Captivity and Escape
by Jean Martin · English · Gutenberg #49347 · 283,792 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Captivity and Escape
Author: Jean Martin
Translator: V. A. Randell
Release date: July 2, 2015 [eBook #49347]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTIVITY AND ESCAPE ***
CAPTIVITY AND ESCAPE
[Illustration: M. JEAN MARTIN
_Frontispiece._]
CAPTIVITY AND
ESCAPE
BY M. JEAN MARTIN
A FRENCH SERGEANT-MAJOR
TRANSLATED BY MISS V. A. RANDELL
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY ALBEMARLE STREET, W
TO HER
THE THOUGHT OF WHOM BROUGHT CONSOLATION TO ME
IN HOURS OF SUFFERING, MOURNING AND SADNESS
TO HER
WHO PROVED MY STRENGTH AND SAFEGUARD
THROUGHOUT DAYS OF TRIAL AND DANGER
TO MY FIANCÉE
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
_All rights reserved_
PREFACE
We have hitherto had many volumes of the doings of British soldiers at
the front and in captivity, but few of our French Allies.
The experiences of Monsieur J. Martin, written originally in French,
give such a vivid picture of prison life in Germany, that they have an
interest far beyond the mere personal one which his friends and
countrymen attach to his name.
Brought up in France, amidst all the charm and culture of the best
French-Protestant traditions, he was educated at Rouen, and he finally
took his degree in 1912. During his studies he spent much time in
England, where his charm of manner and chivalrous spirit made him many
friends. Moreover, his love for games brought him in close touch with
our people, and he won great credit for himself in the football field.
Before the outbreak of war, while staying with friends in a country
village, near one of the garrison towns in Ireland, he made acquaintance
with some of our Irish soldiers quartered there at the time; little
thinking how soon he would meet them again in very different
circumstances, for, by a strange coincidence, he not only found them
sharing his captivity in the first prison camp in which he was interned
in Germany, but also, owing to his knowledge of the language, he was
appointed as interpreter to the British soldiers.
His first thoughts were to help them, by informing their friends of
their terrible condition. In this he succeeded, and it was through his
post cards that the British public first heard of their most pressing
needs.
Many long months elapsed in the prison camp which he so graphically
describes, and the intimate details which he gives of the life must
prove of intense interest to all who have relations and those dear to
them still suffering in captivity.
The reader may imagine the joy of his friends when his telegram reached
them one day in July 1915--“Escaped, safe in Holland.” Arrangements were
hastily made to enable the escaped captive to travel to London without a
moment’s delay.
Worn out and exhausted, he was granted leave to recuperate in Ireland,
and in less than a fortnight from the moment of his escape, he alighted
from the train at Tipperary, and realised that he had accomplished the
“Long, long way” which he had so often joined in singing with the Irish
soldiers in the camp.
He was awarded the Croix de Guerre, with a clasp, and his services were
honoured by a _citation à l’armée_--in the following terms:
CITATION.
Le Général Commandant la Xe Armée cite à l’ordre de l’Armée:
Le Sergeant Martin Jean ...
“Blessé au début de la campagne en cherchant à ramener dans nos
lignes deux pièces de 75 qui avaient été abandonnées. Fait
prisonnier, s’est évadé. Traqué par l’ennemi, se cachant le jour,
marchant la nuit, a réussi à gagner la frontière hollandaise puis à
l’Angleterre, à bout de forces en raison des privations subies et
des marches pénibles.
le 24 octobre 1915
le Général Commandant la Xe Armée,
signé: D’URBAL.”
After a brief period of recuperation, M. Martin was able to enter again
into the service of his country, where our best wishes go with him.
HILDA SANDERS.
CHARLEVILLE PARK,
CO. CORK,
_September 5, 1917_.
AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION
The following is an extract from the Author’s Introduction to the French
edition of this book:--
With but few exceptions the incidents and scenes described in this book
were actually witnessed by the author, although he was not always one of
the _dramatis personæ_. As regards the rest they were all reported to
him by personal friends whose good faith is beyond question.
The authenticity of all--even of the strangest--situations here
described, as well as the truth and accuracy of the pictures, may be
accepted without hesitation.
At the same time the author feels in duty bound to warn his readers to
be on their guard against a very common and very human fallacy, which
has, in his opinion, given rise to much prejudice in the minds both of
prisoners and of their relatives. The world has been too ready to
generalise from the complaints or praises of returned prisoners, and to
infer from one report--the truth and exactness of which was beyond a
doubt--that it was the same at every place throughout Germany.
Such a conclusion is most mischievous and injurious to the interests of
those most nearly concerned. The inevitable result is either a fresh
access of misery and apprehension on the part of the relatives of the
prisoners--or a deplorable falling off of the help sent to those in
captivity.
The fact that the author survived those trying days on the field of
battle; that in the course of his removal he had the benefit of
comparatively humane treatment; that he was kindly tended in a good
hospital, must not lead any one to the conclusion that in no case was a
wounded man finished off or tortured; or that he never was subjected to
grievous privations and brutality during his time in hospital.
The barbarities of the Germans are too well known to call for any
further confirmation. Beside the kindnesses occasionally experienced at
the hands of Teuton soldiers, must be set innumerable assassinations
perpetrated by these savages at the instigation of their officers. The
devotion of some hospital nurses must be set against the crimes of
violence on French prisoners, as they passed through a railway station,
after the battle of the Marne, of which certain German “ladies,” who
professed to be members of the Red Cross, were guilty; while certain
majors displayed a kindly solicitude, on the other hand, to the deep
disgrace of the German people, is the experience of unmitigated and
inexcusable brutality.
The aim of the writer has been to set forth some samples of the life of
a prisoner, and, above all, to show the French prisoner in his struggle
against the two predominant evils, common to all his fellows, hunger and
depression--with a weapon which is characteristically French and is the
only one of which his jailer is powerless to deprive him--namely, chaff
(_raillerie_).
Harassed by hunger, tortured by the cold, weakened by privation,
depressed by misery, overwhelmed by sorrow, persecuted by the relentless
hatred of his executioner, the French prisoner always kept his heart up.
In spite of all these forms of oppression he is the victor. Under
torture he laughs at his executioner: a prisoner, his spirit gives him
the mastery over his jailer. His pluck is a thorn in the flesh of the
man who strikes him. His laughter sounds like a knell in the ears of the
Boche, who cannot understand it, and whose chief characteristic is, as
the English say--a complete lack of humour.
With all the energy of their stolidity, those fossilised brutes, the
Germans, are carrying on a struggle with this volatile, mocking,
mischievous, caustic spirit which they cannot understand. All their
attempts to get rid of it are fruitless. The battle of the Marne enabled
us to retain unimpaired our old Gallic spirit, and the prisoners cling
to it jealously.
In depriving him of liberty and life, the Hun has taken off the clapper
of this pure crystal bell--the gay mockery of the Frenchman. He makes
him a slave and starves him, and, exulting in this outrage, he thinks
that he is safe and rejoices accordingly. The Frenchman will cease to
laugh at the doings of the learned bear. The Boche can continue to take
himself seriously and the Frenchman cannot chuckle over him, but all of
a sudden, to his consternation and profound stupefaction, there comes,
he knows not whence, the reckless, bewildering, irritating sound of that
accursed bell.
The nimble-witted Frenchman, tricky as a monkey, has got hold of the
bell. Without the clapper and with his cheery shout and reckless
laughter he has made it ring by swinging it down on the hard head of the
Teuton.
I trust that my friend the reader may catch in a favourable spirit some
faint echo of this ringing which, although “Made in Germany,” is
peculiarly French.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 1
II. IN BELGIUM 22
III. A FRENCH VICTORY 36
IV. SALOUTEZ! 42
V. THE FLEA MARKET 49
VI. THE PILLORY 64
VII. REVENGE ON BRITISH SOLDIERS 76
VIII. CENTRAL HEATING 84
IX. THE WHEELBARROWS 96
X. THE COMPANY COMMANDER 110
XI. THE FIRST OF MAY, 1915 123
XII. THE HINDOOS 138
XIII. MY ESCAPE 150
[Illustration: WOUNDED AND A PRISONER]
CHAPTER I
I was hit, I was conscious of being hit, and yet had not heard the
bursting of the shell that caused my wound. I had an impression of my
feet being violently swept from the ground, and then of my falling down
heavily. I was overcome with a sense of paralysis. My legs were stiff
and powerless. I felt them tingling.
I did not lose consciousness, however, and saw all that was surrounding
me; there, a few paces away, was a dead horse, shattered by the shell
that had struck me. Convinced that I was cut in two by the shell and hit
in the region of the stomach, I believed I was destined to die where I
was in a very short while.
The shells and bullets continued to rain, to whistle, to burst all
around me, till at last I wished one of them would come and put an end
to my sufferings, shortening the agony under which I was powerless. I
had, nevertheless, kept the use of my arms, and after a long and painful
effort succeeded in unbuckling the straps of my valise, the weight of
which was crushing my back. Relieved by this, I began, to the sound of
the shrapnel, to think of those dear to me, to whom I felt that I must
in spirit say a last good-bye. That I was going to die, I had not a
shadow of doubt. I must be frightfully wounded, and it was impossible
for me to reach the small packet of first-aid dressing that perhaps
would have stopped the hæmorrhage that was weakening me.
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon. I tried to imagine what my
own people were doing at that hour. I thought of those who had been
living close to where I had fallen--of those whose sons were being
sacrificed--of those who, farther away and unaware of the French
retreat, were still enjoying the soothing spectacle of a calm, blue
sea--of all my relatives, parents, friends, and I rejoiced to think I
should not have lived in vain, if the gift of my life served to protect
them against the fury of these barbarous hordes, and spared them the
sight of the atrocities of this war, which our enemies have wilfully
made so horrible. Then my anxiety increased in regard to my young
brother, who fought in my section. I had lost sight of him at the
beginning of the engagement. From a plain soldier I had been promoted to
section-leader, and had taken the place of our lieutenant who was
disabled.
I could still hear the cries and groans of my wounded comrades, but, at
least, I had no longer the terrible sight of those boys whom I loved and
with whom I had lived for a year or two, who, wounded, had been obliged
to remain under fire in a bare, unsheltered plain, without any relief
to their suffering. What had become of my brother I did not know. At
each advance made by our soldiers, it was possible for me, by throwing a
rapid glance behind, to note the thinning of the line, but I was unable
to say who had fallen and who remained.
I do not know why, but, being wounded myself, it seemed to me that, in
spite of the great losses sustained by my section, my brother must be
safe and sound. I made the following reflections: “The chances of
falling or of escaping seem to be equal. I am wounded; therefore my
brother is not”--absurd reasoning, but I wanted to believe in it. And I
was glad, as much as it was possible to be glad while life and strength
were ebbing away with my blood, that it was I who was stricken.
How long these reflections lasted I do not know, for a minute seemed
centuries, and what I took for a long train of reasoning perhaps passed
through my troubled mind in a second.
Suddenly, as in a dream, I heard voices, and a French section arrived on
the height where I had fallen. Very plucky, despising danger, the men
knelt, and with careful aim fired.
A sergeant approached me. “Wounded, old chap?”
“You are advancing, then? All the better. You must try to take me away,
won’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered; “reinforcements are coming, and here’s a
stretcher-bearer.”
It was true. A stretcher-bearer was close beside me. Helped by the
sergeant, he looked to see where I was wounded.
They cut the legs of my trousers, took off my boots; no trace of
anything. They raised my overcoat and saw the blood flowing abundantly.
I did not see them, I did not hear them, but I felt their looks
condemned me. They lightly dressed my wound.
“It is nothing,” said one; “wait a little; they will take you away in a
moment.”
The battle continued, the bullets whistled around us, ricochetting from
the stones in the road, cutting the branches of the trees. The enemy
could not be far away, for their artillery was silent.
“Your rifle is all right?” a man asked me.
“Yes; take it.”
“Thanks; the butt of mine is broken.”
“I say,” said another, “let me have your glasses.” Stooping, he removed
the glasses on which I had fallen and which were hurting my side.
Standing beside a tree, this soldier, glass in hand, watched the enemy
and gave orders with the coolness and air of a Marshal of France certain
of victory.
The sergeant was just then wounded. Our supply of cartridges began to
run short. Within reach of my hand lay a few. I occupied myself by
passing them on to my comrades, who continued their fire.
“Are the reinforcements coming?”
“Yes, old fellow, don’t worry; we are not going to leave you,” and he
signed to the reinforcements to approach.
But, suddenly, I no longer saw the stretcher.
“They are coming back immediately,” said my neighbour; “our sergeant has
been hit, they are taking him to the rear.”
The struggle was not equal. The French ranks thinned and received no
reinforcements, the munitions were running short, they were obliged to
retreat to avoid being surrounded.
“Poor chap,” said a man to me, as a sort of good-bye, as he reluctantly
retired after firing his last shot. This time all was over; there was no
more hope! The Germans were coming. It was impossible for me to see
them, but I could hear their shouts and the vile noises they made as
they advanced. I was lying on the ground at the mercy of the enemy who
were hurrying to the assault, exasperated at the resistance of those who
had sown death in their ranks, for the French had given way only at the
last moment. In a few seconds the Germans were upon me.
* * * * *
They had so often told us the Boches finished off the wounded, that not
for an instant did I entertain the hope of escape. The end was
approaching; after all, it only hastened by a few moments the death
which I judged inevitable. Mentally I saw with horrible clearness all
the possible movements of him who was to finish me. In anticipation I
felt the cold point of his bayonet piercing me, his iron heel crushing
in my skull, the butt of his gun beating my face. Finally, deluding
myself with the hope that I might be permitted to choose the form of my
death, I was deciding that it should be with a bullet in my head, when
two soldiers in uniform of greyish-green stood before me. One, a man of
prompt decision, about thirty years of age, fair, with a crisp moustache
and a face tanned like a labourer of the field, noticed my stripes.
“Corporal, corporal,” cried he, and seizing his rifle by the barrel,
began to describe a circular swing destined to send the detested
non-commissioned officer into the other world. It was a blow from the
butt-end of a rifle that was to finish me! I shut my eyes and ... waited
with clenched teeth.
The blow did not come, but I felt strong hands fall on my shoulders,
forcing me to rise. “Hoch hoch, get up!” said a voice. The soldiers soon
saw I could not stand, so they let me fall back into my old position.
The one who evidently had prevented his comrade from killing me, bent
down and gave me water to drink from his flask. Then looking for my
weapons, which they could not find, they passed on their way silently
and disappeared. It is to this man, to this adversary, whose features I
did not see, that I owe my life. The enemy was trampling the soil of my
native land, and I had fallen, powerless, wounded,--how severely I did
not know,--liable to any act of German brutality, as I had just
realised. In any case I was in the hands of the invaders.
Patrols were now searching the conquered ground. By an effort, I
suppressed the groans which pain was forcing from me. To lie hidden
seemed to me the best policy. Having successfully lived through the past
few hours encouraged me to think of the possibility of not dying. Ah!
if only the French would come back, as they would come back most
certainly. Hope lingered in my heart.
A German patrol visited me. The soldiers searched my valise and a
corporal placed within reach of my hand some bread and chocolate found
there. Then he went off delighted, a loaf of bread under his arm, and
carrying a pot of jam, which a comrade and I had vowed to eat in German
territory in the evening of our first fight. Before he went, the Teuton
threw over me some things he found in my valise, which protected me
against the damp already beginning to fall. Abruptly the night had
displaced the day, almost it seemed without transition....
On that lonely road, cut up by shells, with trees torn by shrapnel,
vehicles were slowly passing in silence. They must have been the enemy’s
ambulance corps looking for the wounded, which, alas! were not wanting
that day. A few blasts of the whistle, a few orders issued by a hoarse
and angry voice, the confused sounds of corporals calling from memory
the roll of the men of their squad, and a section assembled. Again more
blasts on the whistle, shouts in the night, the noise of heavy boots
running across the road, and the section must have been complete. “Alles
da.” Then, to get them in order, the voice of a young officer was heard
in the darkness: “Gewehr über! Gewehr ab!” The whole thing was perfect;
the vigour put into their movements was such that it seemed impossible
they could have done a hard day’s fighting. At the command “March!” the
legs were stiffly raised and the boots came heavily to ground, marking
the time of the goose-step. So the section, almost invisible to me,
defiled past, with a faultless precision as in a dream: rifles firmly
held on the left shoulder, heads stiffly raised, right hands in line.
Later on, keeping time to their step, the men broke into a marching
song.
Hours passed. I was not sleeping; yet it seemed to me I was not awake:
for weakened by the loss of blood I was incapable of realising my
situation. From time to time, frozen by the cold of the night, I
shivered violently.
Steps approached; and I heard, as in a dream, the sound of strange
voices. Suspecting danger, I held my breath and with closed eyes lay
still. Light was flashed on my face, a hand was placed on my forehead,
and then in German a voice, hollow enough to make the flesh creep, said,
“He is still warm.” Another had seized on my shoulder and shook me:
“Monsieur, monsieur.” I opened my eyes, and by the light of an electric
lamp saw a revolver pointed at me.... This, then, was to be the end, in
the darkness. The doctor, for such he was, questioned me in French. He
withdrew his weapon and looked at my wounds, then he informed me that he
would have me taken to the temporary hospital. The light was
extinguished. The men bending beside me went away. For some time
afterwards the sound of their voices disturbed the calm of the night. A
few revolver shots fired at long intervals roused me from my torpor and
made me tremble. Was it perhaps some unfortunate so gravely wounded that
they could not think of trying to save him, and the doctor was
finishing him off, in order to shorten his agony? or was it a wounded
Frenchman they were killing? These questions remained unanswered.
The ambulance cars continued to pass along the road, and I remained on
the ground. Germans had the right of precedence.
The first rays of daylight lit up the sky and the battlefield became
alive. Companies of Germans filed past, marching to their outposts, or
seeking contact with our troops. It was almost broad daylight when two
stretcher-bearers came to look for me and took me away on a tent canvas.
We passed the troops which were marching to new combats. Very soon I was
placed in an ambulance car and carried to a neighbouring town, whose
ruins bore witness to violent struggles. The wounded filed past to the
temporary hospital installed in the local castle. Here the care and
attention, given indiscriminately to French and Germans, were bestowed
with great professional skill, humanity and devotion.
On my bed of straw in the garage, between two wounded Germans, I
cherished without ceasing the hope of being rescued by my comrades. I
listened anxiously to the noise of battle, which had recommenced with
the daylight. I thought at first that the noise was approaching; was
nearer, more deafening; then little by little the firing became a
rumbling--the rumbling grew less definite, less intense--and again
silence reigned, silence more dreadful than the uproar of battle, for it
isolated us from our brothers. Black despair seized me! I had taken
part in the fighting in Belgium, in the sad and painful retreat; I was
weak from my wound, the privations and sufferings. I had seen a
disciplined army, superbly equipped and strong as a tidal-wave, pass
before me. Saddened by defeat, I wept for unhappy France. The thought of
those who were dear to me, of the suffering they would have to endure,
the agony they would experience, still further increased my depression.
I remained where I was, confused, overcome, despairing, like a wounded
bird that, powerless, witnesses the destruction of its nest by a
malevolent beast.
There we rested on sheets over straw, getting what repose our wounds
permitted, suffering, dreaming, dozing or talking with our companions in
misfortune. It was the same bad luck that united us, the same need of
telling our miseries urged us towards mutual understanding and goodwill.
I succeeded in keeping up a conversation with my neighbour, a tanned,
fair-haired boy, who was wounded in the thigh. We discussed the question
of “pay,” as that was the thing which appeared to interest him most. His
astonishment knew no bounds when I spoke of the daily “sou” of our
soldiers. Then we spoke of our families; the numbers were what seemed to
strike his peasant’s intellect. He wanted to know how many brothers and
sisters I had; their ages and my own. This information took time, until,
tired, weakened by pain and loss of blood, the conversation soon carried
us drifting to the gates of sleep.
* * * * *
The doctor came to see us. He was a tall, fair, stout man, with
powerful shoulders, thin hair, light eyes and round, clean-shaven face,
marked with numerous scars which bore witness to the activity of his
student days. Draped in an immaculate apron, he went about
good-naturedly and quite at his ease, juggling with arms, legs, heads,
cutting off this, sewing up that, looking at the most horrible wound
with an air of knowledge which showed the professional joy of the expert
surgeon.
The first day his round was speedily made. A few words thrown to right
and left, a few friendly stops, a few witty sallies and jokes, followed
by a loud laugh, and there he was already liked by all of us. He looked
after the wounded French with equal care; for to him the wounded had no
nationality.
The doctor was helped by an attendant, a soldier wounded in the foot,
who could not keep still, but went eagerly hobbling along, amongst those
who were suffering. Undoubtedly the particular pains he took would not
have been approved by all of the faculty; but he put so much devotion
into it, and his big hands tried so earnestly to be gentle and kind,
that one found strength to smile with him before making the grimaces
caused by his clumsiness. Moreover, he was very valuable, and provided
us with eatables during the first two days. His prolonged absences were
a good sign. From these excursions, goodness knows where, he would come
back smiling, excited, noisy, bringing in his pockets, in his hands,
under his arm, dusty bottles of old wine. Every one shared in the
distribution, and the little aluminium noggin made the tour of the
room. At other times it was a bucket of milk still warm and frothy, with
pears, biscuits, sweets. Where did he get them all? I pictured
shop-windows burst open by blows from the butt of a rifle, houses half
burnt down, pierced with shell-holes. It must be there he prowls about,
pillaging for his wounded and needy comrades. He was convinced that his
deeds were good; and if ever he defrauded a woman of her bucket of milk,
as she returned from milking, may he be pardoned for it on account of
the pure kindness of his intentions.
For some time the ambulance cars had ceased their rumbling. The castle
must be full, the organisation was complete. Late in the evening they
gave us a bowl of vegetable soup, slightly burnt and strongly spiced. I
think this was due, despite his resourceful mind, to the limited cooking
capacity of our attendant, for he excused himself for having kept us
waiting.
At the hour when silence fell on the country, sentinels came on duty at
the door of the garage. They occasionally glanced inside to question
Karl, Fritz or Wilhelm. Night fell, and its first hours seemed
interminable. Towards morning the moans were less frequent, less
violent, the noise of the rustling of the straw less constant; the
ravings of the delirious gradually subsided; sleep overcame us, giving
relief to our bodies and balm to our souls.
In the morning, our attendant, good-natured fellow as he was, brought
us, with a few of his coarse jokes, a quart of very hot black coffee.
Then the doctor appeared and almost immediately went into a little room
close to the garage where he could see his patients successively. One
after another we passed into that little room, carried in on a stretcher
by two attendants. Already there was camaraderie amongst us, and we
chaffed him who was about to enter, pretending to believe he would cry
out under the doctor’s scalpel. Thus it was a point of honour with each
of us not to utter a sound while our flesh was probed and our blood ran.
The exit of the Frenchman who was to pass first “on the billiard-table,”
as they say among the “Poilus,” made a sensation. The Germans pretended
to groan, to cry, to call out “Mamma.” But they were disappointed. The
French determined not to utter a sound. With sweating brow and teeth
clenched on the cloth of the stretcher, they gave themselves with
courage, even with stoicism, to the operation. They proved that,
although vanquished, they were men and knew how to endure suffering. In
their turn they might have made fun of the Germans who returned almost
fainting with pain; but we showed them that we French did not take
pleasure from such sources as the Boches did, and that suffering,
especially the suffering of an enemy, was, with us, no subject for
derision.
I remember that I scored a success, completely unexpected but well
deserved, I must confess. When, after the operation, I was brought back
dressed in a woman’s smock of fine cambric, even I found myself such a
comical figure that, forgetting the knife that I had just experienced,
I joined in the laughter with the others.
Owing to the weakened condition in which we were, the hours which
followed passed in semi-torpor, a torpor disturbed at times by sharp
jars of pain, physical or mental.
* * * * *
Some days later I was sent to the general hospital to wait for a motor
ambulance.
How lonely that hospital was! There, in spite of its thousand occupants,
reigned the stillness of death! One felt that force, the brutal hand of
the conqueror, had fallen upon the establishment which formerly had been
ruled by the gentle laws of meek nuns. The sisters, hiding their bent
heads and humiliated faces under frilled caps, were still half
distracted from fear of the fighting and the entrance of the invaders.
Their features were drawn and pinched with weariness, caused by overwork
of a rough and hurried nature, by want of rest and the constant nursing
they were obliged to do. Terrorised by the threats of the Teuton
soldiery, they walked about dumb, with set lips and hearts oppressed,
swallowing the tears which choked them, not daring to address a word to
us, troubled and terrified as they were by the sight of the uniform of a
fellow-countryman in those circumstances. They went about the wards
noiselessly, aimlessly. Feeling themselves watched, they had the
appearance of trapped animals, and mad with grief, thinking of their God
whom they could no longer serve at the accustomed hours, of the God who
seemed to have abandoned them, they threw looks of compassion on all
these men, alike in misfortune, who, side by side, pell-mell, French and
Germans, so that one could no longer distinguish which was which, were
lying on straw mattresses on the ground, breathing similar groans,
assailed by similar ills, similar sufferings. Kept in sight and watched
all the time, the poor sisters were not free to administer the
consolations of their religion to a man tortured by fever, or even to
one dying. They passed by, it seemed with indifference, their bodies
stiffened, their eyes fixed on the ground, a prey to despair and terror,
not even seeing the misery which later, when calm had come back to their
tortured souls, they would learn to soothe again.
Confused and bewildered, unemployed in the midst of an endless task, not
knowing what to do, in that house where now they were strangers on whom
suspicion rested, avoiding one another they went slowly from ward to
ward, stunned, disgusted by the disorder; no longer recognising, in that
place where confusion reigned, the dear hospital formerly so well kept.
Useless, incapable of rendering the slightest service, they wandered
about--bodies without souls, trembling, terrified at the sight of a
German uniform.
They took no rest. Perhaps they had been turned out of their rooms, or
dreaded to be alone with their misery, fearing that the familiar prayers
which would come to their lips might rise without warmth, be bitter and
profane, full of the incredulity of despair and blasphemous doubt.
Piled in the yard were knapsacks, nose-bags, equipment, arms, boots,
tents, all the belongings of the wounded Germans. Here the sight of the
blood and mud reminded one of the horror of combat and of crime. Heavy
boots thudded on the polished floors where formerly women’s slippers had
glided, lightly and silently. The peaceful little chapel, so full of the
sweetness of the Virgin, as well as of memories of hours of ecstasy and
prayer, had been profaned. The _prie-Dieu_ were overthrown and pushed
away into corners, giving place to mattresses for the Teuton soldiers,
whose hoarse moans and cries profaned the sanctity of the place.
The enemy within those walls had driven God from His sanctuary. The
sisters had themselves been hustled, threatened, frightened, their
sacred calling barely sufficing to protect them. They could not escape
in pious meditation from the agony of the battle, for the din of combat
still shocked their ears, and great numbers of wounded had begun to flow
in, displaying their hideous wounds, soiling the floor with blood and
mud, staining the sheets, blankets, even the mattresses.
Nurses, doctors, officers, men even, succeeded each other, demanding and
requiring to be taken in and tended immediately; and the poor sisters
had lost their heads on account of the threats and the sight of this
terrible work of death and destruction.
Sometimes, while rapidly crossing a ward from which the jailer was
absent, one, with her great, sad, despairing eyes full of compassion,
would look for a moment stealthily at one of her dear French soldiers
and shake her head. Then, without saying a word, in her anguish of
heart and soul, she would press her hands to her lips to repress a sob,
and wipe the tears from her eyes.
But these sufferings were not deemed sufficient; the sisters had not yet
come to the end of their long ordeal of torments. One fine morning they
were enlisted in a German sanitary corps and placed under the orders of
a “Superior,” a German who had just arrived. She took the reins of
Government in hand with a strong grip, and from that time on the sisters
were obliged to obey this stranger in matters spiritual as well as
material. Their country and their God were taken from them; they were
obliged to bend the knee before the God which the Germans brought with
them in their savage invasion, and from whom they never part. Written in
relief on the buckles of their belts was the arrogant device: “Gott mit
uns.”
* * * * *
We were crowded before the doors of the hospital, cherishing our
thoughts, different, no doubt, according to our nationality. The
“grey-greens” did not hide their joy at being removed, persuaded that
they had done with the war, and that it would not last long. The poor
“red trousers” had, generally, not the strength to think of their fate,
as, tired, stupefied, confused and worn by suffering, they seemed to
live in a dream which had no vision of the future. For hours we had been
awaiting the arrival of the convoy; some were standing, some lying down,
others on the ground or on stretchers, for all the French who could bear
the journey were to be conveyed elsewhere.
Far away, civilians with bended heads were walking about the bombarded
and burnt town. The greater number of the men had been requisitioned to
carry the wounded or remove the dead, and wore the red cross on the left
arm.
Some women ventured to approach them and distribute apples, pears and
slices of bread and butter or jam. Others brought wine and beer, but
none of these dared to open their lips. And what could they have said,
poor wretches, unless they had spoken of their terror during the
bombardment, their despair at the arrival of the enemy, their
stupefaction and distress at finding themselves prisoners, powerless in
the hands of an enemy whose exactions were already too well known? What
could they speak of besides their keen anxiety on account of their
husbands, or children, or relations who had fled before the invasion?
A few of them--the most timid, doubtless--declared they had not suffered
too much. They had left them their cattle, they had not entered their
houses; with a few rare exceptions, only the deserted houses had been
pillaged and burnt. One felt that these women were afraid of something
still worse; and, in speaking thus, hoped to charm away future
misfortunes by not cursing the invaders too much. Almost all of them had
a wounded soldier at home to nurse, almost all had been employed night
and day in collecting for the hospital bedding and bedclothes from the
deserted houses, from which the greater number of the inhabitants had
fled in haste. Their faces were hot, their appearance exhausted, their
hair in disorder. One felt that they had not dared to rest, to wash
themselves, to arrange their hair; that terror tortured them; that they
had watched over their own during the night while the drunken cries of
the Germans, giving themselves to their orgies, had hidden the roaring
of the cannon and the noise of the guns.
The sentries allowed them to converse with us; and little by little they
came in greater numbers and were more communicative. Just then the
convoy of motors ran into the square at a rapid rate, jolting and
jumping over the uneven stones of the paved streets. They packed in the
wounded. _Væ victis!_ There was nothing left for the French but the
waggons intended for the supply of munitions for the artillery. They
stowed us in anyhow, in and between the wicker baskets, where the German
placed, in layers of three, their 77 shells.
We set off. Jolting, bumping, falling heavily against the baskets which
bruised us, covered with dust, we saw fleeing behind us the large, leafy
trees of those beautiful roads of France, which we were leaving.... For
how long? No one dared think of it.
Convoys passed each other on the way. Motors, waggons carrying troops,
light motors conveying generals, followed each other rapidly in a whirl
of grey dust. Germans everywhere, not a single Frenchman! In the fields,
not a trace of the battles that had taken place. All the dead had been
removed. Sometimes, however, an aged peasant passed us, his whip on his
shoulder, driving a little cart drawn by an old horse, and in the straw
one saw the body of a French or German soldier, pale as a corpse--a
solitary wounded man found by the peasant after the battle, dying on his
land and now being taken to the hospital.
Night fell; motor lights flashed past to the noise of horns. Our motors
stopped at the entrance of villages which, melancholy, silent and
gloomy, seemed wishing to hide their sadness under cover of the night.
Then the chauffeur would give the password to a sentinel who advanced
towards us, making the heavy butt-end of his rifle ring on the pavement,
and we started again. Our driver never stopped to ask the way; he seemed
to know the country wonderfully well.
In the distance a light such as one sees over cities. It is Fourmies,
lighted by electricity and absolutely peaceful. A few patrols were
marching about--their heavy boots sounded on the paved streets, their
naked bayonets shone in the light. The station! Halt! They laid us down
on a little straw, which we shared with comrades who had already
arrived.
There was a terrible odour of festering, uncared-for wounds, cries of
pain were heard, interrupted or accentuated by the ravings of some
wounded soldier in delirium. A draught, powerless to chase away that
odour of a slaughter-house, was yet strong enough to freeze our bodies
placed in immediate contact with the asphalt of the waiting-room floor.
Outside on the platform there was a ceaseless coming and going; troops
arriving, locomotives whistling, puffing and departing. We were blinded
by the glaring light of the electric lamps. Sleep could not come to us.
We were devoured by thirst; our throats were parched by fever and the
dust absorbed on the road, and we were bruised by the jolting of the
waggons. The displaced dressings fretted our skin, our wounds were
uncovered and were suppurating. Enervation and fever did not allow us a
moment’s repose.
Fourmies is on the frontier. They were tearing us from our native land.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: IN BELGIUM]
CHAPTER II
Morning dawns at last; its pale rays dim the blinding brightness of the
electric lights. It brings with it a breeze which raises the dust on the
platforms and blows about the straw that litters the station.
The wounded wake up, stiff and cold. The dressings are hastily done by
young unskilled German nurses, who have just arrived and are only at the
beginning of their profession. Nervous, agitated and worn out by their
journey, they look whiter than their new aprons. Their hands tremble as
they hold the basin or apply the cotton wool to our bare wounds.
From a pail from which rise clouds of steam a priest ladles out coffee,
which he distributes to all. He is followed by a sister whose duty it is
to offer a “Butterbrot” to each of the wounded. This done and breakfast
swallowed, we are entrained. It is seven o’clock, that is to say, five
minutes past six in France, for the Germans--whose love for clocks is
well known--change all the clocks of the towns that they have just taken
to Berlin time. It is their way of setting up their standard!
On the platforms the authorities bustle about; their faces are purple
from the excesses of the night before, their eyes are half open and
their walk is unsteady. After an hour we start.
A few turns of the wheel and we shall have left France.
In the third-class carriage where I have been placed are two other
Frenchmen. Many of our comrades have been crowded together on straw in
waggons, and are under the guard of an armed German sentinel. We are
lucky--we are alone and we have seats.
Scarcely have we left the station when one of my companions draws forth
a bottle of champagne from under his cloak. He has taken it from the
Germans, who the evening before were dead drunk in the hotel where they
were being looked after. The cork pops! This bottle at least the Boches
shall not have, and we drink to our speedy return to France. The wine
takes effect; a few minutes later I go off into a sound sleep.
I wake up worn out, and, thanks to the help of my companions, am able to
sit up on the seat.
Under the burning September sun Belgium flies quickly past me; it is a
Belgium inert and dead, where the vast plains are deserted and where the
tools lie abandoned in the midst of the fields, speaking of the fright
of the people who have fled before invasion and murder.
Along the side of the railway a military bakehouse has been erected by
the Germans; it is a veritable ant-hill, scores of chimneys are sending
out smoke. Farther on rise up the three burnt walls of a deserted
station; the fourth has fallen in, enabling us to see the interior, with
the beams carbonised, the furniture broken and burnt. Will any one be
alive after the war to relate the crimes committed in that house? A
freshly dug mound of earth surmounted by a wooden cross and a helmet
breaks the monotony of the Belgian plain! New houses will replace those
that have been destroyed, the grass will grow again, children will take
the place of those who are dead, time will heal our troubles, our grief
will be less intense, but, facing the centuries, this grave will remain
witness of the barbarity of the Teuton, who has deliberately spilt the
blood of his own people and that of other nations to satisfy the
indescribable passion of a single man, of a monster dazzled by the pride
of his sceptre. This tomb, like so many others, will perpetuate the
great lessons and solemn warnings of this war, and to the warrior eager
for blood, to the pacifist obstinate and blind, to the ambitious who
dream of conquest, to the easy-tempered inclined to forget, to those who
for love of lucre or other passion might be persuaded to make overtures
to the enemy, it will cry out “Remember!”
We pass villages burnt to the ground. Truly misfortune has fallen on
this region.
The soldiers of the “landwehr” who are in possession of the stations,
the look-outs, the guardhouses, already begin to be impatient; and the
absence of news weighs heavily on them; they envy those who are marching
yonder on the roads of wealthy “Frankreich” where good wine flows in
abundance. They greet their comrades with friendly signs as they pass by
in trains decorated with green branches and flowers on their way “nach
Paris.” It is for those who come from their beloved fatherland that they
have written in large letters, black, red and green, on the white walls
near the points and on the approaches to the stations: “Nachrichten
Bitte” (News, if you please). Let them not forget the old men, who stay
behind to guard the railways and the people; let them not forget to
throw out their old newspapers telling of the advance in giant strides
of the vast armies of the conquering Kaiser.
Numerous trains rush onward towards France; at the windows men in
uniform salute their wounded comrades as they pass, shake their fists at
us and disappear, carried on to the combat by a throbbing engine. So
they come in their thousands and by thousands invade our country. Trains
carrying before their funnels the flag of the Red Cross, and on their
coaches the distinctive marks of sanitary transports, are also caught up
in this giddy whirlpool which hurries troops from east to west. They are
crowded with armed men, helmeted, ready for the fight; the trucks carry
heavy naval guns. That train has nothing to fear; it is protected by the
Conventions of Geneva.
Namur! Here they take out the wounded who cannot stand a longer journey.
A young lieutenant, an effeminate dandy, who, apparently, has not yet
heard the whistling of bullets, or the sound of a bursting shell, has
our carriage pointed out to him. He approaches and orders a soldier to
open the door. He has just been shaved, his moustache is cut in such a
way as to show his sensual lips, his carefully manicured hands are
loaded with rings, his tunic fits him like a glove, his collar is high
and cramping. He takes pleasure in causing his new gaiters to creak; he
stands as stiff as a poker in order to make the most of all his inches.
He mounts the step and in a high falsetto voice and mocking tone begins
to speak to us. We growl out a reply; it does not seem to satisfy him.
But one could not expect wounded Frenchmen to behave like trained dogs
before a German officer, as the Boche soldiers do.
However, it is not curiosity only that has brought him; he has a mission
to accomplish, so sharply, jerkily and with a pronounced German accent,
he brings forth a sentence, which he must have been preparing a long
time, even before our train was signalled: “You use explosive bullets!”
I fire up then and answer: “It’s false.” But he thrusts in my face a
packet of cartridges labelled: “Ammunition for practice” (“Get out,
idiot,” I murmur), and peremptorily he continues: “You lie, you use
explosive bullets; but we shall bring Paris to ruins!” I shrug my
shoulders and he goes off stiff and haughty, and as proud of himself as
if by his sole energy he had taken a whole transport of able-bodied
soldiers prisoners. He has insulted the wounded and defenceless; he has
thought it a fine thing to probe an open wound. He seems to be
satisfied. Poor cad! have you succeeded yet in destroying Paris?
After a long wait the train starts again. The Belgian peasants, with
bent shoulders and a frightened air, watch us pass, without making a
movement, without speaking a word; you might think they were rooted to
the ground. How different they are from those who, a month ago, welcomed
us so heartily. Poor Belgium! The iron foot of Germany has passed there
and terror reigns. Any demonstration must have been severely forbidden.
The train goes ever onward. Night comes. We have had nothing to eat
except a bit of bread and raw bacon that some German soldiers have
thrown into our compartment by mistake, as they passed our convoy. We
were lucky, for afterwards I met comrades who had had absolutely nothing
between their lips during the fifty-five hours of our journey.
We are carried onwards. It seems as if a veil surrounds me, and even in
my waking moments I am still in a dream. The train stops, starts again,
jolts as terribly; it increases our sufferings, jerks off our bandages.
On the platforms we hear raucous voices. We shudder at the noise of the
piercing whistle of an engine, rushing full speed ahead, which cuts
through space and shakes us on its passage. Then numbness seizes us,
weariness of mind and body. Sleep overtakes us now and then and it is
difficult to distinguish between our sleeping and waking moments. It is
only after the sun’s rays have transformed our compartment into a
veritable furnace, and the heat and the flies have made sleep
impossible, that we shake off the torpor into which we were plunged.
We throw off our coats. It is now afternoon and there are signs of our
approach to a large station. The train slows down, passes the points,
makes a winding curve and stops.
Herbesthal! I grind my teeth with rage and powerlessness. It seems as if
a great door had been shut on me, separating me for ever from those I
love. Herbesthal! it is the threshold of our prison. This name grates on
my ears like the grinding of heavy bolts on the doors of a dungeon.
Herbesthal! it is the ruin of our dreams of a providential release.
Brutal, positive, overpowering reality forces itself upon us, in spite
of our hopes. Herbesthal! it is the ugly doctrine of facts, which comes
to curb smiling fancies, dear to the hearts of the French. It is the
boundary which separates the Republic of liberty of spirit, goodness and
inspiration from the realm of brute force, of willing slavery, of
servitude of intellects, of crimes ordered by an authority before whom
all tremble. Herbesthal! The threshold is crossed, we are in Germany!
Prisoners.
Only the end of the war will give us back our liberty, and we dare not
wish that end near, for the triumph of the invader is still before our
eyes.
Yonder on the left, under some trees at no great distance, is the
terrace of a café decked with flags and filled with a crowd of most
excited people. They are wild with joy, and make a deafening noise;
then, suddenly, as with one movement, they spring up and stand
motionless and silent, with heads bared. An orchestra hidden among the
trees has sounded the first notes of the German anthem. Corpulent men
stand with a stiffness at attention which seems suited neither to their
age nor their size; they hold their cigars in their hands and leave
their beer to get flat without regret. Stout women in light dresses,
which seem too tight for them, stand beside them; they are red with
excitement; the children remain motionless in an attitude almost
religious. It is a veritable uproar, where the shrill notes of the fifes
and the low interrupted roll of the drum impress on these grey citizens
the staggering successes of their arms. They experience a joy beyond all
bounds in staining their starched white shirt fronts with beer and
cigar-ash in an inn where everybody is crowded together. There they have
come to comment on the news of the day, enforcing their remarks by blows
which make the tables tremble. They are still visibly excited by the
burning words of patriotism in the sermons preached by their
ministers--men in the pay of the bloody Emperor. These words still ring
in their ears telling them of the destiny of the all-powerful German
race, a race elected, chosen by their god before all to be the salvation
of the world. They are intoxicated by their own excitement, the music,
the beer and the sun, and listen in a religious frenzy to the music
which places them above other nations--“Deutschland über alles.” At the
end of each stanza, tired with so long repressing the feelings that burn
in their hearts, they break forth into uncontrolled cheering, and shout
themselves hoarse bellowing out the admiration that they feel for
themselves. They wave little flags, sticks, hats, handkerchiefs,
beer-mugs; it is pandemonium. With purple faces, eyes starting out of
their heads, swollen veins and wide-open mouths they shout, they
vociferate, without any regard for those who are so near them. They see
red, and in the sky at which they gaze, the apotheosis of the Teuton
race appears to them, sublime, emerging from a river of blood. Unwearied
the orchestra begins again, dominates the tumult of the crowd, that,
after a bar or two, has recovered its calm, like a mechanical toy wound
up anew and set in motion. In Germany there is order and respect for
music; they do not have two concerts going on at a time. Strains,
feverish, passionate, played with vigour, float on the air. Each
musician blows, beats, scrapes, strikes with all the power of a Boche,
as if he hoped that the sounds he gave forth, drowning the others, would
go ever to the field of battle and inspire with a force of “superman”
the unchained wild beasts whose mission it is to show to the astonished
world the power of Germany and the Kaiser.
And down there the battle of the Marne was beginning. These men, who by
their laws wish to purify and civilise the world, have not passed the
stage of cannibals and Red Skins, who dance round the stake to which
their captured enemy is bound.
This joy of delirious madness, this colossal display of all the passions
suitable to savages, this deafening cacophony, these frenzied shrieks
make me feel painfully the sadness of our state. The sight of this
unbridled crowd, that has no human feeling and so insults our defeat,
fills me with rage and despair, a feeling of powerlessness and an agony
[Illustration: _Page 30._]
that chokes me; tears rise to my eyes, it is with difficulty that I
stifle a sob. However, I make an effort to restrain my grief and stare
through the window with an air of indifference to what is going on,
braving the crowd. The German bourgeois shall not have the joy of
witnessing the weakness of a Frenchman.
Alternately the music sounds and shouts burst forth. These people are
tireless. Like automata they go on playing, blowing, striking, shouting
at regular intervals; they begin and they leave off at the signal of the
conductor’s baton. The Boche cannot rejoice on his own account; for his
happiness to be complete these demonstrations must be carried out to
order. His servile nature appears even in this manifestation of joy,
which with us is always spontaneous. This great organisation of
exultation reveals the Germans to me as they are--hearts of savages in
automatic bodies.
The fête, however, is not yet over. The programme is not yet finished.
The French prisoners have had their reception; it is now the turn of the
Germans.
A train of soldiers of the Marine infantry has just come into the
station. Every one’s attention is fixed on them. All applaud them.
Attracted by a sort of fascination, these people invade the platforms;
at the sight of the naval uniforms, which seem something new to them,
there is an outburst of delight. A “Mädchen,” expressing by a gesture
the general admiration, throws them a bunch of flowers she was wearing
in her belt. It is the signal for a rain of flowers, which falls from
the terrace on to the eager soldiers. On the rails, on the platforms,
the men seize the presents offered by the German women. These women
admire them, these big fellows whose ferocity and brutality are known to
all. One can count on them to carry to Frenchwomen all the hatred these
heavy, servile Teutons feel. May the German soldiers, far away in that
detested France, treat the Frenchwomen as cruelly as they, the good, the
placid, the gentle German women, with their pale complexions, wish!
Flowers, chocolates, sandwiches, cigars, cigarettes continue to be
poured upon them. Impetuously the soldiers scramble up the banks,
catching hold of the grass, pushing each other roughly, and uttering
cries like wild animals when springing on their prey. Nothing holds them
back any longer. It is a heart-breaking sight where the boldness and
folly of the women rival the greed and brutality of the men. With an air
of disdainful pride and mocking smiles on their lips the officers look
at these men, whom to-morrow they will send to their death; at these
women, whom they despise; at the crowd of civilians, good enough only to
give them gold and their sons for the army of the Kaiser, who alone is
worth the whole humanity of the German army.
At last the inn seems to have been cleared of all eatables, drinkables
and tobacco. The soldiers begin to be tired of the game, they are
surfeited, their pockets are crammed with cigars. The girls have almost
broken their arms throwing gifts until, hot and untidy, they struggle
back into their jackets.
Little by little the people grow quiet. Without variation the orchestra,
a veritable instrument of torture, continues its everlasting grind,
soulless, imperturbable.
Then on the platform young girls and women appear carrying baskets and
escorted by well-dressed men. There sandwiches, fruits, chocolate,
tobacco, cigarettes, bottles of lemonade are piled up. Other women
follow with cups and enormous jugs of coffee, glasses and jugs of beer,
and large juicy plum tarts. The distribution is renewed; it is chiefly
intended for the wounded Germans who have stayed in the train. The
guards will not let the women approach the wounded French, who have no
right to kindly treatment. The women, moreover, cannot bear to hear the
name “Franzosen” pronounced. They turn their backs on them, filled with
disgust for their contemptible enemies.
In some places the soldiers give themselves up to shameful pillage,
emptying the baskets, and the young girls emerge, panting and
dishevelled, from a circle which has surrounded them. Disputes take
place among the Marines.
Absent-mindedly a “Yungfrau” approaches our compartment, a smile on her
lips, a pitying look in her eye, for she has not recognised in these
unfortunate men in their shirt sleeves the enemies of her race.
Suddenly, while one of us leans out of the window to seize the proffered
sandwich, she sees the belt of his red trousers. Taking a step
backwards, frightened, indignant, furious, with a voice full of hate,
she cries: “Franzosen.” Angrily she turns away; but a German soldier
standing on the platform with his arm in a sling has noticed the
incident; he has recognised one of my companions as his neighbour in
hospital. Passing by, he says in a friendly manner: “Guten Tag, Emile”
(Good day). He goes up to the young girl and expresses his indignation
in no unmeasured terms. She protests, turns red, becomes embarrassed,
then, obediently retracing her steps, holds out her basket, avoiding our
eyes. With his hands full, the German soldier distributes food and
dainties to us, while the young lady in dulcet but artful tones lightly
gives expression to feelings of humanity with a sincerity that makes us
smile. “We are all men, after all.” (That was also the declaration of
the German socialists before the war; we shall doubtless soon hear it
again.)
From that time forth this soldier did not forget to recommend us to the
care of the distributors, who dared not refuse for fear of hurting one
of their own wounded men. He himself came from time to time to see that
we wanted for nothing, and to leave us some of the food and cigarettes
he had received and did not know what to do with.
We were doubtless the only French of all the convoy who did not suffer
from hunger during the journey.
The day had been perfect for them. The Boches swam in a sea of
happiness! They are “Satt”--satiated with beer, cakes, sweets, saturated
with joy, excitement and the sounds of music; they are full of their
Germany and their Kaiser; they have seen their forces-of-war pass by,
and the weakness of their enemy has been established in a manner
evident to their eyes!
What a splendid day! “Gott sei Dank.”
* * * * *
Officers shout orders on the platform. The German soldiers take their
seats. _En route_ for Aix-la-Chapelle, Cologne, etc.... We are prisoners
in earnest!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: A FRENCH VICTORY]
CHAPTER III
It was right at the beginning of hostilities. The prisoners had been
sent to an instruction camp, the buildings of which were still occupied
by German recruits.
The men, guarded by sentinels, were at that time herded together on some
waste land surrounded by barbed wire; shelter there was none. We dug
ourselves holes in the sand as best we could. Some green branches formed
a roof; and there, exposed to the rain, we remained night and day, even
without straw to lie on or coverings to protect us from the severity of
the nights, which were already very cold. The wounded were visited from
time to time by a German army doctor; there being no hospital, they
suffered still more from the exposure than their comrades did.
Twice a day, at a fixed hour, officers and men filed before the doors of
the kitchens. For some time even a French General was to be seen,
joining this long line of starving people. He had come to receive with
his own hands the bowl that the German cooks refused to give to any but
himself. However, a room had been prepared for him in some neighbouring
barracks.
The men slept in the open. The tents were not put up till much later;
but at the end of a fortnight or three weeks, after an American official
had visited the camp, they consented to house the prisoners in stables,
considered too unhealthy for horses! Our soldiers were frequently twelve
in a box. The Germans, who seem able to foresee everything, did not
attach sufficient importance to the question of prisoners, or perhaps
imagined these arrangements would do well enough for the two months the
war was to last.
Now there came a day when the German General, who commanded the camp,
arrived to visit the first prisoners. Of a height above the average,
broad-shouldered and upright, he must have been in his time a fine man,
one to command the respect of his men. His head was bent with age and he
kept it sunk between his shoulders like a wrestler. His light blue eyes,
which must have been piercing when he was younger, had become dulled,
but they were still penetrating enough and showed that the years had not
weakened his will when occasionally they shone suspicious and hard from
under his bushy brows. A thick grey moustache hid his lips. On his left
cheek was a deep scar, made, I was told, by a French bullet in 1870. His
bearing was noble, his step slow and dignified. He went about, whip in
hand, followed by two bloodhounds that kept close to his heels.
The General had for the French a fierce hatred, which he showed whenever
an occasion arose. Perhaps he had suffered in the campaign of ’70, and
his wound had soured him; perhaps also his education, directed by those
above him, had taught him to detest our race. As he was too old for
active service he was given the organisation and direction of a
concentration camp.
Our soldiers, a few from all classes, but mostly from the territorials,
were drawn up in two lines by German non-commissioned officers. An
interpreter translated to them the orders and commands of a fierce
German officer. The clinking together of a sentinel’s heels getting into
position announced the arrival of the superior officer. A thundered
“Achtung!” pealed forth and the General reviewed our soldiers, who were
standing at attention. “Frenchmen,” he said, fiercely pulling his
moustache, “forty years ago your fathers came here; you are here now,
and your sons will come in another forty years! It is good for the
French nation to come from time to time and spend a period in Germany.
But, after all, you won’t be here for many months: our armies are at
Paris, and the war is coming to an end. It was you who declared war; you
will repent it. That’s all!” And as the simple wave of his hand was not
sufficient to make the assembled prisoners disappear from his sight, he
turned round and rode away.
Could one possibly speak more wickedly? What pleasure could this officer
find in making
[Illustration: _Page 38._]
our prisoners sadder? Was not their state already bad enough to make it
necessary for this old man, with his irony and lies, to come and sow
discouragement in the hearts of the fighters of yesterday?
But he was carrying out an order--instructions from headquarters--to
demoralise those in Germany for whom the fight was over; they must
destroy their vitality, their constancy in trial, their living hope, the
confidence in victory which is the glory of the French. And our jailers
would have been happy if they could have demoralised us, if they could
have made us apathetic blocks without moral pluck; so they tried by
every means to make our captivity as painful as possible. But those
pinpricks, those numberless petty vexations, the false reports put up
each day in the camp, could not attain the success on which our jailers
counted. The being forbidden to smoke, the punishment of being bound to
posts, the long waits standing motionless in the rain, the privations of
all sorts, the propagation of news of disaster to our side, and our
miserable condition: none of these could touch our spirit. The Frenchman
has this to the good, that he keeps a certain youthfulness of character.
A trifle may amuse him, because he knows that a comic element, that a
grain of folly and gaiety is found in every human creature and in every
situation. He is constantly on the watch for this comic element, and is
past-master in the art of discovering it. It is, so it seems to him,
when he is the most wretched, the most exposed to emergencies, that his
eye becomes more acute, so that he seizes still more willingly on the
gay and light note which keeps him atune with laughter.
So it was that the General who understood us not at all was offended by
the mood that he judged provocative, and, unwilling to be worsted, he
decided to put an end to it.
The prisoners were reassembled. An hour’s waiting in the rain did not
succeed in making them look sullen. Already jokes and speculation ran
riot: “The war is finished”; “We are going to be sent back to France”;
“There is to be an exchange of prisoners”; “Germany is dying of hunger,
and Switzerland has consented to feed us.” Some, less respectful,
suggested that the General was going to hold a foot review.
At last that important personage appeared, and his entrance on the scene
cut short our speeches. He addressed the men who were drawn up in a
circle round his white horse. “Messieurs,” he said, “going through the
camp I noticed that you amuse yourselves, that you laugh, that you are
gay. You ought to remember that you are prisoners. You ought to be sad.
’Tention! Be sad!” Having spoken, he wheeled his horse about.
The success of such a speech was instantaneous. A few of our prisoners
were thunderstruck; others with difficulty hid their smiles, through
fear of what might happen, while the rest could not contain themselves,
but frankly burst out laughing.
A new German defeat was thus registered. From that day the mention of
the simple expression: “Be sad!” was sufficient to dissipate the “blues”
and transform a face of sadness into one of mirth.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: SALOUTEZ!]
CHAPTER IV
He had been wounded at the beginning of the campaign, at the time when
nothing could stop the invading hordes, and much too soon for his
liking. Powerless to escape from the field of battle, he soon saw
himself a prisoner in the hands of the enemy. He was a sergeant, still
young, and on active service when the war broke out. He was taken to a
hospital in Westphalia, where he remained too short a time, considering
the gravity of his wound. But as the German wounded from Ypres were
coming in, in great numbers, he had been turned out and sent to a
concentration camp. He arrived there worn out and still suffering from
his wounds, but happy to be able at last to hear news of the war--news
he had eagerly longed to hear, but which had been jealously kept from
him. There he learnt of the battle of the Marne and its happy result for
our armies, and his heart rejoiced greatly. If he still remembered the
cruel days of the retreat from Belgium, it was to recall pictures which
permitted him to imagine the Boches a prey to the sufferings that their
too precipitated retreat would bring upon them. Thus the rage he felt
in his heart at being made prisoner was slightly calmed. As hope and
confidence came back to him our sergeant regained assurance and raised
his head. He reasoned in the following manner and found consolation
therein: “I am a prisoner, it is certain; but I have done my duty,
therefore I need not be ashamed of myself. My countrymen at the present
time fight successfully against an enemy superior in numbers and one who
has been preparing for a long time to invade; consequently I may be
permitted to think of them with pride. I don’t belong to a nation
debased by defeat. The French Army guards its rights and prerogatives.
Since my soul can never be imprisoned, my thoughts are with those who
fight for the good cause, my body alone is captive. And yet, not
completely so, since it will never consent to do what my conscience does
not approve of.”
So from deduction to deduction he almost persuaded himself that he was
free. He was exceedingly proud of being a Frenchman, and, what is more,
a French soldier. From this time on, in spite of his wound, he forced
himself to walk without limping, holding his head erect. And thus he
marched with a noble, almost arrogant air, straight on, without anything
being able to stop him, disdainful of the German uniform and its chiefs,
for he had sworn to himself never to salute the officers of a nation at
war with his country, and one that had permitted such crimes in Belgium.
Orders, however, were strict on this matter, and the heads of the
barracks did not fail every day to inflict punishments in the pillory,
which punishment certain of our soldiers had incurred for not having
saluted a German officer. The punishments imposed for this neglect were
announced in huge printed letters in four languages, and revealed to the
prisoners the rigours of the German military law.
But our sergeant paid no attention to that. He kept his marks of respect
for the French doctors, the only officers sometimes seen in the camp.
But one day it happened that he was walking painfully and slowly on the
light sand, into which one sank ankle-deep. He was speaking of one thing
and another, with a comrade of his regiment, whom he had had the good
luck to find. They recalled the happy times they had spent together in
the barracks--for, thanks to a happy forgetfulness, the memory has not
kept account of the bad times. They talked of their captain, a brave
fellow, who had died courageously, perhaps a little rashly, but
nevertheless as a true-hearted man should do. They spoke of their
lieutenants, of the different ranks of the company; nobody was
overlooked. In imagination they saw gay French uniforms with their
golden stripes, before which one stood proudly erect at “attention.” The
sergeant confided to his companion the firm resolution he had made never
to salute a German officer. For example, as soon as he saw the General,
that old savage who detested the French, he turned about and showed him
his back. “Till now you have been able to escape,” his friend said, “but
take care, one day you will get into trouble.” “It is all the same to
me,” replied the other, “and then
[Illustration: _Page 44._]
I shall tell him that I had taken him for a French artilleryman, because
of his dark blue trousers with red stripes. He will be flattered; don’t
you think so?”
At this moment the two friends passed a German lieutenant, a big man,
tall and broad in proportion. The monocle stuck in his right eye
enlarged it to the disadvantage of the left one, which appeared small
and almost lost in the folds of fat of his ruddy, shaven face. With
riding-whip in his hand the officer advanced, proud, no doubt, of his
new grey-green uniform, which laced him in tightly at the waist and
emphasised the squareness of his massive shoulders. His heavy, creaking
boots sank at every step into the powdery sand. Dominating the group of
French soldiers he was passing, he looked at them straight, so that they
were forced to salute him. At his passing, all put their hands to their
caps; and he returned their salute, bending the whole of his body
stiffly, as if he were laced in corsets.
While his comrade saluted properly, the sergeant with an air of
indifference pursued his walk. He kept his head slightly turned towards
his companion, with whom he seemed to be having a most exciting
conversation, which absorbed him so that the presence of an officer
could not distract his attention.
Did the German guess the Frenchman’s intention, or did he think his
distraction culpable? I don’t know, but he approached and, looking
vexed, planted himself in front of the two, who were obliged to stop.
Fresh salute from the French soldier, this time unnoticed by the
officer.
A pause.
With a scowling expression, the officer looks at the sergeant from head
to foot; he, however, does not stir. Another pause, in which the German
finds the word he was trying to think of: “Saloutez,” says he, in an
imperative voice; “Saloutez!”
“I beg your pardon,” says the sergeant politely, with a most puzzled
look.
The lieutenant, whose French was not faultless, but who hesitated to
confess it, even to himself, seemed to be confused for a moment; his
face flushed when, in a voice still more imperative and as if trying to
persuade himself of the excellence of his accent, he repeated:
“Saloutez, mossié.”
“I don’t understand at all; what does he mean?” said our Frenchman,
turning, as if in question, towards his companion. “You understand
German. Well, answer him. ‘Saloutemossié! Saloutemossié!’ I don’t
understand.”
But the man in the pay of William began to get impatient. He lost his
temper, his face grew purple. Nervously striking his boots with his
whip, he reflected, calling up all his linguistic knowledge and
repeating to himself: “Salou ... Salou: Saloutez ... Saloutez mossié,”
after the manner of a careless pupil repeating the parts of a Latin
irregular verb. It must be very disagreeable when one wishes to exercise
one’s authority to give the impression of a scholar stammering over his
lesson. The Boche began to look grotesque. But our sergeant still went
on talking with his compatriot over the meaning of his questioner’s
words. His eyebrows contracted, his forehead wrinkled, as in the effort
of intense intellectual strain; he seemed to take as much trouble to
understand as the German took to be understood. His face remained
impassive and showed the distress of a man who cannot find what he
seeks. With imperturbable coolness he went to extremes. In despair at
not being able to understand, he shrugged his shoulders, struck his
forehead, shook his head and repeated: “No, no, I don’t understand.”
Then pointing with his finger to the German “Burô”[1] visible in the
distance, he said, “Interpret that--Burô.” “Yes, ‘dolmetscher,
burô’--they will understand.” As for him, he could not make it out, and
regretted greatly not to be able to help the officer better.
The situation became impossible. The German dared not any longer insist,
for fear of making himself ridiculous. He had the sense to understand
this, and was angry with himself. He went away furious that his
knowledge of Bossuet and Joffre did not enable him to tell the sergeant
what he thought. Because of his _amour-propre_ he still wished to
believe in French stupidity.
Our friend stayed there, looking puzzled and stupid; he scratched his
head and repeated in the most idiotic manner: “Saloutémossié,” and
looked with a questioning, wondering glance at his comrade, who
whispered to him: “You’ve got hold of a very young bird!” But with a
fresh shrug of the shoulders he turned anew to the officer, who had gone
some paces when, to make sure they were not laughing at him, he glanced
back. With his finger he pointed in the direction of the Commandant.
Then the Boche, with that persistence which is the attribute of his
race, returned to the charge, repeating, in order to make himself better
understood, always the same words: “Saloutez, mossié.” Then suiting the
action to the word, and to show by example, he raised his hand to his
cap. Then the sergeant, with a gracious smile, as if he wished to cut
short the transports of gratitude of the Boche: “Ah, I beg you, don’t
mention it, my signpost,” said he, and, with a vague flourish in the
direction of the Burô, dismissed the officer, but did not salute him.
All the same, he waited till he had got far enough from the enemy’s ears
before giving vent to the laughter that shook him.
However, from that day he judged it better to yield to the desires of
the Teuton officers, and he “salouta” them every time that he could not
avoid doing otherwise.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE FLEA MARKET]
CHAPTER V
Evening enfolds the camp in its gloomy mantle, and like a heavy tapestry
dulls the sounds and renders uncertain the movements of human beings.
It is scarcely five o’clock, but the night has almost come. The camp is
invisible in the darkness, the silence becomes absolute. In certain
parts nothing reveals the existence there of an enclosure containing
thousands of men.
A dim murmur, however, rises from the regions of the kitchen, where the
lamps give scarcely any light. No one makes a noise, but the silence of
every person, an individual muteness imposed by the sadness of the
monotonous day just drawing to its close, the sound of steps which the
sand deadens, all is transformed into a dull hum, like the murmur of a
distant ocean.
In the almost total darkness the men, one by one, in their companies
file past the kitchen doors, to take the basins of soup allotted to
them. They are narrowly watched by their non-commissioned officers, who
try to prevent one man coming twice to the disadvantage of his
comrades, for no basin is given beyond the number of men in the company.
The soup, alas! is quickly swallowed; what takes the longest time is to
form the lines in front of the kitchens. There you flounder about in
deep mud, sometimes for an hour, and when your turn comes to be served
the pot is perhaps empty and you are obliged to go and join another
company in front of another door. Once in possession of their rations,
the men, basins in hand, go a little way beyond the waiting lines and,
standing, drink their soup, for there is no other place where they can
go. Indeed, the sentinels, whose bayonets from time to time gleam, watch
that no one goes to his tent taking a basin with him, for the number of
these utensils is very limited. Some men, in order to receive a
supplementary ration, pass their evening in picking up from under the
feet of their comrades the basins thrown negligently down, when once
they are emptied. These, collected together near the boilers, are again
used after being summarily washed.
This evening meal is lugubrious. The men in the semi-darkness have the
feeling that they are swallowing their pittance like beasts of burden.
They experience cruelly the full force of their misery. There they are,
eating from a basin of rough metal, with greasy, rusted brim, food which
the dogs at home would turn from in disgust. Like animals, they must lap
up their soup, for they have neither spoon nor fork. Light also is
refused them; and as there are no benches, it is not possible for the
prisoners to sit down to the meal.
[Illustration: _Page 50._]
Poor fellows, they even envy the pig, who may without shame gobble up a
mixture less objectionable than what is offered to them, the
soldier-prisoners.
Their courage begins to fail! Every one is demoralised! Confinement
weighs on their shoulders. The sky is black, hearts are heavy. There is
not a star in the sky, not a gleam of hope in the soul!
* * * * *
Suddenly, piercing the darkness, a dazzling light has flashed out,
flooding the camp with its brilliance. This light, cast by a gigantic
lamp hung at the top of a raised pole, flickers, flares, wavers, then is
finally fixed.
At this signal, which all seem to wait for, the place round the kitchens
is instantly deserted. Every one hurries to finish his meal and to hurry
away; the life of the camp, fleeing from the darkness, is in a moment
transported towards the part bathed in a warm brightness, under the
incandescent globe, whose kindly light expels the shadows and, for the
moment at least, drives sad thoughts away.
The open space which stretches away under the violet lamp is some two
hundred metres long. It is bordered by thin, leafless trees, their gaunt
branches standing out, the colour of dead wood.
It is shut in at both ends by the artificial means of protection which
German ingenuity knows so well how to get together. To right and left
are tents, their yellow canvas flapping in the wind; farther on stand
out the more definite outlines of huts, now being built. At regular
intervals there are drinking fountains with wooden shelters, at the
present time used by prisoners to do their washing. Here is the Forum of
the inhabitants of the camp; here is what they call their “Flea Market.”
The coal fires that are crackling in the neighbourhood of the pole,
deserted a few seconds ago, are now crowded, as if by enchantment, by a
dense and noisy throng. Men arrive, running at full speed. Their haste
recalls the madness of moths that on a summer’s evening hurl themselves
blindly against the glass of a lamp. Greedily they dispute every inch of
the lighted ground. From the earth, suddenly flooded with the violet
light, a pale-faced populace seems to have sprung. Tables are set up,
bending under the weight of goods of all kinds, piled up in a moment by
active hands; gaming-tables are prepared, and already hawkers go about
offering their provisions or their knick-knacks to all comers. There
reigns the animation of a fair in a crowded quarter of a town. One meets
Frenchmen with red or blue caps, Belgians with bright-coloured ones,
Englishmen in khaki, Zouaves and Algerians in their turbans.
In rivalry, one with another, the merchants, shouting in different
languages, try by their own shrill cries to dominate the deafening noise
of their competitors. It is the hour when the greater number of the
Boches have gone to their barracks or home, leaving the prisoners to
themselves. The camp,
[Illustration: _Page 52._]
guarded on the outskirts by a few sentinels, who warm themselves at a
glowing brazier, is now in the possession of the prisoners. They have no
corvées to fear, the day of work is over, the enemy has disappeared.
Reaction comes abruptly, suddenly, completely, even with passion the
crowd goes like a whirlwind towards the light, with a noise like mad
schoolboys invading the playground.
In the mud, in the puddles, all splash good-humouredly. In places, one
has to accomplish marvellous feats to keep balance on the few bricks
thrown over a deep puddle, where the awkward sometimes sink in, leaving
their sabots behind them, to the loud joy of the spectators.
A passive item in this feverish movement, the prisoner goes on, pushed
at the pleasure of a varied and cosmopolitan crowd, which moves along
noiselessly, without definite direction. The pressure is so great that
you cannot choose your way, you are just carried on.
Towards the centre of bustle and light, with its crowd going to and fro,
everybody hastens, impelled by the desire of movement, of society and
clamour. Penniless or not it is good to be at the Flea Market. There you
are plunged back again into life, you get away from yourself, and the
sight of this animation puts to flight the last inclination to sadness.
When all day long your soul has been lonely, melancholy and wandering,
it is sweet to mingle with the crowd, free from care, which, indifferent
to trouble, gives itself to the experiences of the moment. The prisoner
who wanders about in the market seems mentally bewildered; he is
deafened by the din of voices, dazzled and stunned by the ever-changing
spectacle of bright colours that moves around him. He finds no
opportunity for his own thoughts. He is caught, body and soul, in this
tumultuous machine, is a part of this crowd, which finds its sole joy in
the fact that it is a crowd. Here is the heart of the camp, pulsating
with life till the hour of curfew.
The preparations have been rapid, and now the market is in full swing.
They sell from stalls, they sell in the crowd. Buyers and venders mingle
together.
Here is an Algerian sharpshooter with a swarthy face and splendid large
brown eyes, shaded by long lashes, a merry fellow, but a bit of a knave.
A broad smile shows his teeth, magnificent white teeth, glittering like
pearls in his copper-coloured face. Under his short cloak--how is it
that he has not yet sold it?--he holds carefully hidden a loaf made for
civilians, that he has probably taken from a baker too busy to protect
his goods. To likely customers he shows the best golden-brown corner,
the crustiest part of his loaf. You are weak in face of the temptation;
even if a few seconds ago, when making up your accounts, you made a vow
not to be led into expense, you feel you are about to yield. “You want
bread, Sidi?” “Me have bread good.” “How much your loaf?” “Eight penny,
Sidi.” “Go on, it is too dear.” The smile fades, the eyes darken, the
face of the Arab expresses indignation. Ah! if he could he would
strangle this Sidi, he would tear this Frenchman’s face with his long
sharp nails for insulting him by thinking his loaf too dear! But he
cannot even dispute, knowing too little French. He passes on, or rather
the pressure of the crowd separates the two. If, later, chance brings
them together again, the Moor, recognising his man, refrains from
offering his wares again, but gives a gracious smile and winks his eye
at the man whom he admires, as if to say: “You more clever than me,” and
also: “Me find buyer.”
The question of bread takes precedence of all others. From the opening
of the market, we hasten to know the price for the day--a price which
varies according to the demand and the supply of the stock.[2]
The bread costs fifty pfennigs the kilogramme outside the camp, and its
price within varies from sixpence to eightpence, according to the
quantity for sale or the success of certain speculators who, hiding
their bread in the early hours, sell at the maximum price.
The entrance to the shops is congested. The buyers form a line, examine
the goods, bargain, buy, pay and go away. The curious watch this strange
commerce.
The wretchedly poor, those who since the first day of their captivity
have not had a sou to spend, and who have had to be content with the
repulsive and insufficient food meted out by the German administration,
look with envious eyes at these provisions that they will never taste:
the golden-brown loaves, pots of artificial honey--better than the real
honey--fancy jams made of glucose, cubes of margarine, butter made from
plants, tins of condensed milk, chocolate and lumps of sugar that help
to make the bitter morning coffee more palatable; packets of tobacco,
cigarettes, cigars.... Cries of all sorts resound in your ears. It is an
international emporium, where all moneys have currency--English or
French copper, Belgian or German nickel. Prices are quoted in sous.
Between the close ranks men glide, a camp saucepan in one hand, a
quarter-litre measure in the other. “Milk chocolate, all hot, all
boiling, two sous the quarter litre.” Tempters! they take off the wooden
lid. The steam rises hot, thick and fragrant in the sharp evening air.
What a glorious smell! If you have only two sous in your pocket you must
yield. It is the soup that has left a disagreeable taste in your mouth,
it is hunger that torments you; it is the herring that has made you
thirsty, or the freshness of the night that has dried your throat. In
short, your two sous pass into the seller’s pocket, and, in the midst of
the crowd that jostles along, you put your lips to the burning tin pot,
where so many others have been before.
Farther on, a jolly Englishman, who, on a rustic table that can be taken
to pieces, has traced different figures--a king, a queen, the Jack, a
diamond, etc., for dice--is shouting: “Come on, come on, my lads! Where
you like and where you fancy! The more you put down, the more you pick
up! Who says the Jack? Who says the lucky diamond? Who says the King?”
He has rattled his dice in a wooden cup and turned them out. “Up she
comes! No luck!” and, always smiling pays out or pockets his money
according to the chances of the game. There is a crowd round his table.
You might think you were at Monte Carlo. “You come here barefoot, you go
away in a motor!” There are players of all nationalities. Here one meets
Frenchmen from the North, Frenchmen from the South, Frenchmen from all
our provinces. One sees Britons from all parts of the United Kingdom,
Belgians--Flemish and Walloons; natives of Tunis, Morocco and Senegal,
each one playing with the passion peculiar to his race. All try to
forget in the excitement of play their cares and the sadness of their
exile. “Up she comes!” The banker is getting rich and the poor fellows,
stupefied, see their last sous vanishing. On some of them fortune
smiles, and if they are sensible at once go away to exchange their gains
for bread, chocolate or tobacco. Costers go round offering goods to all
who pass--this one a cloak, another puttees, another knives cleverly
made out of nails flattened between two stones, sharpened on a flint and
finished with a bit of cord for a handle. Some go so far as to sell
their rations of bread or the herring they have received, for they would
sooner go without food than tobacco. An Englishman who is barefoot tries
to sell his boots, a Moroccan his cloak, his belt and a shirt that he
has filched in the afternoon while it was drying in the sun. Some
shopmen have only a single plank, on which are exhibited the
knick-knacks made in the camp: knives, scarf-pins, post cards, shoes,
and forage-caps cut out of the military blankets that come from
Maubeuge; mandolines made from a cigar-box and strings bought in town by
a kind-hearted sentinel.
Some thousands of men wander round or lounge about. The pickpockets have
a good time and give themselves to their work with a will. You are
pushed and jostled. You meet friends on the way and stop to chat.
Some--always the same men--bring information of a sensational character,
the truth of which they vouch for. Gatherings take place, talkers raise
their voices, the crowd gather round to listen to a speech. When the
orator has finished the movement begins again, and thus it goes on till
bedtime.
* * * * *
Nailed to a post stuck in the ground a huge wooden sign announces in
artistic letters that there exists in the camp a “Café Biard. Coffee,
chocolate, at 1d.” The finger of a hand painted black shows the way.
There, behind the tents, fires are lighted, which glow in the darkness.
In their flickering light, human figures move to and fro. Approaching,
one hears a voice crying, “Coffee, chocolate, all hot, all boiling; two
sous the quarter litre at Café Biard!” The establishment has a good
name. It is there that the _élite_ in the camp meet, for the drinks are
of the finest quality and the installation is luxurious. The proprietor
exhibits with pardonable pride the four cups of coarse china which he
alone possesses. Cups in the camp! Imagine such a thing! Just think a
little what that means! The table--made of a few planks, cleverly
abstracted from those destined for the building of the sheds--is kept
very clean, and the china is plunged into water and carefully wiped each
time it has been used.
The opener of this “saloon” is making a fortune. Because of the
prosperity of his establishment he has been obliged to engage
assistants, whose duties are strictly defined. One has to keep up the
fires, another to fetch water, a third prepares the drinks in the
saucepans or cooks the food, a fourth serves the customers, while a
fifth washes the cups. The boss, a genial man, receives you kindly, so
that he has no lack of customers.
As under the Regency, it is at the coffee-house that one has rendezvous;
here one discusses the war and politics, and the meetings are of the
most animated character. It is a thoroughly French corner.
Of course there are imitators, but the “Café Biard” has not been touched
by its rivals; it remains incontestably the first of its kind.
* * * * *
Suddenly a shrill whistle is heard, more piercing than the noise of the
assembly. Others answer, men come running in, and by their cries sow
consternation and confusion in the market. “The Patrol!”
Armed German soldiers have been signalled, entering the bounds of the
camp. They approach the ground. The news spreads like wildfire, and
after a few moments of rushing, hustling and distracted flight, the
market remains under the flickering light with its long, open space,
bare, silent, clear of people. Tables, games, merchandise, sellers,
buyers and loafers, all have disappeared, with the same fairy-like
rapidity that brought them there. The prisoners find themselves huddled
together in disorder inside the neighbouring tents, where they wait
patiently till the danger is over. Some clever plunderers have turned
this moment of panic to account, and found the means to enrich
themselves at the cost of their comrades with pots of honey, jam,
packets of tobacco, etc. It is necessary for every one to live!
In step the Teuton soldiers come out from the dark on to this empty
space and are dazzled by the light of the swinging lamp. They arrive
just in time to see the heels of the last fugitives. The attack has
failed!
It is strictly forbidden to civilians to sell the least thing to the
prisoners, and as a natural result the prisoners must not sell any food
bought in Germany. All other commerce is equally forbidden. Therefore
everything found at the market has no right to be there, and must be
seized and considered as a lawful prize.
But they arrive too late, and for all the spoil they can seize, they
are obliged to content themselves with some planks left by the tradesmen
in their flight. With these under their arms the Huns make the tour of
the tents like conquerors.
Over there, however, the sellers of hot drinks have not been warned.
Peacefully they continue their commerce. Their fires, still burning,
attract the attention of the patrol. With shouts as if they were
attacking, the soldiers rush towards the fires, on which some pots are
steaming. They kick them over with their boots, seize them and burn
their fingers with the handles.
Hampered by their rifles, the ponderous Germans cannot easily give
chase, and the men run lightly away and escape. Certain merchants, the
cleverest, succeed in saving their goods. The patrol continues its
march, and the spoil is enriched by a few tins of condensed milk and
some packets of sugar, chocolate and ground coffee and pieces of wood
used for burning. Savagely obeying their destructive instincts, the
soldiers stamp out the still smoking fires with their iron-shod boots.
Groping in the darkness they have rendered more complete, they rapidly
collect in a heap the spoil that has fallen to them.
Victorious, in single file, preceded by their corporal, they advance by
a dark, narrow passage between two tents. In the darkness the sentinels
stumble over the pegs, get entangled in the stretched cords, fall, and
in their fall drop the dishes and saucepans with which they are
encumbered. From this narrow way, where it is as dark as the grave, a
tumult arises, the dull sound of falling bodies, the oaths of those who
have been thrown down, and of those they have knocked against. They are
cursed and hustled as “stupid geese,” who could not pay attention and
who hurt the others with their weapons. It is a deafening noise, and
causes indescribable joy to the prisoners huddled in the tents.
At last the little detachment has gained the lighted part. Once united,
the Huns continue their progress in silence and good order to the
guardhouse. They do not look like conquerors. Inconvenienced by the food
they carry, encumbered by kitchen utensils, embarrassed by the wood
under their arms, they walk with hanging heads and woeful faces. They
have burnt their fingers, they have floundered through puddles, in their
fall they have covered their uniforms and helmets with mud. The
condensed milk flows from the open tins, making their hands sticky,
staining their things; the saucepans leave traces of soot on their
tunics and trousers, the half-burnt wood blackens their chests and
sleeves.
Dirty, grotesque, their helmets on one side, made more ridiculous still
by the rage they feel, furious at returning without a prisoner, ashamed
and vexed like marauders caught in the act, they defile under the
mocking eyes of the prisoners, who do not hide their amusement and begin
to jest at these underlings who rob the poor.
The next day the market will drive as good a trade, the customers will
be just as numerous; the Café Biard will peacefully continue its
flourishing business.
The Huns will scarcely care to renew their escapade; they have only
gained a Pyrrhic victory.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE PILLORY]
CHAPTER VI
It was the middle of winter. The glorious dark blue sky glittering with
stars shed a soft light, such as one can see on frosty evenings even
when the moon is hidden. Not a breath! The fir-trees stood darkly in the
distance, their motionless shapes outlined against the horizon. The men
were happy to come out of doors this calm and frosty night to take deep
breaths of the life-giving air, and by rapid walking to bring their
blood to a glow. What more delightful for a captive than to walk in the
pine-scented night, under the azure sky, the contemplation of which
called up memories of the dear homeland. In the frosty air, that whipped
the blood and warmed the body, he could forget the present and turn
freely to thoughts of happy times in other years, to the joyful
Christmas Eves and the endless pleasures of the first days of January.
Talking in groups of twos or threes, or alone wrapped in thought, with
rapid steps the prisoners overtook or passed each other on the path that
surrounded the camp.
Avoiding the too-frequented way for fear of being accosted by a comrade
in search of a companion, a Frenchman, eager for solitude, walks up and
down the space in the centre of the camp. He recalls memories of happy
days, and the well-beloved faces of friends, and lives again through the
sufferings he has endured. From time to time he looks at the infinite
stars, and the thought of the free constellations of heaven calls forth
a despairing sigh; he laments lost liberty and this forced inaction.
Suddenly his attention is attracted by a silent shadow which stands
before him. It is the pillory, an instrument of torture which
civilisation has not yet been able to abolish, and which still exists in
German barracks for corporeal punishment. It is a high, solid post
firmly fixed in the ground, and surmounted by a large white board on
which a square of paper is fixed, showing the nationality, name and
fault of the delinquent and the length of his punishment. This varies
from two to twelve hours, according to the fault. In principle, two
hours of the pillory are equal to a day in prison, and the duration of
two hours must not be exceeded in a period of twenty-four hours. The
culprit has his hands fastened together behind the post; his ankles are
bound and kept immovable by a rope which fixes them to the base of the
instrument of torture; another rope is tied round his body, rendering
him incapable of a move. It is a punishment of which the intensity of
suffering is very variable, according to whether the weather is fine or
rainy, temperate or cold, according to whether the executioner has more
or less animosity against the victim or his race. However that may be,
even on a fine day, with the ropes loose and under the most favourable
conditions, to stand motionless for two hours is a painful punishment.
The faults for which prisoners are condemned are for the most part
trivial; and the punishments are so liberally given that a second post
has been put up opposite the first pillory. One man had smoked in a
tent, another had omitted to salute a German N.C.O. that he met, a third
had escaped from fatigue duty or missed a parade, a fourth was caught
carrying on an illicit trade in artificial honey, margarine or
chocolate. One, tortured by hunger, had succeeded in eluding the
vigilance of his commanding officer and had obtained a second basin of
soup; another had visited the doctor and not been recognised as ill;
still another had started some game of chance; and last of all, a man
had moved while his company was at attention. What need have I to say
more? Everything is an excuse for punishment. So punishments follow
uninterruptedly from morning till night. But this evening--or rather
night--the pillory seemed strangely large at the base. Could it be that
some one was bound there at this hour, and in such weather? The man
approaches in the darkness till he touches the unhappy comrade, who, at
six o’clock in the evening, and with the thermometer at 6° below zero,
is still fastened to the post of torture. He speaks sympathetically to
him. The other replies in low tones, furtively, as if afraid of being
heard, just a hasty word. It is a Scotsman, his accent reveals his
nationality. What does he say?
[Illustration: _Page 66._]
Luckily the Frenchman happens to be the interpreter for the English
company. He understands. Now that his eyes have grown accustomed to the
darkness, he distinguishes the kilt of the wearer, and the Scotch cap
placed on the side of his head. The interpreter asks question after
question, but the Scotsman only replies shortly, and begs his questioner
to go away, for he fears he also will get punished if found talking to
him. But the unhappy man speaks in vain, the other will not obey his
entreaties.
“Have you been here long?”
“Since two o’clock this afternoon. What time is it now?”
“It is past six. They must have forgotten you, for they have not the
right to leave you tied up for more than two hours.”
“I know. An adjutant who was passing gave the order for me not to be set
free, saying he would have me untied when he thought proper.”
“Horrible! Why?”
“Because in the crowd of soldiers who surrounded me, pretending to read
the reason of my punishment, one, out of kindness, let me have a few
puffs at his cigarette.”
“And why were you punished?”
“I was caught smoking near the tents.”
There is, in fact, within the camp a rough space between two tents,
reserved for smokers, and every man is likely to be punished who dares
to smoke outside that place, indicated in a conventional manner by four
posts stuck in the ground on which may be read in large characters
“Smoking-Room.” It reminds one of the staging of a play in the time of
Shakespeare.
“You know, the Germans don’t like us,” continues the Scotsman. “Go
away,” he says; “you will be punished if they find you here.”
“So much the worse for me. I will not leave you like this. Come what
may, I am going to untie you.”
“No, I pray you! Don’t do that, for God’s sake. They know my name, and
to-morrow I shall have a double punishment. Do go away.”
“Then I shall run to the German guardroom and intercede for you.”
“Don’t do anything, it will do no good and you yourself will run the
chance of being punished. And you know it is not good to be in the
pillory.”
While speaking, the poor man could scarcely restrain the trembling of
his voice. He shivered in spite of himself. For four hours he had been
bound to this post in the terrible cold. His hands, the circulation of
which was arrested by the cords too tightly drawn, were violet and
swollen. His feet must have been in the same state. For four hours he
had been there in the same position, motionless, his body contorted, his
limbs imprisoned by ropes that cut his swollen flesh. The minutes must
have seemed like hours of agony, but, inured to suffering, courageous,
stoical, proud, he hid his feelings and did not utter a complaint.
Motionless, on the frozen earth, he waited patiently for the end of his
torture.
The interpreter, who knew enough of the misery of these poor
British,--at the beginning of their captivity they received nothing from
home,--bent down to look at the sufferer’s boots. As he expected, they
were in shreds, and probably had no soles. Without saying a word he left
the Scotsman and went.
* * * * *
A few moments later he came back.
“Lift up your right foot. That’s right. Now the left. That’s better,
isn’t it?”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, I have only put a little piece of wood to separate you from the
ground and keep the cold from freezing your feet.”
“Ah! thank you! But you will get into trouble! If any one has seen you!”
“Well, cheer up! Good-bye for the present.” He went on towards the
office.
“No, don’t go there. I am very well now and it won’t be long before I am
released. Leave me.”
But already the Frenchman was out of earshot. He went to the office, not
many steps from there, where the light from the windows was piercing the
darkness. His indignation was great and he felt his anger rising. What!
there were men--executioners--so cruel as to order that one of their own
kind should be tied up like a packet and fastened to a post, his limbs
bound so that the normal circulation was impossible! There were men so
unworthy of the name as to make such a horrible punishment last for over
four hours in that deadly weather! And they wanted people to cease
calling them Huns and barbarians! The interpreter was so furious that he
almost knocked over a figure coming in the opposite direction. In a
moment he perceived him. It was a German, an adjutant. His anger was so
great that he forgot to salute. He found himself face to face with the
adjutant who had the worst reputation among the French, and yet the hate
that this man had for the French was like “sweet milk” in comparison
with the hatred he nourished for the English. Without preamble the
interpreter accosts this churlish man.
“Adjutant, I wish to bring to your notice a case of gross neglect. It is
six o’clock; it is 6° or 7° below zero and a man is still tied to the
pillory.”
With a smile the jailer replied in a light mocking tone:
“I know; it is an Englishman. And it is by my orders he is there.”
“Impossible! You have never given such a barbarous order, to have a man
tied up for four hours in this cold weather. They have not understood
you, and, moreover, I am convinced that your rules--inhuman and
incomprehensible as they seem to us--do not authorise----”
“Hold your tongue! You forget that you are a prisoner; you have not the
right to speak to me like that.”
“I think it is my duty to let you know that a man is being tortured more
than your rules allow, and I thought to spare your conscience the
remorse of homicide ... through forgetfulness.”
“A man! Come! It is an Englishman! What interest have you in defending
an Englishman? It is only an Englishman!”
“I know, but he is, nevertheless, a man. He suffers as we do, even more
than we French do, since the lot that you reserve for them is more
painful than ours.”
“The English are pigs!”
“Allow me to tell you that I have many good friends among them, and a
long stay in England has enabled me to know that one meets among them
certainly less of those animals than in another country I am acquainted
with.”
“What! You insult me! You call the Germans pigs! Very well; you shall
come with me to the lieutenant.”
“One moment! you mistake me. I did not say---- But, after all, let us go
and see the lieutenant. Perhaps he still has a little human feeling.”
There was a short distance yet to go to the office of the lieutenant who
commanded the camp. The interpreter, although shocked by the sight of
such barbarity as he had witnessed, and excited by this lively
discussion with the Boche adjutant, had nevertheless kept cool and knew
quite well that he had got himself into a bad scrape. Already he saw a
war-council sitting and judgment given; the door of the prison that
would open to admit him, and especially--even before the meeting of the
war-council--the long days of detention in a dark, dirty, icy cell,
badly ventilated, where solitude and privation would wreck his nerves.
Well, so much the worse for him; he would go on to the end. His case was
serious, he had no doubt about it; and the adjutant, wounded in his
dignity, would demand the full penalty. Already proud of his prize the
German was enjoying in advance the sufferings of his captive; he smiled
to himself, and his little grey-blue eyes, sunk in fat, glittered
wickedly.
They arrived in front of the wooden shed which constituted the office.
The adjutant was just going to knock at the door when it opened. A
brilliant light flooded the ground and dazzled those who were outside.
In the centre of this brightness a massive form appeared. It was the
lieutenant, about to hurry home.
The adjutant immediately recognised him, drew himself up smartly as if
he were worked by a spring, brought his heels noisily together and stood
at attention in a faultless manner, bringing his right hand to the peak
of his cap and bending his whole body obsequiously forward. The
Frenchman had quickly saluted and advanced in front of the adjutant,
who, silent and deferential, waited for his superior to speak to him
first.
Without letting the lieutenant have the time to question his inferior,
the Frenchman, whose coolness amazed the Boche, had spoken to the
commander of the camp and explained what he had at heart.
By error, assuredly, an Englishman had remained for four hours tied to
the pillory. It was freezing hard, and the unhappy man would surely
receive his death-blow. He must have been forgotten; but as German
discipline was well known, nobody, not even the adjutant who was
present--whom he indicated with his hand--nobody had thought it proper
to take upon himself to set free this man, who was undergoing a
punishment inflicted by the orders of the General. It was, however,
evident that a word from the lieutenant would be sufficient to rectify
the mistake, and hinder the punishment being prolonged; for it would be
regrettable if, by excess of discipline and a too literal respect for
the orders given, a man should be forced to suffer excess of torture,
which to all appearance no one wished to inflict on him.
The officer listened without saying a word. The adjutant was raging, and
would have annihilated the Frenchman if his glance had possessed the
power. He bowed respectfully every time the officer looked his way,
burning with impatience to say a word to change the state of affairs.
The darkness, which prevented the lieutenant from seeing the adjutant’s
anguished expression, saved the situation. The commander of the camp no
doubt thought that the N.C.O. came to present the interpreter and
support his request.
The weather was cold, the hour late and the lieutenant wanted to get
home; perhaps at the end of the day, when he was going to see his wife
and children, he felt a little kinder-hearted, and so it was that,
cracking his whip, he went off saying: “Schneider, see that this man is
set free.” Heels clacked together, and the two men saluted the departing
officer. In the darkness they stared at each other, not daring to give
expression to their feelings. One of them would have liked to show his
joy and relief, but he was a prisoner; the other, by a rude blow with
the butt-end of the musket, would have loved to show the Frenchman that
one dared not mock at a Prussian with impunity. But the law stood
there, rigid and menacing. Sulky, calling down imprecations on himself,
swearing at the lieutenant, the Frenchman and the Englishman, the French
and the English, all the Allies in general and all his superiors, the
German made sign to the interpreter to follow him. They went towards the
pillory. “Undo this man.” But the Frenchman wanted his victory to be
complete, and the humiliation of the Boche to know no limit. He tried
feebly to undo the knots; he did not succeed.
“You have tied them too tightly,” he said to the Teuton, “and my hands
are frozen with the cold; I cannot undo them.”
“Come, try again. You must untie this man. You wished to do it.”
“All right!” The interpreter took his knife from his pocket and began to
cut the almost new rope, when the German, swearing, stopped him.
Then one might have seen a sight, the contemplation of which would have
been sweet to every prisoner. In the black night a German adjutant
undoing with his own hands and by the orders of a superior officer the
bonds of a hated Englishman, whom he would have liked to see perish with
pain and cold, and this under the contemptuous eyes of a Frenchman whom
he had hoped to summon before a war-council, and to send to shiver on
the straw of a cell.
The work finished, the Boche, full of rage and shame, rolled up the
rope. Then he went away, and the dark, frosty night swallowed him up.
The unhappy Scotsman, worn out and frozen, could scarcely stand. The
pains caused by the returning circulation were intolerable. The
interpreter offered him the help of his arm and insisted on accompanying
him to his tent.
Both were astonished and delighted at the happy end to this adventure,
which might have been tragic. Phlegmatic, the Scotsman seemed already to
have forgotten his sufferings. At the door of his tent he shook hands
heartily with the interpreter, assuring him of his gratitude, and
offered him a woodbine, concluding with the words, “All’s well that ends
well.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: REVENGE ON BRITISH SOLDIERS]
CHAPTER VII
Night spreads over the camp, not a star is to be seen in the sky;
gloomy, lugubrious, heavy darkness envelops it, rendered still more
dismal by the rain, which, fine as a mist, falls fast and silently,
penetrating our shabby garments.
It is nearly nine o’clock. Silence reigns, broken occasionally by the
howling of the wind. The tents--which the Germans had not yet taken the
trouble to light up--formed an indistinct blot on the darkness, their
existence revealed only by the flapping of the canvas shaken by the
gusts of a cold and bitter breeze. Some of the tents, lit by a few
candles which the prisoners had succeeded in procuring outside the camp,
with their dim, hazy outlines, gave relief to the gloomy night, which
appeared to suffer from the misery she was hiding. The lights will waver
here and there for some time, and then one by one will disappear when
the bugle has sounded the dismal notes of the “Curfew,” which sends a
shiver through the soul and starts the dogs howling. Till then the
occupants of the tents still out of bed assemble around the feeble
glimmer which, twinkling and lost in the shadows of the big place, gives
light to about thirty men grouped in a circle about it. Some are playing
cards, some writing diaries or reading over again the letter of a loved
one, a letter received perhaps a fortnight ago. Others again are
polishing rings or carving wood or simply thinking of past happiness--of
the joys of the family, or of a good table, or the comfort of an
arm-chair in one’s study, club or café. But perhaps this poor light
suggests mournful memories, evokes only the picture of tapers burning at
the four corners of a bier in which some beloved being is enclosed.
From time to time the flame flickers and, almost extinguishing the
cotton wick, plunges the tent into semi-obscurity, giving the shadows
more gigantic proportions. It is because some one has just opened the
door, and an icy wind rushes in and chills every one in its way.
Brr--brrr. It is not good to be outside. This rain penetrates and
freezes one in the twinkling of an eye. The last prisoners, loitering to
talk with their comrades in the neighbouring tents, come in one by one,
and rejoice to find themselves under shelter, for he must be insane who
remains outside in such weather.
Nine o’clock! We hear the discordant notes of the bugle. Blow out the
candles, the patrol is passing. Every one creeps shivering under his
blankets; the mattresses seem soft! How good it is to escape such
weather. A feeling of pity goes forth to those who are obliged to pass
the night outside, on the roads or in the trenches.
Silence and darkness envelop the camp, bringing sadness and repose.
Over yonder, however, a lamp is still burning; it appears to hurl
defiance at all rules! Oh! don’t be afraid; no one would risk being sent
to the pillory, for no one would dare to transgress orders in such a
manner. This lamp, which is the only one burning in the camp, belongs to
the kitchen, where the work is not finished. The cooks, tired by a long
and hard day’s labour, sigh for the rest their comrades are already
enjoying, and hasten as speedily as possible to finish their task. One
can see their hurrying shadows flitting to and fro.
Near the kitchen, in a particularly dark spot, about thirty men are
herded. They have been there almost a couple of hours, pressed one
against the other and shivering in the rain which soaks them to the
skin. Silently and feverishly they knock off from their numbed and
badly-shod feet the black liquid mud with which they splash each other;
they are spattered right to their knees, and the legs of their
trousers--stiff as if starched--rub the flesh till the blood comes. The
smoking lantern suspended from the ceiling of the kitchen and swinging
in the wind, from time to time, seemingly with regret, throws a yellow,
fleeting light on this still crowd. Here the khaki uniform predominates.
Here they are, those fine English soldiers, whose superb carriage,
exquisite cleanliness, bold warlike air and powerful muscles, excited
the admiration of the crowds at Havre and Rouen. Here they are, poor
beggars, without shirts, their jerseys in rags, their trousers in
holes, jagged, torn and thin as a spider’s web, their worn shoes down at
heel, letting in water on all sides. Their faces, once clean-shaven,
fresh and smiling, now emaciated, wan and dirty, are covered with rough,
bristling hair; their cheek-bones protrude, their eyes are hollow and
haggard. They were accustomed to substantial and abundant food. A quart
of hot, greasy water, wherein the vegetables are few and the meat
absent, now composes their “Menu,” and replaces the half-pound of beef,
potatoes, cabbage and pudding of former days. They were accustomed to a
bath every day, to frequent change of linen, to careful shaving. Here
they are without soap, towels or change of linen, having no razor and
often deprived of water. They let them die of hunger, rot in their dirt,
overrun by parasites, and subject them to the most repugnant and
terrible drudgery. On them the Teuton revenges the help given to France
by their country and the supremacy of their flag upon the sea.
There are men of all sizes among them: giants whose shoulders are bowed
with misery, beardless youths with the bearing of Ephebus, veterans
wearing on their breasts the ribbons of the Transvaal.
Men are there thin enough to frighten. With caps pulled down over their
eyes, hands in their pockets, their shoulders bent under the soaking
rain, they stamped the ground with their broken shoes, without uttering
a word. From time to time there is a slight bustle, a little
altercation; it is a soldier who tries to creep forward and get a
better place, and who is put back quickly and by brute force to the left
of the column.
The English know how to be calm and patient while waiting for anything,
but once they are roused nothing stops them.
In silence these men wait patiently. What do they want? What dark
conspiracy are they hatching in the shadows with the help of the silence
of night. Who will be the victim of this horde of half-starved wretches
in rags, despairing and ashamed.
They wait.
Suddenly a ray of light flashes abruptly into the trembling darkness,
betraying the opening of a door. “Here they are.”
Muscles harden under the ragged garments, chests swell, bodies are
poised ready. A formidable, savage struggle, accompanied by a hoarse
roar, transforms the peaceful and silent crowd into a threatening
hurricane, from which soon cries and oaths arise.
The light, swinging backwards and forwards, shows for a second angular
profiles, criminal faces, stamped with ferocious brutality, twitching
hands, and arms knotted and tattooed. Sinister sight!
The noise increases; they push; some struggle to advance; others to draw
back. Helmets are flying; the uproar and the cries destroy the peace of
the night. They come to blows, fists fall at random in the gloom with a
dull sound. The fight becomes furious. It is a battle of demons in a
hell deprived of light.
Those nearest the kitchen stoop, making wild and savage gestures; they
seem to want to finish an invisible enemy already brought down, and it
is with exclamations of joy and triumph and glee that they add their
voices to the cries of their comrades, who, from behind, catching on to
anything they can, try to force themselves forward and throw themselves
on the long-awaited victim. From time to time one hears the groans of
some man in pain, whose hand is being crushed under the nailed boots of
those who are advancing without looking where they are going.
The uproar causes the sentry on guard at the kitchen to appear, armed,
ferocious, yelling, gesticulating, sweeping them before him here, there,
everywhere, with blows from the butt of his rifle and kicks from his
heavy boots, bestowed with so praiseworthy a generosity that it
approaches prodigality. They do not give to his entrance on the scene
the importance it demands. His blows are added to the blows already
given, his cries to those already uttered, and only serve to increase
the tumult and uproar. The men who have been hit remain there insensible
and angry, with clenched hands and staring eyes full of violent
purposes. They remind one of ferocious dogs who have sprung on one
another, and that nothing can separate.
A few succeed in getting out of the arena, and disappear noiselessly in
the darkness, creeping along by the tents like night thieves; and the
lantern swinging from the rafters of the kitchen, seemingly ashamed of
showing up such poor wretches, spares them the indignity of revealing
their incognito, and swings backwards and forwards in such a manner as
to deprive them of its smoking light.
At last the cries die out, the movement becomes less intense. Silently
they go away one by one, till only the sentinel remains. His shouting
ceases; breathless but victorious he marches over the conquered ground.
“The combat is over for want of combatants.” The last prisoner to slip
away is a wretched young Englishman in rags. In his hands, covered with
blood and mud, he is carefully carrying his cap upside down. Arriving
opposite the kitchen he stops in the light, and from the greasy pocket
of his ragged trousers he draws out a handful of white sticky stuff
which he puts into his headgear. Slowly in this manner he empties both
his pockets. One can see his poor features, stamped with suffering,
suddenly light up at the contemplation of the contents of his cap; he is
smiling at his theft. Poor devil; hunger cries with an imperious voice,
and behold, our young Englishman fills his mouth with handfuls of the
slimy, sticky stuff that has just been in the mud, then in his greasy
pockets and smirched hands, and lastly in his cap shiny with dirt.
In spite of the fatigue of a day’s drudgery, in spite of the terrible
weather, risking the rudeness and blows of those stronger and more
hungry than himself, he has remained there patiently for two hours,
waiting for the cooks to come and throw away into a tub the remains of
the cod soup which was left in the saucepans. That poor English youth
is happy to be able to eat those salty and disgusting remains, composed
for the greater part of the bones, skin and eyes of the codfish, which
he has had the privilege of picking up under the blows of a Prussian
soldier, and is now greedily eating.
Satisfied, he returns to his mattress. To-morrow he will be happy to
find under his straw, dirty and full of parasites, at the bottom of his
greasy cap, the remains of to-day’s feast.
Every evening, at the time when their comrades are resting, these
starving men go to the same place! Every evening a similar distressing
scene is enacted.
Sometimes the sentinel on duty laughs and lets them take what they can
get. How good it is to see one’s enemies suffer from hunger, when one
feels the gentle pressure of a tunic over a well-filled stomach.
Brutes! The darkness has too long hidden your wickedness; your time is
coming! Strike those who are dying of hunger, laugh at those who are
struggling not to fall from exhaustion! The hour of your punishment has
struck!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CENTRAL HEATING]
CHAPTER VIII
Slowly but with terrible certainty the work of encircling us went on day
by day. A month ago we had seen experts wandering round the barbed-wire
fence which enclosed us. Then the surveyors had followed, and here and
there, at regular intervals, had dug up spadefuls of earth. A certain
inactivity followed, which, in spite of every experience, raised a faint
hope in the heart of the prisoners.
But when some of our comrades appeared in the camp carrying pickaxes and
spades, hope vanished.
Slowly, very slowly, as if to show their regret, the squad went to the
first landmark. There they halted, and the tools were thrown on the
ground. The sentinels, dressed in brown overcoats, ornamented at the
collar by a black number on a red background, stood with their guns
slung on their shoulders, and shivered as they filled their pipes.
Already those who were curious hurried up, and, recognising some of
their comrades amongst the workers, began to talk to them, in spite of
the sentinels who, from fear of disturbances, kept the two groups
apart. From one side and the other exclamations burst forth. To show
their sympathy for their comrades forced to work, some teasingly
congratulated them on the haste they had shown to go and work for the
Boches. The others described their efforts to get out of the group of
able-bodied men, their various adventures and finally their capture. In
any case they assured their questioners of their firm determination not
to outrival the German workman! The gaiety, the vivacity and the wit of
these men were in striking contrast to the heaviness and sour looks of
the guard. Then the idlers asked for “tips,” but even the workmen who
knew the most could tell them nothing; they only knew one thing, that
which brute force taught them--they had got to do the work. But all of
them shook their heads sadly, as if to say: “It’s a bad job.” Nobody
indeed was ignorant of the object of this work, for it had been long
talked about. Some weeks before an interpreter had got wind of it, and
the news that he brought back spread through the camp like wildfire. At
first all cried out at such an invention, for good sense and humanity
revolted against it, and maintained it was impossible. Electricians
amongst us discussed it, and could not believe in it--it was
impracticable. To begin with, the installation would cost too much, and
then it would be a crime to leave at hand a constant danger of death.
The Germans were brutes, it was well known, but even they would never
dare to encircle their prisoners by a current of 5000 volts. The rumour
was, unfortunately, true.
Only the evening before, a well-known man in the French colony had
somewhat reassured the timorous by his learned arguments, and now the
nightmare had become reality. The jailers, jealous of their sandy soil,
begrudged a few feet to our prisoners, already cramped in a place whose
narrow limits were terribly oppressive. All round the perimeter the
Germans were going to cut off three or four metres to make an impassable
barrier; inside a double enclosure of barbed wire they were going to
install a third line of electrified wire which would ensure death to any
one touching it. Everybody lamented the loss of this narrow run of
earth, which was the promenade, the boulevard, the forum. There we
walked as far as possible to the outside of the camp, our eyes turned
towards the neighbouring forest, into which we gazed longingly, and the
sight of which enabled some of us to enjoy the illusion of liberty. The
eyes which turned from the hideous tents, where we lived crowded
together, lit up sometimes with a brighter glance at the happy
remembrance of a walk with our dear ones in a similar forest far away.
This illusion, this shadowy remembrance, was to be taken from us! We had
been able until now, by approaching near enough, to overlook one
barrier, but the presence of three lines of barbed wire between us and
the forest would destroy its lure, and increase the weight of our chains
and the misery of our captivity.
It was on this promenade surrounding the camp that we met in the morning
when work did not claim us. It was there that we walked, to and fro
chatting with friends about the probable length of the war and our
chances of victory. Optimistic speakers, in discourses backed by
irrefutable arguments, with well-founded reasonings, succeeded in
keeping up hope in the hearts of the discouraged. There it was, that at
the end of the day, when it began to get dark, we assembled, and in low
voices, like conspirators, commented on the news contained in our
letters from France, made out like so many puzzles from ambiguous
sentences, and the news learnt from the men who worked outside the camp.
And last of all, in the evening, before fires were put out, when the
greater number of us had gone to seek forgetfulness in sleep, came those
who sought for a moment’s solitude, to calm the anguish which tortured
the soul. We kept our gaiety for our comrades during the day; but in the
evening we could, without being cowardly, give ourselves up to the
discouragement that overwhelmed us. And again it was there that we came
to mourn for those who had fallen. We ground our teeth in thinking of
the crimes of the Hun and our powerlessness at not being able to go to
the help of the oppressed or the avenging of the dead.
These few feet of sand were sanctified to us by the noble feelings that
we had had there. They belonged to us, they formed our temple. It was a
sacrilege to deprive us of them.
To those who had planned flight, this work was the ruin of their hopes,
and each blow of the pickaxe sounded as the last turn of the key by an
unfeeling jailer to him condemned to die. Never had the men been a prey
to such agony as they now felt, for before hope had sustained them; now
the last chance of escape was gone.
There were other prisoners who, with sad eyes and looks of gloom,
watched anxiously the preparations. Our poor humanity is not exclusively
composed of dreamers and visionary lovers of liberty; it includes
practical people who enjoy bodily comforts, and when they cannot enjoy
the hot rays of the sun, like to warm their numbed limbs at a flaming
fire. For them the electric barrier meant simply a lack of fuel.
Once this barrier was finished they would no longer be permitted to
approach the enclosure and drag in, between the barbed wire, the dead
branches which the kindly fir-trees shed each day. And the winter was
here, each hour grew colder; the future might well look gloomy to those
poor devils, who were clothed in a ragged shirt with trousers and coat
in pitiable condition, reduced to finding in a litre of hot water, drunk
twice a day, the amount of heat necessary, according to the German
staff, to keep their emaciated bodies in health.
Everywhere consternation reigned, and despair. It was in vain for their
kind and more clever comrades to talk about the fun they would have in
playing tricks on the Boches. Nothing was more easy, said they, than to
throw a simple bit of barbed wire, which would hook on to the
electrified fence, and by its contact with the earth establish a short
circuit. In vain our orators talked about the trouble that that would
cause the Germans, the exploded leads, the painful searching
[Illustration: _Page 88._]
all along the line, the momentary interruption of the current and the
expense that would follow. One optimist held forth that he saw in this
development an excellent sign, an indication of undeniable weakness in
the German Army. Its losses had been such that already they were short
of men. The electric installation would permit them to spare 50 per
cent. of the sentinels. Moreover, the information lately received backed
up his theory. Had not one of the sentinels just told them that he was
going off that evening for the Russian front? Perhaps also they feared
the rising of the French prisoners, when they heard the thundering of
their friends--the 75’s--in the far distance. And these times were near!
In any case they must conclude from it that our arms were successful and
“Gaudeamus igitur.” But these speeches were of no use. With all their
subtleties what could they do against the brutality of visible realities
and palpable facts? They were going to be encircled. So one of us
regretted the beauty of the forest, another his liberty that vanished
just when he hoped to regain it, a third the comforting fire which was
to take the place of a meal and warm clothes.
To the last speaker a wag replied: “But, my dear fellow, you won’t be
cold. It is to warm us that the Boches have installed this apparatus.
They are blockaded by the Allied fleets and have no coal. Electricity,
you know, can be produced by waterfalls; that will cost the Boches
nothing. You see! Throughout the camp there will be warmth. The days
will come when we shall be too hot, you will be obliged to leave off
your overcoat. Then just see how practical these Boches are! They place
at a certain distance from these electrified wires a kind of barrier. It
is the drying ground. On these lines we shall hang our linen. They say
that electric heat kills the eggs of parasites. You see how fine it will
be. In the morning you can also toast your K. bread or your herring by
holding it at the end of a stick. Just consider a little how great are
the advantages of the installation. This fence that they are making
round the camp may be called an ‘Outside Central Heating Apparatus.’”
It was indeed all very fine, but the simple doubted, and, in any case,
preferred the flames which scorched their bodies and in which they saw
pictures of home.
* * * * *
Exclamations were heard. We distinguished the words “Los,” “Weg,” and
“Arbeiten.” We saw the imperious gestures, and the workmen having picked
up spades and pickaxes, went slowly towards the marked-out holes. The
tools were lifted painfully, with a fine sweep of the arm. They struck
the earth without energy. But numbers prevailed in spite of goodwill,
and the nothing done by each nevertheless came to something by the end
of the day.
The next day and during many days the men laboured. The holes were deep
and the posts solid enough to resist anything.
But here we must do justice to our fellows; they attacked their task
with a most praiseworthy moderation. One might have thought that, like
the Trappist’s fathers, the prisoners were digging their own graves, for
their ardour was such as would have made a road-maker of Paris turn pale
with scorn.
The day dawned at last when, all round the camp, stakes two metres high
stood white, shining and aggressive against the dark trunks of the
sweet-smelling firs so soothing with their beauty. The electricians,
recruited from our professionals, were told to lay the wires which were
to surround and support the electrified fencing. Pataud counselling a
strike was never more listened to, never more obeyed, than were our
friends who encouraged the engineers to waste time. For a long while one
might have thought that the installation would never be finished, and
again the hope sprang that peace would find this barbarity still in its
first stage.
But one fine day to our horror we saw the ends of the wire being joined.
The circuit was complete, the prison was shut for ever.
For one moment there was consternation amongst the wood-gatherers. They
could no longer get near the firs, and all stood there, with mouths
open, like sleepers rudely awakened from their dreams.
Then, as in all difficult circumstances, in the time of need a man was
found, “the man of the hour,” Claude, a timid collector of twigs, a man
so shy that he only dared to warm one hand at a time, rose up and showed
what was hidden in his heart.
Inspired by a flash of genius, and helped by an indomitable will, he
prepared to act. With an authority never suspected till now, he grouped
around him some of those who only yesterday had pushed him on one side
and looked at him disdainfully when he asked for a little of the heat
for his frozen limbs--heat that was in principle for all, but in fact
was the right of the strongest. One scarcely knew anything of him. All
day long he used to go searching for wood, and it was only towards
evening that he came with his load. And his load was always the
heaviest; it was a sort of insult and reproach to those who stayed all
day in the best places and warmed themselves with the wood that their
comrades had gathered. It was a little too strong for this small puny
man to want to teach them a lesson. The strong are made thus! They
cherish an unutterable contempt for those who serve them, and a
sovereign disdain for those who, out of love, become their slaves.
Well, Claude put himself at the head of a handful of men, who followed
him meekly. Like a captain sure of victory he led the phalanx. Near a
shed he stopped and leaned down under a window.
For one instant he sought for a mark, then he began to dig a hole in the
sand with his hands. Soon something glittered. With a glance round,
Claude made sure that his associates kept good watch, then he
triumphantly exhibited a small hand-saw in a perfect state. This
tool--between us, be it said--had been looked for by the Germans some
days before, as they were hastening to finish the huts. However, an
earnest and clamorous search by the authorities had brought no
information as to the lost tool. Only one man could have cleared up the
mystery, and he had determined to keep silent.
With, the saw in his hand, and escorted by his bodyguard, the leader
continued his march. They halted near one of the new boundary posts, and
Claude who, from his serious air, might have been a field-marshal at
least, took a folding measure from his pocket. The importance of his
mission gave him added stature. He no longer resembled the suppliant of
yesterday begging for a corner near the fire. With skilled hands he
measured the part of the post above the electric wire. As he was on the
point of making a mark immediately above the isolators, he stopped and
murmured something about “making a good job of it,” and made the groove
five centimetres higher. “Five from twenty-five,” he murmured, “leaves
twenty.”
Some passing German officers stopped to watch the men at work,
astonished and at the same time pleased at seeing our soldiers diligent
and serious, not at all their usual behaviour.
For a long time Claude measured, for a long time the saw worked, and one
by one the tops of the posts fell. These twenty centimetres of strong
post would certainly make a splendid log, so the men worked as hard as
possible, one sawing, another carrying. Depots of firewood were
organised, and till the evening they worked without stopping, hoarding
the precious logs, which after all were fully equal to dead branches.
It was only the next morning, when the foreman of the work arrived, that
the deed was discovered.
There was a fearful row. The fires were immediately put out by order and
the ashes scattered to the four winds. For several days a strict guard
prevented attempts to relight them. But soon the watch became relaxed,
and the sentinels, tired of pursuing abortive fires, ceased to go their
rounds. It was not long before the natural result followed and the
sparks of the first new fire were flying upwards. The logs were dug up
as they were wanted and gave our comrades pleasant warmth and a feeling
of well-being, of which for some time they had been deprived. They were
once again able to make hot drinks. The joy they felt in having “done”
their jailers added to the pleasure they felt in being able to warm
themselves.
When the sentinels were questioned on the subject they confessed to
having seen everything, but having noticed the apparent regularity and
good order of the men, they had not been suspicious, and confined
themselves to admiring the sense of economy which imbued all the
enterprises of their Kolossal administration. In their inmost hearts
they had doubtless chanted “Te Deum Laudamus” to the glory of their
omnipotent Kaiser, who knows and foresees everything.
This act of indiscipline on the part of the French was incomprehensible
to the German mind. They could not imagine another reasoning otherwise
than they did: “One must never do anything without an order, and if one
does something, then it must be because one has received an order;
moreover, the order can only come from a superior, who in every case is
right.” Therefore, if some one does something, it is well. But they are
too dull to realise that German logic is not universal logic and far
less French logic.
* * * * *
Once again our soldier-prisoners had gained a victory over their
thick-skinned guardians.
And that is how the encircling heating apparatus became central heating!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE WHEELBARROWS]
CHAPTER IX
It is a wet winter morning at about 6.30. The huts are deserted. The
men, led by the sergeants of their companies, have gone to the kitchens
and await the distribution of their “half-pints.”
Carrying a bucket from which rises a thin column of steam, two prisoners
come back from the boilers. Their appearance is signalled to the
impatient crowd. At last!
The black drink for which the prisoners long is called coffee, an
hygienic beverage made of an infusion of roasted barley. It is drunk
without sugar and constitutes the whole of the meal, “Frühstuck”
(breakfast). It is with the utmost trouble that the N.C.O’s can keep in
their places these frozen, impatient men. The distribution begins. Each
man passes between two sergeants, who count and recognise those in their
company. The ration is exactly measured, and the intrusion of soldiers
belonging to another company, or an attempt to secure a second portion
by those who are not satisfied, is frustrated. It is not that the
beverage is agreeable to the taste or that those who take it are
greedy, but it has the advantage of being boiling, and the heat it
communicates lessens the early morning cold and relieves the parched
throats. Few of the prisoners possess a drinking vessel. Some by ruse
have succeeded in keeping the bowl in which the evening before they
received their soup. Two hundred and fifty men are present, some with a
half-pint measure, others with a bowl; one has a preserved meat tin,
another a jam jar; these receptacles are exchanged and pass from hand to
hand. Two hundred and fifty times the distributing sergeant has plunged
his measure into the bucket, which now seems empty. Disappointment
appears on the faces of those who hope to obtain an extra drop. Thus
ends the first meal!
Now we must parade for the roll-call. Under a fine and penetrating rain,
which soaks and makes us shiver from head to foot, with a cutting wind
entering through the holes of our ragged clothing with a keenness which
makes our eyes water, the assembly takes place.
The companies are deployed in lines of five rows, each before its hut.
Everybody, even the sick, must be present.
It is now scarcely seven o’clock. The French sergeant on duty counts his
men; the head of the company, an adjutant, does the same; then an
“Achtung” resounds in the greyness of the morning--it is a German
non-commissioned officer, come to verify the numbers. They are not
right; each counts again. But they never agree. They count, they verify
line by line, they recount, all to no purpose. Some men are missing. It
is never-ending! Quick! At the suggestion of a German, they borrow from
a company on the left the number of men necessary to complete the
effective force. It is the only way to shorten the ceremony.
At last “Es stimmt.” All present. The Boche is pleased with himself. The
French always make mistakes. He alone knows how to count. “Ruhe euch!”
(At ease). While the German authority turns his back the men from the
left run back to their own company.
This trick is played every day and as often as there is roll-call. One
must not indeed try to reason, to show that the number given by the
officer is not exact. The idea of criticising the orders and the numbers
of the higher command has never entered, or ever will enter the skull of
a German. Even if he does not understand them, he still will use his
efforts to make the given orders respected. Even if he is willing to
listen to you, if he knows how to reason, if he follows your argument
and agrees with your opinion, he will none the less remain obstinately
true to the error; for it is not his, it comes from his superiors, and
the fact of its coming from a superior makes it no longer an error; it
is the Truth, that one must accept and cause to be respected. So there
is nothing to be done! The company counts as its effective force two
hundred and fifty men; it is put on paper and the head of the Boches’
company believes he sees the full number in the ranks; they are his
“Stück,” they have been confided to him, he wishes to have them
numbered, before accounting for them as “alles da”!
The men stand at ease, but the inspection is not yet finished. The
French stamp their feet in mud indescribable; each moment becomes more
liquid as the stamping and the falling rain continue. The unfortunate
men who have colds, cough enough to make one’s heart break. Those who
are ill, those who are wounded, even those who have lost limbs, are kept
there standing in the pouring rain. What for? The orders for fatigue
duty for the day. At last these arrive.
At the approach of an officer every one immediately gets back to his
place and stands at attention.
An interpreter accompanies the officer and transmits his orders to the
chief of the company. The number of men to be furnished by each company
is fixed. The turns of fatigue duty are decided beforehand, and the
prisoners, called by name, go in fours, and form column at some distance
from the parade ground, where they are immediately surrounded by Boche
sentinels.
Thus the general fatigue work is arranged. The men are then counted.
This done, the sentinels bestir themselves and raise their hoarse
voices, crying, “Pâquâtrre” (Par quatre). At last the men start off at
the command “Los-march!” (March). Slowly the long line, flanked by
Boches in yellow cloaks, makes its way towards the exit of the camp.
Then, and then only, may the invalids, the men exempted from service and
those who are free, break ranks and seek shelter in the huts. There
they shiver in the dripping garments that they cannot dry, as they have
no others to change into.
* * * * *
In the mud through which they paddle and with which at every step they
are splashed, our prisoners continue their route. From time to time one
or other is obliged to stop and draw out a sabot from the cold, black
mud.
Poor compatriots, sad survivors of a glorious army. Look at them
marching with bent heads through the soaking rain. Most of them have
tied rags round their necks to protect them from the drops that fall
from their caps. A few--and these are indeed happy--have succeeded in
keeping their military clothes in fairly good state. Their great
overcoats can still protect them. Many are dressed in gay-coloured
Belgian coats, reminding one of the Opéra-Comique--short jackets which
come a little below the waist. A few of the more privileged have
received from the German administration civilian overcoats of a very
inferior quality, ornamented the length of the back with a green and
yellow or red and green band, to distinguish the interned from the
civilians, and to betray them in case of escape. The knitted helmets,
due to the generosity of a Swiss society, are worn by many to replace
the ordinary cap. The trousers are generally the worst part of the
outfit. If certain kinds of patching show ingenuity, at the same time
they reduce the material. One man has cut off the end of his trousers to
mend a weak place in another part, another has put on a patch with a
piece of linen. You might fancy you were in “la cour des miracles.”
Shoes are rare; sabots, granted by the Germans only to those capable of
working, are the kind of footwear that one sees the most. A few wear
khaki puttees bought for a few sous from a poor Englishman. Others have
pieces of linen or rags, which indifferently protect the calves of their
wearers, obliged to remain long hours exposed to the rigours of the
weather.
Until fatigue duty is over--that is to say, till about four o’clock--the
men will work out of doors without stopping, and till their return to
camp an hour later they will only have had for food the single drink of
coffee taken at réveillé. Thus these unfortunates remain from six
o’clock the evening before till five o’clock the next day without a bite
of solid food--twenty-three hours at a stretch without eating. On their
return to camp they swallow, one after the other, at an hour’s interval,
the broth of midday and the evening soup.
This diet, is it not enough to ruin the strongest digestion!
Often blinded by the icy rain, which cuts their faces, the workers go
away slowly like a troop of sheep led to the slaughter. They are silent.
As for the Huns, they don’t say a word. With long green porcelain pipes
between their lips, their heads covered by their cloaks, they only think
of one thing, and that is to protect their rifles, hidden under their
mackintoshes, from rust. The heavy silence is, however, troubled, as
with a sort of moan; it is the rubbing together of soaked trousers, it
is the sound of the sabots splashing through the puddles. From time to
time a man plunges to his ankles in a rut, or a hole full of water, and
lets forth an oath, which finds no echo. Every man remains isolated,
lives within himself. No one wishes to confide his sadness, his
weariness, his despair to a neighbour. Amongst these men who pass like a
procession of ghosts is there one who feels assured about the fate of
his family, is there one who does not curse his enforced separation from
those he loves, or one who can satisfy his hunger every day, and
preserve intact his constancy and strength of mind amid such adversity?
Who, even among the most debased, has been able to become used to this
brutalising life? Who has not suffered in his self-respect, or has
not--for a moment at least--felt degraded, when he has seen himself,
with his companions, herded like cattle, put in a cage like a wild beast
and fed worse even than they? Who of them will ever speak of the
physical, and above all the mental, sufferings of our prisoners, their
bitter reflections, their blasphemies, their deep despair, their hatred
of life? On their return to France they will wish to get rid of such
remembrances, as one washes oneself from a stain.
Thus they go on, their heads bent, their hearts full of bitterness.
Suddenly the first ranks stop short, and the rear not being warned are
thrown against them. The guards have made a sign. The four kilometres to
the destination are covered.
The fatigue party, consisting of from seven hundred to eight hundred
men, has to level a vast space of sandy soil. It is the site for a camp,
the plans of which are already drawn, to which the new recruits of the
next class will come to be mobilised.
They will be better off than in barracks. The position--an immense
clearing in the centre of a pine-forest--is healthy. Nothing will be
wanting: there is abundance of water, electric light will be installed,
large windows will give light and air to the huts, the roofs will be
thick and the walls made of bricks lined with wood.
Later, when the camp is on the point of being finished, the General who
commands the district will let neutral notabilities and journalists
visit it, and will present it to them as the future residence of those
poor French prisoners over which Germany watches with a mother’s love.
And these notabilities and these reporters, who in a motor have covered
the distance so painfully trodden by our compatriots, who have visited
the camp where one finds every modern comfort, will go back befooled by
the obsequious Germans, and in good faith will relate to their
countrymen how royally the French prisoners are treated in Germany.
The prisoners stop for several minutes motionless in the rain which a
bitter east wind brings; the men scarcely warmed by the march, freeze
again, for in the limits permitted to them there is no shelter, and it
is impossible to sit on the muddy ground.
At the signal to begin work, the men, with an aspect of indifference, go
towards an improvised shed, where the tools are kept during the night.
Nonchalantly each takes any tool that happens to come his way--one a
spade, another a pickaxe, another a wheelbarrow. The guards form a
circle around the workers and the long task begins.
For several days already they have been busy filling a vast depression,
and the hundreds of barrow-loads thrown in daily seem not to have made
any difference. It is a painful task to push over this sodden land,
where the mud sticks to the wheels, these barrows laden with sand.
But who is then this man, this Zouave, who, indifferent to the trouble
that his companions are giving themselves with pickaxe and spade, stands
motionless and idle in the midst of this activity? Leaning on the handle
of a spade fixed in the earth, he seems to be lost in a dream. Half an
hour has already passed and he has not yet touched the sand. The German
guards have noticed him and his idleness. His inaction puzzles them; it
must be put a stop to. A sentinel approaches and by a gesture makes the
soldier understand that he must work.
Impassive, the Frenchman replies by a shake of the head, and shows by a
shrug of his shoulders that it is not possible. The Boches think the
moment has come to interfere and to support their comrade; two or three
others go towards the Zouave. In a raised voice and with fiercer words
the sentinel repeats his demand. He grows angry, and it may be a bad
business for the Frenchman. But the threats do not terrify him. The
spade on which he was leaning falls to the ground, and with his left
hand taking his right from under his short Zouave coat he shows it to
the Boches who stand round him, lifeless, numbed, purple from cold and
the want of circulation. The guard regrets his harshness, and would
willingly make excuses, if he could make himself understood. The sight
of the wounded man fills him with pity. He gives forth a few “Achs,”
followed by “traurig,” makes a sign to the Zouave that he can rest, and
returns to his post of observation.
The Zouave is pleased to have puzzled the Boche; it is a game he loves
to indulge in. He is indeed one of those usually on fatigue duty, in
spite of the rule that forbids the wounded to be sent to work. But if
this invalid daily braves the fatigue of a painful march, of a long wait
on open land exposed to the inclemency of the weather, if he is willing
to suffer from the wind and the rain, it is because this wearisome day
assures him his daily bread. He answers to the name of one of his
comrades chosen to go on fatigue, in order to receive the sum of
threepence. With this money he buys a ration of bread from a needy
Englishman, who can go without food more easily than without tobacco. To
such extremities is this unhappy lad, just out of hospital, reduced. He
braves a march of eight kilometres and a wait of ten hours in an icy
downpour which brings on him a fever, to have 300 grammes--scarcely a
slice of K. bread, which is black, indigestible and made of bran, starch
of potatoes and sawdust.
* * * * *
Amongst the workers who labour without ceasing, a skilled eye quickly
detects those who in civil life are not used to this kind of work. They
are awkward, their tools seem too heavy for them.
Here, for example, is a young man, a budding soldier, who pants and
perspires while pushing before him a heavily-loaded barrow, the wheel of
which grates at each turn. The vehicle never will go straight, in spite
of the despairing efforts of its wheeler, who, however, works with as
much care as if the salvation of his country and his own deliverance
depended on the safe arrival of the load. He is a little man, puny, with
a humble, frightened air and a reserved manner, but his eyes have the
sharpness and the malice of a monkey. He goes on, absorbed in his work,
without deigning to notice those who surround him, whether allies or
enemies. You would swear that all his faculties are concentrated on the
work that he is doing. It is strange; for, after all, what interest can
a prisoner have in working for the Huns with so much energy and
conscientiousness? One feels that he wishes to remain unnoticed, but his
want of skill and his ardour call attention to him. Painfully, after
numerous prolonged stops, he gains the planks, where at last the
wheelbarrow can roll freely; he will wheel it to the side of a hole.
There he will empty his load. Then back again slowly, as much
embarrassed, it seems, by his empty wheelbarrow as he was when it was
full. After several journeys he gains sufficient skill to pass unnoticed
amongst the workers. He is a little Parisian of the class 1913. A
typewriter in an office before doing his service, he had never in his
[Illustration: _Page 106._]
life come into such close contact with a wheelbarrow. In the camp he has
the reputation of being gay, careless, full of spirits. He is a wag who
brings a smile on faces that are aged and tortured by suffering. But
there, on fatigue, he has an air of not knowing any one and only being
interested in his work.
But look! There he is coming back with his hands empty. Some kind and
charitable companion has undertaken to bring back his wheelbarrow.
Many times in the course of the day he is seen to come back with arms
idle and his expression pensive. No one pays attention to him.
But, sentinels, you make a mistake in trusting this young man as you do.
With all his simple looks he is playing tricks on the German Empire, the
all-powerful Kaiser and the fierce black eagle; tricks worthy of being
hanged for! This is his stratagem. To the extreme edge of the platform
that hangs over the hole he pushes his wheelbarrow, makes sure that he
is not observed by any one, and bang!--in a moment, with a skill that
one would not have expected from a person so puny and awkward, he hurls
into space barrow and all!
Three times, four times, five times, as opportunities occur, he repeats
this little game, and then goes off slowly, with the assured step of a
good workman at peace with his conscience, to seek another wheelbarrow
in the shed, which will soon meet the fate of its predecessors. Thanks
to him the number of barrows diminishes rapidly. One day an inventory
will show the disappearance of twenty or thirty of them. Where can they
be? They are marked with the imperial arms and cannot have been stolen!
Puzzle!
It is a devil’s trick that no one can explain. A stricter watch reveals
nothing. The land has indeed been levelled for several days, and the
sheds are already covering that cemetery of wheelbarrows.
I know, however, a certain delicate-looking Frenchman, of innocent
aspect, who could teach much to the officer of many stars in charge of
the supplies. Let the Boche rack his brains, let him be plunged in
despair--the Frenchman will not speak and the authorities will only lose
their time.
In the evening, on returning from work, our wag will say to himself,
rubbing his hands with the satisfaction which is the right of a
conscientious worker, “To-day I have given five wheelbarrows to France”;
for it is quite just to say that what one has taken from Germany has
been given to France.
In some thousands of years, excavations, undertaken by these horribly
learned, spectacled Boches, will bring to light in a good state of
preservation the frames of the wheelbarrows that a French prisoner made
such good use of. The learned doctor, excited by such a find, will dress
up in a Latin name these rediscovered objects, and, writing in that
language a long and learned treatise, will prove that the wheelbarrow
existed at the time of Cicero, and with fierce invective will denounce
the Frenchman Pascal, who claimed the invention of this means of
transport. He will make a gift of the least beautiful specimens to the
museum of the province, and will send the rest to the Imperial Museum at
Berlin, in recompense for which the eminent doctor will be admitted to
the Boche Institute and be profoundly reverenced--unless between now and
then the name of Germany will have taken its place in legend beside
those of Troy and Carthage!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE COMPANY COMMANDER]
CHAPTER X
Certainly Bitter, the head of the 11th Company, could not be counted
among those who cherished cordial feelings for the French. The authority
who had put into his hands the fate of two hundred and fifty men might
rejoice that he had never shown culpable weakness towards any of the
prisoners. He was a small man, with a worn face; he had a weak heart,
and before the war was exempt from military service; he had only been
recalled a few months since. His illness made him sometimes as pale as
death, and sometimes purple. His wicked little eyes were black, his
hair, reduced to the least possible limit by a military hair-cutting
machine, and his bristling moustache was also black. He was a private
soldier. He had never been under fire, and therefore was far more
pitiless than those who had been to the front. It is generally agreed
that the sufferings endured in fighting, far from filling the hearts of
the combatants with bitterness, bring them together through the
remembrance of common hardships.
One of Bitter’s habits was to break into the huts in the early hours,
when the men were still in bed, and make the place noisy with his angry
voice. His company held the record for punishments, and it was a torture
to be put into it. Bitter insisted that all the N.C.O.’s, the adjutant
included, should salute him and stand at attention in his presence.
Blinded by the position of authority into which he had been put, he
exercised on those in his power a veritable tyranny.
In consequence, disagreements sprang up and violent scenes, for the
commander knew no moderation, and his anger was terrible. For some time
he terrorises his company in this manner, treating each man as he
pleases, and giving punishment whenever he finds the shadow of a
pretext. He does not show the least interest in the men entrusted to
him. Anything is good enough for the French; they have no need of
clothes, and never share in any way in the things distributed from time
to time by order of the military authorities among the neighbouring
companies.
The men under Bitter can neither rest nor profit from the hours of
leisure to play together, read, write or mend their clothes. At every
instant he falls upon them like a bird of prey and sends them on fatigue
duty.
The French, braving punishments, take a delight in missing musters; they
go and mingle with the men of a neighbouring company, hide themselves at
the hour of roll-call, escape from fatigue, stay the least time possible
in their cantonment, where they run the risk of being caught. But when
there are rainy days a permanent watch is placed at the door, whose
duty it is to signal as soon as Bitter is seen in the distance. A
whistle, and the hut is empty.
One day, tired of opposition, Bitter decides to employ force to recruit
men for fatigue duty. He is preceded by three sentinels, whose duty it
is to guard the doors and prevent any one from going out. The sentinels,
looking fierce and sullen, have been at their posts a few minutes. The
Frenchman on watch, who has seen them coming, signals their approach.
The men are puzzled. They hold a council, then all go towards the exits
to verify with their own eyes the truth of what their companion says. At
this moment Bitter bursts in. This time there is no chance of escape.
Some try to rush through a door. Too late! They see the way barred, and
are obliged to retreat before the threatening bayonets of the soldiers.
They re-enter and find Bitter like a veritable sheep-dog, chasing the
French towards the exit by the central door, shouting at them and
swearing. There these men are immediately surrounded by other soldiers,
who undertake to conduct them to the fatigue. Bitter is at the end of
his strength, his face is bloodless. He has the men formed in fours, and
the march begins. The French are crestfallen at having been thus caught.
This time Bitter has won and is exultant.
But that is not the end, for the French are never finally at a loss. The
comrades of a neighbouring camp, when they learn of the affair,
undertake to play a trick on the detested brute and to lend a helping
hand to the prisoners. On the road the fatigue party follows they gather
in a dense crowd round the notices posted up by the Boches. They block
up the way and make it impossible for the column to pass; there is
hustling. Disorder reigns; the sentinels, who shout, swear and curse, no
longer control the men under their charge. A great number succeed in
mingling with the ranks of the loungers. When it leaves this human
whirlpool the column is diminished by half. The French counter-attack
has succeeded!
The next day, the same business! The hut is again raided. Happily the
alarm is given in time. Then might be heard the tramp of many hundreds
of shoes, of men running away in all directions. There is a frantic rush
for the windows; it resembles a pigeon-house from which the birds have
all been frightened by the shot of a gun. Bursts of noisy laughter greet
the falls of the awkward, who in too great a hurry miss their footing
and tumble in the ditch which surrounds the huts. In a twinkling all
have fled--the healthy and the sick, the young and old, the nimble and
the wounded, whose suppleness and quickness astonish us.
A few red trousers disappear through the windows with the swiftness of
lightning, and from the outside comes the noise of the last sabots
falling heavily on the ground, when Bitter, a smile on his lips, makes
his entry. No one shall escape him. He begins to shout to terrorise the
men of his company, when he stops, stupefied. Absolute silence reigns.
Not a living soul in the hut. The attack has failed! The shouts of
laughter coming from the neighbouring cantonment reach his ears. They
must be listening to the account of that commanding officer’s ill-luck.
Beside himself with rage, he nervously makes a sign to his men to
reinstate the guard. There will be no fatigue that day. Woe to the man
who makes a mistake!
* * * * *
The next day one sees round the huts two rows of barbed wire, which
prevent the windows from serving as means of exit. Force has succeeded.
Thus it is that the fight continues without truce between the commanding
officer and his company, with varying success on one side or the other.
As weapons, the one side uses punishments and tasks, the other there is
only ridicule which cuts, and practical jokes which exasperate.
* * * * *
One day, however, Bitter arrives paler than ever, but changed. To the
astonishment of all he crosses the hut without shouting or making a
scene, and actually looks almost amiable. Every man gazes at him in
astonishment. He must be ill, say some. He has received a reprimand,
suggest others; he will be less of a bear. And the tongues begin to wag!
He goes on his way and soon reaches the small room of the sergeants.
They, faithful to the habit that force has compelled them to adopt, rise
and salute; but already he makes a sign to them to sit, not to disturb
themselves. Amiably he addresses himself to the interpreter, and in a
gentle voice, his lips parted in a smile, begins to speak of one thing
and another. He declares loudly that he, Bitter, never wanted the
N.C.O.’s to salute him, but that he was obliged to respect the orders
given him. The interpreter did not know what to think. His relations
with Bitter--on which he prided himself, moreover--had always been
restricted to details of service, and here was the company commander
talking of the war and seeming to be interested in its duration, in the
privations and sufferings that the combatants must endure. Two sergeants
who were playing chess, and who till that moment had always professed
not to understand German, so as to avoid being bothered, could not
believe their ears, and little by little left off their game and
followed with interest the conversation to which they were not
accustomed. The German had lost his stiffness, he had become talkative,
friendly; he seemed suddenly seized with a need to unbosom himself, he
questioned, and little by little gave himself away. The interpreter
scarcely replied, and when he was obliged to say something spoke almost
regretfully; he was not one of those to forget the vexations they had
been forced to endure, and he could not pardon the Boche for having made
his comrades suffer. He would willingly have kept silence altogether,
but he scented vengeance, and felt that if the German became
confidential, he would perhaps gain something by listening, and thus be
able to help his comrades. In any case it denoted a weakness on the part
of the Boche, and it was necessary to profit by it. But the German had
soon finished smiling, and his face took on a serious expression. The
conversation was certainly not about pleasant things, but it did not
serve to explain the anguish so clearly shown on the fellow’s face.
Bitter seemed uncomfortable and fearful, like one who wants to ask a
favour and is ill at ease about it. At last, having thrown away his
dignity as chief of a company, he announced with a groan that he had
just been ordered to leave for the front. The news, as soon as it was
translated, spread like wildfire, and was commented on by the French
with enthusiasm that would have been edifying to the German, could he
have understood it. I do not yet know what feeling of delicacy
restrained the N.C.O.’s, and kept them from lifting the roof off with
the prolonged and frantic cheers and cries of: “Bitter is going away.”
But it was a serious matter, and the Boche searched in vain for some
sign of pity on the faces of those who surrounded him. However, the
astonishment that he read there sufficed; he took it for interest, or
rather he wished so to imagine it, for he wanted to be communicative and
to gain information; it was a matter of self-interest to him. Now he
felt that the prisoners he guarded were men like himself. A certain
feeling of respect must have sprung up within him for these Frenchmen
who had seen death near, had been in danger under fire and had conducted
themselves as brave men do.
He shuddered on hearing them speak calmly of the horrors of war, of the
sufferings of a soldier’s life, of the tortures of hunger and thirst, of
the noise of the guns, of the bayonet charges, of the hand-grenades, of
mortal wounds. Nothing that could terrify him was spared, and horrible
detail followed horrible detail, each more realistic than the last.
Every man improved upon his neighbour’s story, and those who, a few
hours ago, needed to have recourse to the interpreter to understand the
orders given, were suddenly found to have enough knowledge of the
language of Goethe to be able to sow horror in the heart of this future
warrior. A convulsive movement of his maxillary muscles clearly showed
that Bitter was making a strong effort not to be altogether cast down,
and to hide the anguish that was choking him. All the same, it was a
poor creature that the French N.C.O.’s had before them in the place of
him who had been for weeks their nightmare and terror.
Mockingly the Frenchmen praised his spirit of order and method, his
undoubted authority, which could not fail to make him an excellent
chief, if only his warlike qualities were equal to his qualifications as
a jailer. A bright career was opening before him. Bitter listened; he
would have liked to escape, having had his fill of horrors, but he was
obliged to empty the cup to the dregs if he wished to gather the fruit
of his visit, which was to have a favour granted that he still hesitated
to ask.
“You are in luck’s way,” said a sergeant; “if you are made prisoner, you
will be with the French. You will at least be treated as a human being,
and you will have as much as you want to eat, while we continue to die
of hunger.”
A Parisian wit utters a wish: “If you are a prisoner I hope you may have
a chief who will have as much consideration for you as you have had for
us.”
The astonished Boche looks at him searchingly; but he wasted his time,
for he could not find on that sergeant’s face the trace of a smile.
The thought that he might be made prisoner forces him to examine his
conscience. He realises that he has not been a “father” to the French
under his charge, so he hesitates. Then, as it was the subject on which
he wished to touch, he decided not to let it drop.
With the most innocent air he inquires of the French the least dangerous
and the surest way to be made prisoner.
The N.C.O.’s are more and more surprised. The Boche inspires them with
growing repugnance which every minute becomes almost unbearable. Before
them they have the spectacle of a shameless coward who is already
preparing to cry “Kamerad,” and to yield at the command of “Hands up!”
The sight of this German preparing for treason had amused the French for
a moment, at once thereafter to fill them with disgust.
This revolting and ignominious scene was not, however, yet over; this
poltroon had not shown the full extent of his baseness. He had the
audacity, he who, during his rule over two hundred and fifty Frenchmen,
had in a way martyrised them, and treated them worse than he would have
treated animals; he who had been rough, violent, brutal, pitiless and
severe, actually he had the audacity to make a request, to beg for the
meanest of favours from those whom he had downtrodden. He now began to
cringe, and he inspired us with supreme disgust when he begged the
interpreter to be so kind as to give him a letter of recommendation
which he could use in case he fell into the hands of the French.
There was general consternation among the N.C.O.’s on hearing this
request. Some of them in disgust proposed to kick him out of the room.
He understood well the scorn that he excited, but still he sat there,
insensible to shame, swallowing the opprobrium his demand had aroused,
provided that he obtained satisfaction.
All protest; they cry with all the strength of their lungs the judgment
they would like to see meted out to the Boche for his conduct; they
insist that one ought not to give anything to safeguard the life of this
shameless tyrant, who had done everything to bring suffering on his men.
But already a sergeant was standing up, holding in his hand a piece of
paper on which he had just been writing something.
“What is it?” some one asks him.
“The desired letter of recommendation.”
“No, you are joking. You will never have the ‘face’ to recommend that
animal to the French.”
But the sergeant gravely replies: “I do what I think I ought to do. Let
me alone.”
All the N.C.O.’s were astonished; the sergeant was a man respected for
his high moral qualities and the position he had held in the civil
world. He enjoyed the best reputation of all the sergeants for his
kindness, humanity, his pity for the sufferings of others. Many times he
had had the courage to champion his comrades unjustly punished. Often
they had heard him deplore the deaths of the heroes the war was carrying
off, whose efforts united might have brought about universal goodwill;
but they had never thought him sensitive to the extent of protecting the
life of a man whose brutality and cowardice were so notorious.
Addressing the interpreter he said: “Will you translate? I must speak to
the Boche.”
The other did as he was asked.
The Boche had understood, and already began to feel happy at the success
of his demand.
The words of the sergeant were translated:
“Monsieur, for the two months that the company has been under your
orders I have had the opportunity of appreciating you at your full
value, and I should be sorry, and my companions also, if the chances of
war should reserve you a fate that in all justice should not be yours. I
am convinced that the wishes expressed by me, and written on this paper,
will be fully and literally carried out, if one day you should fall into
the hands of my fellow-countrymen and should be obliged to have recourse
to my certificate.” And to forestall an expression of thanks from the
Boche: “Do not thank me. I have only treated you as you deserve, and I
am happy to have acted as my conscience bids me, and to think that
humanity will have reason to be grateful to me for what I do. No;” said
he, as the Boche advanced to shake hands, “let our relations remain as
they were in the past.”
Bitter was standing ready to leave the room.
“Just a moment,” said the sergeant, “while I read to my friends this
note, which they will certainly approve of.”
With a pale face, but in a clear, firm tone, like a judge pronouncing
sentence, the sergeant began:
“An order is given to the French soldier into whose hands the
soldier Bitter, the bearer of this note, may fall, to give him no
quarter. Bitter has had under his command a company of French
prisoners, and has done all in his power to render insupportable a
captivity already too painful.
“(Signed)
T----.”
Bitter took the note, folded it carefully and slipped it into his
letter-case.
All trace of anger and indignation had left the faces of the French.
Gravely they saluted the German as he went out, with the respect that
they would have shown in the presence of death. But even more than the
man who went out it was the sergeant whom they saluted, for they felt
how much this death-sentence had cost him.
Bent down, worn out by this scene, in which he had had to bear the scorn
of the French, Bitter gained the door. He was no longer the Bitter that
had entered even twenty-four hours ago, arrogant, with head erect and
flashing eyes, the uncontested master before whom all must give way.
This time he was going to meet his destiny, the miserable man; that on
which he had built all his hopes, that bit of paper, to possess which
he had degraded his soul; those few lines contained his death-warrant.
* * * * *
History does not tell what happened to Bitter--if he is still living, if
he finished his race as a hero with an unknown death, or if, after
having shown himself a coward of cowards, he was killed like a dog while
begging for a life which was not worth the meanness he committed to
preserve it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE FIRST OF MAY, 1915]
CHAPTER XI
At this time the N.C.O.’s were not forced to do fatigue work (it appears
that is changed now), and as it is human nature never to be satisfied
with the lot that falls to one, the sergeants complained bitterly of
this favourable treatment. Ungrateful beings, they forgot how they had
rejoiced in the winter, when, sheltered in the huts, they had gathered
round the fire while their comrades, at the mercy of the elements,
passed days in the rain. It is true that now it was different; the
spring had come, it was fine, and the fresh and tender green, seen in
the distance like a light mist over trees and shrubs, made the sight of
the sand, which stretched away grey, dirty and monotonous, still more
painful than usual.
For those who for two months had been harbouring plans of escape, it was
necessary to get out of the camp. It was the first step they had to
take. They would thus find an opportunity of familiarising themselves
with the civilians, of studying the surroundings of the camp, of seeing
how it was guarded, of learning the lie of the land. For the others,
boredom and the need of movement, the spring constituted the chief and
only motives. And what good it would do us all, tired out with our long
confinement. Moreover, we felt curious to see what the men had been
admiring so much every day.
The spring had come with its charm, as it comes every year, and had
filled our hearts with an irresistible desire to wander, a need to
stretch our muscles, to fill our lungs with the sweet-scented,
life-giving air. We wished to go out to enjoy the sunshine freely, that
is to say, far from the barbed wire; we wanted to rejoice in newly
awakened nature; to see a stretch of water, a stream, cultivated lands,
houses; to hear the warbling of birds and the silvery notes of a chime
of bells pealing from the belfry of a church. We longed to look at the
smiling face of a child full of grace and health.
We were unanimous about going. Our company had to supply a fatigue
party; we decided to take part in it. We were six good friends. Together
we prepared our provisions; one supplied sardines, another a pie, a
third white bread,--that delicious white bread that came from France,--a
fourth jam, gingerbread, etc. The menu was fixed. Then each of us
managed as best he could to get a coat without stripes.
Altogether excited by this event to which we looked forward, like
children anticipating a long-promised picnic, we did not go to sleep
till late, for we were troubled by the thought of a thousand
interruptions, which might put an end to our pleasure-party outside the
camp. If the commander should forbid our departure, if ... and then
...!! This day, so much longed for, was also awaited with a certain
apprehension; would the work be too much for our strength, weakened as
we were by too long a period of idleness?
Early on the appointed day we were ready, and closely reviewed each
other’s equipment. Not a stripe was to be seen; our knapsacks were
crammed full, as if for a journey of several days. Everything went off
as well as could be wished.
We set off, escorted to the gates by the men of our hut, who were
astonished and amused. “The N.C.O.’s going on fatigue!”
It was the first of May. The day gave promise of being glorious. In
lines of four, between two rows of sentinels, we left the camp.
The march was slow, desperately slow; but the ordinary workers knew that
the few minutes gained on the way there were so many minutes taken from
work, so we were obliged to restrain our impatient steps. Oh that
stirring sound of marching feet on the firm high road! What
recollections it called up, what marches in the company of friends,
alas, no longer living! What joyful stages towards the enemy whom we
wished to drive back! What hours of weariness also, when, our shoulders
bruised and bowed by the weight of our knapsacks, we were obliged to go
on, day and night, fleeing before the invader!
The high road! At last for the first time for long months we were
marching on firm ground. No longer did our feet sink into the soft sand
of the camp. Our walk was lighter; it was as if chains had fallen from
us. And the road which stretched in front gave us the illusion of
liberty.
The hedges were clothed in tender green, the young crops were springing
up in the fields, the sky was an intense blue; hidden in the trees, the
birds poured out their souls in song.
This joy, this feeling of liberty, quickly takes possession of us. The
smile of a rosy-cheeked, fair-haired child, who walks barefooted beside
the “Franzosen,” proud and happy to hold one of them by the hand, the
voice of a young girl singing, the sight of an inn shining cleanly with
its red tiles and green shutters, strike a gay note; the cool refreshing
air, the bird that suddenly rises and flies away, the calf that starts
on a mad race across the field, all these things make us feel free, and
seem to us like a hymn of gratitude to the Creator in which
unconsciously we take part, till the moment when our joy, having reached
its height, is brusquely turned into grief and our happiness is
dispersed, leaving us with our sadness.
But let us drive away gloomy thoughts--the day is made for joy. Now see
the Frenchmen outrival each other in making fun of a Boche who passes,
of an absent-minded sentinel who stumbles, of a “Mädchen” who looks at
us with a broad, sheepish smile, and then suddenly frightened casts her
eyes on the ground between her dusty shoes. Then it is a joke on an
exceedingly stout Teuton woman, a snatch of a song, a call to a cock in
its own language, or to a duck, a cow or a pig seen on the way. It is
the boisterousness of schoolboys at liberty, of a contagious exuberance
of spirits. Life sparkles and even takes possession of our heavy guards
themselves, whom these demonstrations amuse.
We pass a bridge guarded by the military. Here a broad winding river,
bright and rapid, flows through fruitful plains. It was into this river
that two of our comrades had plunged, while trying to escape, although
they did not know how to swim. One was captured and killed on the spot.
The other.... Let us be silent! Our thoughts go out to the unhappy man,
who saw his efforts of no avail, when he had felt the joy of liberty for
a quarter of an hour, and who died the victim of the useless brutality
of a German patrol at the moment when he surrendered. And that after
having lived for twenty-four hours in mortal terror.
We meet few people on the road. In the fields are women and children.
As we skirt the town we see huge sections of pipes in concrete. One of
our men with a very serious air asks the sentinel if those are the 420
guns: “Kanonen? vier hundert und zwanzig?” and the sentinel replies
gravely, “Nein,” in the learned manner of a spectacled professor.
We are taken across a drill-ground where recruits in dark-blue uniform
are standing in line, motionless and as stiff as the tin soldiers of
Nuremberg. Farther on an artillery recruit, who does not lie down
quickly enough to please his “Feldwebel,” hears a torrent of oaths
poured on him; they sound like the grating of a rusty chain. Each of
the imprecations is accompanied by a kick or a cut with the flat of the
sword, both destined to inculcate quickness into the stupid head of a
trooper ... and so on!
Now we have arrived at the timber-yard, where is a sawmill. We must cut,
saw, chop and carry enormous tree-trunks which are piled as high as a
house.
Just as they come to hand a workman distributes saws, hatchets, crowbars
to the hands stretched out for them. What are we going to do? At last
here is our chance. They ask for six men to work without tools. With a
jump we rush out of our ranks, all six of us. What luck! We follow our
guard, who walks off. After having traversed the factory we arrive at a
place which looks on the river. This is to be our workshop. A workman
has joined us; he explains to the sentinel what we have to do.
Just the time to place our knapsacks out of the sun, to take off our
coats and turn up our sleeves, and there we are ready to work--in
appearance at least, for we have firmly decided not to over-fatigue
ourselves.
At first we let the sentinel try to explain the nature of the work we
are to do. We listen without understanding to the poor man, who speaks
and gesticulates in vain, and our faces are impassive and empty of
thought. At last in despair he puts down his gun, mounts a truck and
makes the action of discharging the four or five tree-trunks that are
there. This mimicry recalls the game of “trades,” which was the joy of
our childhood.
[Illustration: _Page 128._]
We have understood! Now that the Boche has exhausted his breath, exerted
himself, put himself in a perspiration to make us understand, one of us,
who knows German perfectly, sums up his instructions in a few words, to
the great astonishment of our sentinel. Our comrade explains to him what
is to be done; the Boche nods his head. Yes, that is it, he understands
perfectly; it would not take much to make him take off his coat and
help. As for us, we have no great desire to begin, so we engage him in a
long conversation concerning the rights and prerogatives of socialists.
It is the first of May; he is a workman. A democratic socialist? He
confesses it timidly. He knows perfectly well that one does not work a
stroke on that day. Already, tired of standing, we sit on the trunks in
a ring round the Teuton, who tries to reconcile his socialistic
theories, which he cannot give up, with his duty as a German soldier.
Seriously brought to book he capitulates. After all, he is there to
guard us and not to survey our work. Let us do what we like. He prefers,
however, that we should not get him into trouble, for the General is
severe.
Then we take the waggon by assault, and we try to unload the heavy
trunks from it. All in vain. We have soon been there an hour, and the
trunks repose in peace in the same place where we found them. The
workman comes back. With a glance--that professional glance which
nothing can deceive--he sees that we are not men of the trade. We set
about it so badly that the best will in the world does not succeed in
moving the smallest of the trunks. The workman acknowledges with pity
the uselessness of our united efforts. Ah, these French! They have no
energy; they don’t know how to work.
He takes hold of a crowbar, gives a heave here, a heave there, and
behold, a trunk leaves the waggon and falls by its weight on the earth.
Exclamations of admiration without reserve on our part: “Ach,
Wunderschön, Kolossal!” The workman is proud of himself!
Now that we are initiated into the business, the waggons are unloaded
fairly quickly.
But how hot it is! With common accord we make our way to our knapsacks.
The astonished sentinel advances. We stop him, calling out that we have
worked enough, that it is the first of May, that we are going on strike.
He shakes his head in despair, and turns his eyes another way not to
witness our reprehensible want of discipline. Then we sit down.
“Frühstück,” we say, and we break the bread. Overcome by curiosity the
guard approaches and casts his eyes on the box of preserves which we
take out. He enjoys the sight of our “Delikatessen,” which he
nevertheless refuses to share with us, although we invite him, as a
brother socialist to do so.
After an interval of about half an hour the work begins again. At any
moment we risk grazing our hands, crushing our feet and leaving some
fragments of our epidermis on the rough bark of the trees. But it is
nothing really, and we enjoy ourselves hugely. The landscape which
stretches before us is glorious. How lovely it would be to plunge into
the limpid stream that flows at our feet!
Eleven o’clock. All the waggons are empty. While waiting for others to
arrive let us play a game of Bridge--and there we are sitting down with
one of our coats to serve as table. The sentinel approaches and without
understanding the game watches us play. To the great joy of his simple
soul he has recognised the figures on the cards and finds that the
French cards are like the German ones.
The arrival of several loads does not trouble our quarter of an hour’s
repose. The sentinel gets impatient, walks round us ill at ease, then at
last remarks that it is not yet time to rest, that we must go on working
till dinner-time. Then gravely and with the air of a grand-duke one of
us declares to him that we are not forced to work, that we are
“Unteroffizieren,” that we have come out to amuse ourselves, and that we
shall work only when we feel inclined. The Boche is disconcerted.
Respectful of rule and yet curious, he asks what rank each of us has, so
as to know if we are really N.C.O.’s. “All,” and with a look round he
takes in with bewilderment such an imposing group. He does not know what
to say, and dares not ask us to go on with work which we could not be
forced to do. We get up, however, and, joking all the time, go back to
the unloading.
Midday. The sound of a whistle, cutting the air like the bursting of a
shell, announces the hour of lunch.
With good appetites gained from the fresh air and the unaccustomed work,
we do credit to our food. All the time our guard remains near us,
curious to see what we are eating.
Time passes rapidly and we are soon back again at work. We go on happily
till something happens to check our zeal. An enormous trunk has fallen
so awkwardly that it is difficult to displace it. We unite our efforts
and try to move it to the rhythm of our voices, shouting, “One, two,
one, two.” The echo in the distance sends back these French cries that
Germany has to put up with. And, after all, the utterance of these
numbers is the only result of our united efforts.
However, the sentinel, who thinks these efforts sincere, lays down his
rifle and comes to our help. His energetic efforts would have been
enough to move the tree if some of us had not by a counter-pressure
destroyed the effect. The sentinel redoubled his exertions, and we had
all the trouble in the world to prevent the tree from rolling. It _was_
hot!
The civilian workman providentially enters on the scene at the critical
moment, a true _Deus ex machina_ of the ancient tragedies. He
understands our difficulty, and thinks it his duty to come and help us.
Without apparent effort he succeeds in displacing the heavy piece of
wood. Our astonishment knows no limits. One by one we pull ourselves
upright, we let go our hold, and we contemplate with an astonished air
this enormous trunk which seems quietly to obey the charm of the crowbar
that the workman manipulates.
But how tiring and fatiguing it is to admire standing; we go and sit
down on the neighbouring trunks, pretending to wipe our faces, which
are shamefully dry. By our exclamations of praise, we encourage the
sentinel and the workman, who think it a point of honour for them alone
to hurl into space the trunk they have set free from an awkward
position. We rest and fan ourselves.
The scene is worth a sketch, which should be entitled, as one of us
cynically remarks: “French prisoners at work under their guard of the
German jailers.”
The tree falls heavily down the slope. The two Boches triumphantly draw
themselves up, they alone have been able to do what six Frenchmen were
incapable of doing. How hot they have made themselves! While they take
breath, they allow us to rest also. We enter into conversation. We go
into admiration over their strength and skill. The workman, full of
contempt, declares that he saw we were not accustomed to that kind of
work.
It was then that the sentinel told him who we were, and they questioned
us a great deal about our professions, and were greatly astonished at
the positions we occupy in France. Full of timid respect they repeat
each one’s occupation, pointing us out with their finger as they do so.
The disdain of a short time ago is transformed into admiration, which
they can scarcely contain. Then the workman disappears. But like the
good Boche that he is, he goes at once to the manager of the sawmills
and tells him that men, highly placed in the commercial world and in the
university world are working at his mill incognito.
The manager, who is a simple fellow,--he is a self-made man, and
curiosity is not the least of his faults,--comes hurrying to us
immediately. We are just getting up to go back to our work, but he signs
to us to remain seated. He is a nervous little man, with a face like a
weasel; his restless, mobile physiognomy is lighted up by two piercing
grey eyes. On his head is a bowler hat covered with sawdust. He wears an
old coat much frayed and darned all over, the pockets are bulging with
notebooks. The end of a folding measure sticks out from his trousers
pocket. Gaily, without preamble, he begins by pitying the prisoners for
the fatigue they must feel in doing manual work to which they are not
accustomed. With the perspicacity, delicacy and tact of a _sergent de
ville_ making an inquiry, he asks us if it is really true that we are
all “Unteroffizieren,” and then with a tear in his eye he speaks of his
son who is also a N.C.O. and who has not come back. It gives him
pleasure to talk of the missing man to “his colleagues.” He is proud of
it. He holds forth and soon tells us about his troubles, his moral
torments, his business trials, the scarcity of men, the terrible price
of food, etc. etc.
When he has given vent to his feelings his curiosity gains the upper
hand. He questions us and does not disguise his admiration and his
astonishment. “Kaufmann! Ach! So. Buchhändler! Schön! Oberlehrer!
Professor!” Here he is a little puzzled. He looks in vain for the
spectacles that tradition has fixed on the noses of the learned. In
order to convince him, one of us declares that this ornament, this
symbol of learning, was left on the battlefield where our “Herr
Professor” was wounded and captured. A half-timid respect takes hold of
this simple man, for whom titles mean so much. Very soon he will thank
us for having condescended to honour his sawmill with our august
presence. His admiration is greater than his love of gain, and he begs
us not to overtire ourselves. We must not work more than is enough to
distract us by a little h
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