawing the grass at
the bottom of the ditch; I knew he was gone already. There was big
Brunet also, and several others struck down at my side. And when I told
the corporals to step forward and call out the rolls of their squads,
voices responded which were not theirs. In each case a man of the
"first class" or old soldier stepped forward to say:
"Corporal Regnard, wounded."
Or:
"Corporal Henry, killed."
"And Morand?"
"Corporal Morand, wounded," said an old soldier.
* * * * *
Not one sergeant! Not even a corporal! All those squads which become
after a time a well-beloved family to those in charge of them, a family
not to be parted from without sorrow and regret--here they are deprived
of their leaders, to whom they look up constantly, who watch over them,
who sustain them through long and difficult hours by the mere magic
of their presence. I had known each one of them so well, those I had
lost to-day! They were the men of my choice, men for whom a single word
from me was sufficient, men who had never sought to shirk their duties,
accepting their task whatever it was, and fulfilling it to the very
best of their powers.
* * * * *
Through the field behind us men are moving. We can hear the rustling of
the dried leaves they are gathering; the falling flakes of earth from
the roots they pull up; they have discovered some turnips. We remember
then that so far we have eaten nothing.
It is cold. We shiver. We remain silent.
(The young French Lieutenant continues in his book, "'Neath Verdun"
these tremendous experiences in which he shows the self-abnegation of
the French soldiers. His comrade, Porchon, was killed at Les Eparges
on February 20th, 1915. M. Genevoix himself was wounded--but his love
for France and his spirit of exaltation lives on. The last chapter in
his book, "The Armies Go to Earth" is a vision of the reality of these
days when the world is being reconstructed.)
FOOTNOTE:
[6] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
book.
ON THE ANZAC TRAIL--WITH THE FIGHTING AUSTRALASIANS
_Adventures of a New Zealand Sapper_
_Told by "Anzac" (Name Suppressed)_
This is the story of the Anzacs. It is told by one of the New
Zealanders who was with them in Egypt. He was present at the Landing
and did his best to uphold the honor of Maoriland in the long and
grim battle of the trenches. Throughout these adventurous days, he
kept a diary which has been published under title "On the Anzac
Trail." This diary tells the tales of a man in the ranks; it is
told without gloss or varnish. A few anecdotes are here retold by
permission of his American publishers, _J. B. Lippincott Company_, of
Philadelphia.
[7] I--STORY OF THE NEW ZEALANDER
When the Great War struck Europe I was living with my people in
Ireland. I had served in the South African campaign, so, of course, I
realized that it was up to me to roll up again and do my bit towards
keeping the old flag flying. It's a queer thing, but let a man once go
on the war-path and it's all the odds to a strap ring he's off again,
full cry, to the sound of the bugle. I reckon it's in the Britisher's
blood; he kind of imbibes it along with his mother's milk. When all's
said and done we are a fighting breed....
When England took off the gloves to Germany I knew the Colonies
wouldn't hang back long. They breed men on the fringes of our Empire.
Hence I wasn't surprised when I saw a notice in the papers, calling on
all New Zealanders, or men who had seen service with the Maorilanders
in South Africa, to roll up at the High Commissioner's office in
London, to be trained for service with the "Down Under" contingents.
Well, I had lived for years in New Zealand, and had fought Boers time
and again side by side with New Zealand troops, so I sent in my name
right away.
* * * * *
... I fancy this "history" of the doings of the Anzacs is going to
be more of a diary than anything else. I kept a rough note of things
as they happened day by day. For one thing the diary style pins the
various events down to a kind of sequence and insures their being told
in the order in which they happened; for another it saves the author
a deal of labor. This by way of explanation and apology. Here goes,
then----
II--DANISH SKIPPER AND GREEK CREW--ON WAY TO ALEXANDRIA
_April_ 17, 1915.--Sailed from Alexandria in transport _A26_,
otherwise the S. S. _Goslar_, a captured German prize. We had a Danish
skipper and a Greek crew--a poor lot as seamen go. We were quartered
in the forepeak, the quarters being rough, but on the whole fairly
comfortable. We shared them with a healthy and mightily lively lot of
brown bugs. The tucker wasn't too bad.
The weather was fine and the sea calm all the way to Lemnos Island.
Had a pow-wow with the O.C., who read out aloud the General's orders,
informing us that we should land under cover of the warships' guns,
that we were to drive the Turks back, secure a footing, and hold it _at
all costs_. Anticipated heavy losses. When dismissed went and made our
wills.
Were met on the 19th by the cruiser _Dartmouth_ and escorted by her
till the evening, when a destroyer took us in charge and saw us safely
into Mudros Harbor. The _Dartmouth_ informed us by semaphore that
transport _B12_, steaming one hour ahead of us, had been attacked by an
enemy torpedo boat, three torpedoes being fired at her, all of which
missed. A number of soldiers jumped overboard, thinking the transport
was doomed, and were drowned. The torpedo boat was engaged by our
ships, driven ashore and destroyed.
We arrived in Mudros Harbor, in Lemnos, on the night of the 19th. It
was just crowded with shipping, and looked for all the world like a big
floating town. Were informed that there were over 200 transports and
60 warships gathered in the harbor. Had a splendid view of the _Queen
Elizabeth_ as she lay quite close to our old hooker. The anchorage
was simply alive with destroyers, torpedo boats, submarines, etc.,
both French and English. The French craft struck me as being a bit
mouldy-looking, not so up-to-date as the British. You could always tell
a French destroyer, she was so crowded up with all kinds of deck gear,
and had a general Back of Beyond look about her--like a chap who had
stopped washing and shaving for a longish spell.
During our stay at Lemnos we amused ourselves by practising boat drill,
landing of troops, etc. It was no joke swarming down a rope ladder
loaded up in full marching order--and it was just as bad climbing up
again. One of our chaps let go his rifle; the rest contented themselves
with language. No one was drowned.
It was while lying here we had our first solid day and night's rain,
the first really heavy fall since leaving home. The temperature rapidly
dropped in consequence till it became like early summer in England.
Were told that we should find no firewood where we were going, and
orders issued that each man was to carry a bundle of kindling wood
strapped on top of his pack. We shall look like a mob of walking
Christmas Trees when we get all on. Living on bully beef and biscuits
now; no bread.
_April_ 23.--Had a rather pleasant sail in one of the ship's boats
to-day. Landed on a small island in the harbor and cut a big supply of
green fodder for the horses we had on board. Found the formation of
the island to be volcanic in character, as all the land round about
these parts seems to be. Not much sign of water, yet the sole of grass
was good, and the color a vivid green. Plenty of white clover, some
of what looked like English cocksfoot, and a plant that struck me as
Italian rye-grass. Heard the cuckoo and the lark, and noticed some
small green lizards scurrying over the outcropping rocks. _Thought_ I
saw a tarantula spider, but wouldn't swear to it.
Coming back to ship we found we had to beat against a head
wind. Our craft was lug-rigged, the sail something like a dirty
pocket-handkerchief. She had no use for beating; there wasn't a beat in
her. Tried to ram an outward bound mine-sweeper which refused to get
out of our way. Mine-sweeper's captain called us names that may have
been true but didn't sound nice. Doused the sail and rowed back. In
the evening we watched the French and English transports and warships
leaving the harbor. Rumors fill the air--the latest that we leave for
the Dardenelles to-morrow (24th).
_April_ 24.--Preparations for the big event. Told that the staff were
prepared to lose 80 per cent of the forces to effect a landing; also,
that the fleet could see us ashore but that _it couldn't take us off
again_; once ashore we'd got to look after ourselves. The fellows
stroked their chins and looked thoughtful for a spell; I reckon they
were thinking of the pie that mother used to make--or of their latest
girls. We were also told that as like as not all the wells on Gallipoli
would be poisoned, and that we should have to do on our water-bottles
for three days. Three days on about a pint and a half! And biscuits
ditto! We began to cotton on to it that it wasn't a picnic or mothers'
meeting we were out to take a hand in. Were served out with a 2-oz.
tin of tobacco between four men, and three packets each of cigarettes.
Handed in our blankets and waterproof sheets, so will be going ashore
as we stand. Very stiff fight expected, as it is fairly sure that the
Turks will do all that is in them to beat us back. Wonder how many of
the boys will go under?
_Later._--Under way. All lights out and general air of suppressed
excitement on all hands. Some of the chaps making a book on the event,
and laying odds on the chances of the takers getting through the
slather-up unharmed. Others tossing up to see if certain of their mates
will finish up in heaven or hell! No one the least downhearted; all
determined to at least give the enemy the time of his life when they
come to grips. They are certainly as tough a crowd as ever got into
uniform.
Landing expected to take place just at daybreak or slightly earlier.
Creeping along like a "mob of thieves in the night," as one of the
chaps put it. Distance from Lemnos about 45 miles, I hear, so will be
there in whips of time. Funny thing to think that one's folks will be
lying in bed sound asleep at the moment we go into the enemy, and never
dreaming of what their men will be taking on. Just as well, too, come
to think of it. Weather A1. Sea calm; nothing to complain of in that
line, anyway.
III--STORY OF "HELL LET LOOSE" AT ANZAC
_April_ 28.--First chance of scribbling anything for three days. Been
through hell--just that. War! It wasn't war; it was just cold-blooded
butchery. How the position has been held beats me. But held it has
been--and it's going to be held--at a cost! I wonder what the price of
crêpe will rise to out in Australia and New Zealand! Here goes for a
shy at describing our amusement of the past three days.
It was dark when we left the transports off Gaba Tepe and crept in
towards the denser blackness that represented the shore. The night--or
early morning, rather--was still; everything seemed in our favor; not a
sound welled out seaward, not a light twinkled in the murk ahead. Could
it be that we had taken the Turks by surprise? Or were they simply
lying low and playing a waiting game? Soon we were to know.
On--on crept the boats loaded to the gunwales with the citizen soldiers
from the Dominions. Every jaw was set hard as agate, every eye was
fixed on the forbidding-looking heights now taking form dimly as the
east reddened and the sky became shot with lengthening spears of
greenish-yellow. Minutes passed--minutes that seemed as hours--while
ever shoreward crawled the fleet of boats, and even plainer and
gloomier loomed the frowning cliffs that dominated the Bay of Anzac.
Back of the flotilla, away to seaward, lay the British warships, their
gray hulls floating ghostlike in the first of the dawn--like couchant
lions scenting blood. A sense of protection, modified to some extent by
the stretch of intervening water and the ghostliness of their outlines,
emanated from those cruisers and battleships squatting like watch-dogs
on the chain, alert and eager. Our gaze wandered ever and anon from
the forbidding shore ahead to where those uncouth gray hulls broke the
sea-line. Would they never give tongue!
... We were close to the land. The _wouff!_ of a gentle surf breaking
on a sloping shingle beach, followed by the _soughing_ of the undertow,
came plainly to our straining ears. Back of the crescent-shaped strand,
now dimly outlined in a flatted monotint of leaden gray, rose the
darker, scrub-clothed slope, its breast seamed and gashed by _dongas_
and water-courses, that stretched to the foot of the sheer bluff whose
summit cut the sky-line 400 feet above our heads. As the minutes passed
the scene changed. Sand and shingle took form and color in the rapidly
growing half-tones. The blackness of the slope beyond merged into a
velvet green. The serrated crest of the ridge grew roseate as the first
of the sun-rays stretched forth athwart the fields of Troy and touched
it with gold-tipped fingers. A new-born day begotten of early summer
had sprung from the womb of an Eastern night--a day fraught with much
of suffering, much of mutilation and death, but surely a day that
shall live in the history of the British Empire so long as that Empire
stands....
Was it the surprise we all hoped for, after all?--the surprise that
seemed beyond the bounds of possibility. Were there _any_ Turks there
waiting to oppose us at all? And if so, where were they hidden? In
trenches cut on the beach? In the scrub? Behind the crest of the cliff?
God! were they never going to show themselves----?
_Crash! Bang! Z-z-z-z-z-ip!_ It was hell let loose--hell with the
bottom out! The whole beach belched flame and spat bullets. The scrub
behind burst forth into a sheet of fire. Maxims--maxims everywhere!
The place seemed alive with them. It was as if we had received a
blizzard of lead in our faces. The physical shock was almost more than
flesh and blood could bear. For a moment it seemed as if the whole
flotilla was doomed--a moment in which whole boatloads of brave men
were absolutely cut to pieces and mangled out of all recognition--in
which boats were blown from the water, smashed into matchwood and
riddled from stem to stern by the high explosive and shrapnel fire
that came over the crest of the cliff hot on the heels of the rifle
and machine-gun fire. Just a moment! Then the men from the bush, the
plains, and the cities of Australasia showed the stuff they were made
of. In dashed the boats--in anyhow, no matter how, so long as they
touched Turkish soil--some bow on, some stern on, some broadside.
All higgledy-piggledy, a confused mass like a huge dismembered raft
tossed on a sea that hissed and spouted as its surface was torn by the
never-ceasing rain of lead and iron.
IV--HEROIC CHARGE OF THE AUSTRALASIANS
Over the sides of the boats dived and rolled those splendid
infantrymen, their bayonets already fixed. They knew what to do; no
need to give them orders. No time to form--no time to think. The cold
steel--nothing but the steel! Off fell their packs; down dropped their
bayonet points, and with a wild yell that rose even above the awful
battle roar that made day hideous they hurled themselves straight as
their rifles at the unseen enemy. In sixes and sevens, in tens and
twenties, in platoons, in half-companies--just as they tumbled out
of the boats--those great-hearted fellows dashed up the beach and
into that sickening inferno. They didn't fire a shot; they didn't
waste a single second. They just flung their heavy packs from their
shoulders, bent their heads to the storm, and with every inch of
pace at their command they charged the Turkish trenches, some fifty
yards distant. Charge! I never saw a charge like it. It was a wild,
breakneck rush, regardless of losses. Nothing short of killing every
man of that magnificent soldiery could have stopped their onslaught.
The machine-guns and rifles took their toll--but they utterly failed
to beat down that desperate assault delivered by those iron-nerved
men--those men who openly boasted that they feared "neither God, man,
nor devil." In a moment they were into the enemy's front line of
trench, machine-guns were captured, and the Turks got a taste of the
bayonet that will never be forgotten by those who escaped. And they
were few. Just a minute of hacking, slashing, and stabbing--one minute
of sickening yet exhilarating butchery in which no quarter was given;
when to _kill!_ and _kill!_ was joy unspeakable--and those long, lean,
brown-faced men with the square jaws and fierce eyes were up again,
their bayonets, smoking, and charging the second line of trenches with
the same dare-devil recklessness. What power on earth could stop such
men? Not the Turks, anyway. With imploring cries of "_Allah!--Allah!_"
they abandoned their trenches and scurried up through the scrub, the
panting Colonials straining every nerve to overtake them.
It is difficult to understand the Australasian character. He will joke
even in the midst of danger, nay, death. He is, as a rule, a "hard
doer;" and even his best friends must admit that he is often a hard,
and fairly original swearer. Nothing is safe from him when looking for
a butt; very little is sacred, I fear, and his humor takes a queer
bent sometimes: which accounted for the behavior of the landing force
on this occasion, dear reader--that and the desire to inflict all the
Arabic he knew (picked up in Egypt) on the fleeing Turk.
"_Imshi! Yalla!_" yelled the now laughing Colonials, as they followed
hard on the heels of the enemy.
"_Allah! Allah!_" continued the Turks, and they put on an extra spurt.
"_Allah_ be d----d! Clean 'em boots! Eggs is cook! Three for a l'arf!
_Imshi_, you all-fired illegitimates!"
Such, with the addition of ear-splitting coo-ees, wild bush oaths,
and a running fire of blasphemy and unearthly cat-calls were the
battle cries of the men from Down Under as they drove the enemy out
of his trenches and up the hill, through the scrub, over _dongas_
and gullies, right to the base of the sheer cliff itself, up which
finally, all mixed together and sliding, crawling, and clinging like
monkeys, scrambled pursuer and pursued in one loosely strung mob of
panting, war-drunken men. It was the personification of grandeur: it
was the apotheosis of the ludicrous. In a word it was the old reckless,
dare-devil spirit of their ancestors--the men who carved out the
British Empire--re-born in those virile youths and young men from that
bigger and fresher and brighter Britain overseas.
Meantime the guns of the fleet were pouring in a terrific fire, their
shells screaming overhead and bursting well beyond the ridge. It was
difficult at first to see what execution they were doing, and at this
stage of the fight I don't think many of the enemy were bagged. As our
chaps advanced farther inland the shells from the ships began to pitch
amongst them, so their elevation was raised and their fire concentrated
on the Turkish communications and on the dominating hills that lay on
our flanks. They also tried hard to locate and silence the enemy's big
guns, but they were so well concealed that it was almost impossible to
silence them.
V--"ALLAH! ALLAH!" AN OPEN BATTLE WITH THE TURKS
Once on top of the ridge our fellows paused for a minute or two to
get their breath, then, as full of fight as ever, they doubled into
the scrub and pursued the retreating Turks with unabated ardour. It
was now an open battle, and except for the fact that the Anzacs were
exposed to a heavy shrapnel fire, Jack was as good as his master. In
threes and fours at a time the shells burst over and swept through the
lines of advancing men, taking their toll all the time. The Turks took
full advantage of the plentiful cover; they knew the country and we
didn't. Now and then one caught a glimpse of a fleeing figure or two;
that was all. We had no field artillery to cover our advance, and the
consequence was we suffered heavily, our guns not coming into action
till the evening, and then only one or two had been landed. Add to
this the natural difficulties of a broken and rugged country which we
had never seen before, and the reader will have some conception of the
task that faced the Dominion troops. It was next to impossible to keep
in touch with each other, let alone preserve something approaching
an unbroken line. Thus the fight resolved itself largely into one of
units. Here and there isolated bodies of infantry pushed far ahead,
then lying down they held on grimly until the main force came up and
eased the pressure.
One or two lots got caught in the beds of deep gullies, were opened on
by concealed enfilade fire from machine-guns and rifles, and died to a
man. But they died fighting. One party at least fought its way almost
to the Narrows, and then disappeared: not a single man returned. The
rest pushed on and on, trusting to the reserves coming up and enabling
them to hold the captured ground--those reserves that came in driblets
only. The fact was that the men could not be thrown ashore quickly
enough to reinforce in the strength required. Where battalions landed
there should have been brigades; where brigades, divisions. It was
just sheer bad luck. No blame attached to the fleet--every man worked
like a Trojan, worked on without paying the slightest attention to the
hail of projectiles falling around. They were white right through,
those boys from the warships, from the plucky little middies and the
jolly "Jacks" right up to the senior officers. I pity the chap who
ever says a word against them if any of the Anzacs happen to be within
coo-ee of him! Come to think it over, I don't see that blame could be
fixed on any one. The country was just made for defensive purposes;
it would have required division after division to have been thrown in
on each other's heels in order to reduce it, or to seize the ground
to the Narrows and hang on. We simply hadn't the men. And the natural
difficulties in the way of getting up such reinforcements as we had,
not to speak of supplies, ammunition, etc., were nigh insurmountable.
There were no tracks, much less roads; the guns that _were_ landed that
first evening had to be pulled by hand through the standing scrub; the
landing parties on the beach were open to continuous shell fire, not to
mention snipers--altogether I don't think there was ever such a daring
or hazardous enterprise attempted in the world's history.
VI--STORY OF THE BAYONET CHARGE AGAINST THE MOHAMMEDANS
And now strong Turkish reinforcements appeared on the scene. Battalion
after battalion of fresh troops joined the enemy firing line. It
stiffened up: we failed to break it. Our men were falling fast; half
our strength seemed to be down, killed or wounded, while the remainder
were beginning to feel the effects of their tremendous gruelling in the
fierce heat of a sub-tropic sun. Still on came the masses of Turkish
reserves. The naval guns, especially those of the _Lizzie_, cut them
up, but didn't stagger them. They took the offensive. For a time it was
charge and counter-charge, give and take. But it couldn't last; the
odds were too great. We retired fighting--and in that retirement our
losses were something cruel. Machine-guns and shrapnel did the damage
mostly, but the Mausers took their share. Only in one thing had we the
advantage--the bayonet. When we got to hand grips with them the Turks
couldn't stand up to our chaps, who went for them with the cold steel
like devils red-hot from hell.
No man who took part in that retirement will ever forget it. Overhead
burst the shells, underfoot the dust rose and the twigs snapped as the
unending rain of rifle, machine-gun, and shrapnel bullets _zipped!_ and
spattered around. Men fell fast, killed and wounded; every temporary
stand we made was marked by little groups of grotesquely postured
khaki-clad forms still with the stillness of death. Here and there one
saw a sorely wounded man feebly raise his head and gaze pathetically
after the retiring line of hard-pressed men; others (and these were
many) limped and hobbled painfully along in the wake of the retreating
infantry, till in many cases another bullet laid them low. Most of our
wounded fell into the hands of the enemy. It was hard to leave them,
but what could we do?
Time after time we tried to dig ourselves in. In vain! The line had to
be shortened, else we should be outflanked by the enormously superior
forces opposed to us. There was nothing for it but to retire right
back to the ridge and hold the crest--or try to! Back then we went,
retiring by companies and half-companies. There was no running, no
panic at any time. When the Turks pressed us too closely we gave them a
shake-up with the bayonet. In many cases men had to rely on the steel
alone, their ammunition giving out. Time after time the enemy drew back
while his big guns and maxims wrought their will on us. He didn't half
like the steel.
We reached the ridge, and, exhausted as we were, started to dig
ourselves in. Our throats were parched, for we dare not broach our
water-bottles lest we should be tempted to finish them straight away.
Once a man begins to drink he will keep on. In many cases bottles had
been shot through and the contents drained away. Others had left them
with wounded comrades. For food we munched a biscuit--when we had time!
There weren't many biscuits eaten until after nightfall.
We dug a line of holes, scratching fiercely with our trenching tools,
all the while subjected to a withering shrapnel fire. The naval gunners
seemed quite unable to locate and silence the Turkish artillery, so
cleverly was it concealed. Lying down as flat as possible we scraped
away, working frantically for the much-needed cover that should enable
us to hold the position, if it were possible to hold it. At times we
dropped the trenching tools--to lift our rifles and beat back the
oncoming enemy. Yet it was evident that the Turks were beginning to
feel the strain too. Perhaps they thought they had us anyhow, for their
assaults began to lose a lot of their sting, and we were enabled to get
a half chance to dig. As the day waned and nightfall approached they
came again, and we were hard put to it for a time to hang on. Charge
and counter-charge followed rapidly on each other's heels, and all the
time a deafening fire was kept up along the whole position. Then the
brief twilight changed into night; the fire slackened off; the moon
rose, and for the first time since early morning we were enabled to
obtain a few minutes' rest before going on digging again.
We stuck to it hard all through the night, grafting away for all we
were worth. It was our only chance. Yet at times we were absolutely
forced by sheer fatigue to drop our tools and stretch out for a
spell. Sixteen hours of hard, solid fighting through a broken and
hilly country, followed by a whole night's digging; then stand-to
before daybreak, and all the succeeding hours of the second day hold
the trenches against intermittent attacks. At night go on working at
strengthening the trenches; stand-to again before daylight the third
day--and from before dawn till well on in the evening of that day do
your bit at beating off the enemy's attack in force with a fresh army
that outnumbers you by five to one--_the_ attack by which he means to
seize your position at _all costs_! Just do the foregoing, dear reader,
and you will realise what those Australasian troops endured. And do it
(as they did) on a pint and a half of water and a few biscuits.
VII--OVER THE RIDGE--INTO THE SEA
It was on Tuesday, April 27, that Enver Pasha launched the attack
against our lines that was to drive us into the sea. All through Monday
and Monday night our transports were landing fresh troops under heavy
and constant shelling from the Turkish big guns; under cover of the
darkness these troops were marched up and placed, some in the fire
trenches to fill up the many gaps caused by the enemy's shrapnel and
machine-guns, others massed in reserve at the base of the cliff. Yet
not a man of those who had stormed the position the first day, and
who had been hard at it ever since, could be spared from the front
line. Come to think, I don't fancy a single one would have left it. The
feeling had got abroad that the change was going to be taken out of the
Turks this time (it had leaked out that the big attack would certainly
take place on Monday night or Tuesday morning), and the chaps were fair
mad to get a bit of their own back. They did, too.
Our position as finally formed extended along the very crest, or rim,
of the cliff for a distance of about two miles, or rather better. Here
and there deep gullies, or cañons, ran into and cut the line, or caused
the line itself to "bulge" considerably towards the enemy position.
Such was "Shrapnel Gully," at the head of which lay "Quinn's Post,"
where our trenches had to be pushed perilously forward owing to the
configuration of the ground. "Quinn's Post," in fact, formed the key
to the whole position; it lay right in the centre of the line, and had
it been carried the whole bag of tricks would, in my opinion, have
crumpled up badly, and a big disaster might have occurred. When your
centre is pierced it's no picnic. To the left of "Quinn's" was "Dead
Man's Ridge," held by the Turks, and from which they were able to snipe
right down "Shrapnel Gully"--and, incidentally, our camps and dug-outs.
It was from "Dead Man's Ridge" that General Bridges was shot close to
Brigade Headquarters down in the "Gully." No man was safe from those
snipers; they seemed to be everywhere--before, alongside, and _behind_
our lines even. Hence no supplies could be brought up in daylight;
everything had to be done at night when there was only shell-fire
to worry about. Afterwards we got those snipers fossicked out (they
met strange deaths sometimes!), but in the meantime our life wasn't
anything to hanker after.
Now had the enemy only succeeded in pushing us over the rim of the
ridge, nothing would have saved us. Below lay the open beach. We
couldn't possibly have been taken off with the heights in the hands of
the Turks. I guess it would have been one of the biggest and finest
wipe-outs in history. Old Enver Pasha thought it would look jolly
well in the morning papers, I expect. Anyway he had no end of a hard
try--and to give him and his men their due I don't mind admitting that
they weren't so very far from succeeding.
VIII--STORY OF THE BATTLE OF THE GIANTS
I don't pretend to describe that struggle. No man could. It was grit,
tenacity, and gameness opposed to overwhelming numbers. A battle of
giants. It was sickening; brutal--and yet splendid. Men fought that
day stripped to the waist; fought till their rifles jammed, picked
up another--and went on fighting. Men with broken legs refused to
leave the trench, cursing those who would have assisted them--went
on firing until a second bullet crippled their rifle arm. Yet still
they clung on, handing up clips of cartridges to their mates, all the
time imploring them to "give the sons of ---- hell!" They weren't
Sunday-school models, those big-hearted, happy-go-lucky toughs from
the Back of Beyond. But they knew how to fight--and die. They were men
right through, not kid-glove soldiers. They lived hard, fought hard,
and died hard. And what if they did die with curses on their lips! Who
shall dare to judge them, dying as _they_ died? And it may be that the
Big Padre up aloft turned a deaf ear to those oaths begotten of the
life they had lived--or perhaps He failed to hear them in the noise of
battle!
The Turks attacked gamely, like the big, brave soldiers they are
and always were. Led by their splendid officers, they came on in
masses, shoulder to shoulder, and did all that in them lay to rush our
trenches. They were met by a storm of bullets that would have staggered
anything born of woman. It did stagger them: they recoiled before
that leaden blast that piled their dead and wounded up in ghastly
heaps and ridges like broken-down walls--before that smashing fire
delivered at twenty yards range. They recoiled--yes. But run--no! They
charged, charged right through that hurricane of machine-gun and rifle
fire--charged right up to our parapets.
And now it was our turn. Like one man the colonial infantry leaped
from their cover. _Crash!_ They were into the Turks. Followed a wild
hurly-burly of hacking and stabbing while one might count twenty
slowly; then the enemy were beaten back, and the defenders ran, limped,
and crawled back to their trenches and took to their rifles again.
Thus it went on from before dawn till towards evening. Charge and
counter-charge, till men reeled from sheer exhaustion, and their
blood-clotted weapons slipped from hands sticky with the same red
paint. I am not exaggerating! those who were present on that awful
Tuesday will bear me out.
We were hard pressed. The strongest men in the world are only human.
Loss of sleep, insufficient food, and practically no water, combined
with the exertions we had already gone through, began to tell their
tale. Our losses were also very heavy; and owing to the slippery state
of the clay soil, following on an all-night of rain, our reserves could
not get up quickly enough. Thus yards and yards of trench were at times
empty of all save dead and wounded men, and in some cases the Turks
effected a footing in them; they were always driven out again, however,
or bayoneted to a man. Our fellows were simply magnificent; budge they
would not. To capture those trenches meant the killing of the men who
held them; you couldn't _drive_ them out. And the officers were just
the same.
But it was cruel to hear the continual cries of----
"Stretcher-bearers!--Stretcher-bearers to the right!"
"Stretcher-bearers to the left!"
"_Ammunition!_ Send up ammunition--we haven't a----round here!"
"Reinforce! _For God's sake reinforce!_ They're into No. 8! _Christ!
boys, get a move on!_"
At this time we had neither support trenches nor communications--just
one thin line, which, if
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/48941