True Stories of the Great War, Volume 6 (of 6)
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Title: True Stories of the Great War, Volume 6 (of 6)
Editor: Francis Trevelyan Miller
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TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR
Tales of Adventure--Heroic Deeds--Exploits
Told by the Soldiers, Officers, Nurses,
Diplomats, Eye Witnesses
Collected in Six Volumes
From Official and Authoritative Sources
(See Introductory to Volume I)
VOLUME VI
Editor-in-Chief
FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER (Litt. D., LL.D.)
Editor of The Search-Light Library
1917
Review of Reviews Company
New York
Copyright, 1917, by
Review of Reviews Company
CONTENTS
The Board of Editors has selected for VOLUME VI this group of
stories told by Soldiers and Army Officers direct from the battle-grounds
of the Great War. It includes 165 episodes and personal
adventures by forty-two story-tellers--"Tommies," "Boches,"
"Poilus," Russians, Italians, Austrians, Turks, Belgians, Scotchmen,
Irishmen, Canadians, Americans--the "Best Stories of the
War" gathered from the most authentic sources, according to the
plan outlined in "Introductory" to Volume I. Full credit is given
in every instance to the original sources.
VOLUME VI--FORTY STORY-TELLERS--165 EPISODES
"BEHIND THE GERMAN VEIL"--WITH VON HINDENBURG 1
RECORD OF A REMARKABLE WAR PILGRIMAGE
Told by Count Van Maurik De Beaufort
(Permission of Dodd, Mead and Company)
"KITCHENER'S MOB"--ADVENTURES OF AN AMERICAN WITH
THE BRITISH ARMY 16
UNCENSORED ACCOUNT OF A YOUNG VOLUNTEER
Told by James Norman Hall
(Permission of Houghton, Mifflin Company)
"HOW BELGIUM SAVED EUROPE"--THE LITTLE KINGDOM
OF HEROES 32
TRAGEDY OF THE BELGIANS
Told by Dr. Charles Sarolea
(Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company)
THE BISHOP OF LONDON'S VISIT TO THE FRONT 43
TAKING THE MESSAGE OF CHRIST TO THE BATTLE LINES
Told by The Reverend G. Vernon Smith
(Permission of Longmans, Green and Company)
"GRAPES OF WRATH"--WITH THE "BIG PUSH" ON THE
SOMME 52
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS IN THE LIFE OF A PRIVATE
SOLDIER
Told by Boyd Cable
(Permission of E. P. Dutton and Company)
A NOVELIST AND SOLDIER ON THE BATTLE LINE 63
Told by Coningsby Dawson
(Permission of John Lane Company)
STORIES OF THE WAR PHOTOGRAPHERS IN BELGIUM 81
AN AMERICAN AT THE BATTLEFRONT
Told by Albert Rhys Williams
(Permission of E. P. Dutton and Company)
TALES OF THE FIRST BRITISH EXPEDITIONARY FORCE 94
TO FRANCE
IMPRESSIONS OF A SUBALTERN
Told by "Casualty" (Name of Soldier Suppressed)
(Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company)
IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY--EXPERIENCES OF A
PRISONER OF WAR 104
Told by Benjamin G. O'Rorke, M. A.
(Permission of Longmans, Green and Company)
"AT SUVLA BAY"--THE WAR AGAINST THE TURKS 117
ADVENTURES ON THE BLUE ÆGEAN SHORES
Told by John Hargrave
(Permission of Houghton, Mifflin Company)
SEEING THE WAR THROUGH A WOMAN'S EYES 122
SOUL-STIRRING DESCRIPTION OF SCENES AMONG THE
WOUNDED IN PARIS
Told by (Name Suppressed)
(Permission of New York American)
LOST ON A SEAPLANE AND SET ADRIFT IN A MINE-FIELD 134
ADVENTURES ON THE NORTH SEA
Told by a Seaplane Observer
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
HOW I HELPED TO TAKE THE TURKISH TRENCHES AT
GALLIPOLI 144
AN AMERICAN BOY'S WAR ADVENTURES
Told by Wilfred Raymond Doyle
(Permission of New York World)
"BIG BANG"--STORY OF AN AMERICAN ADVENTURER 156
A TALE OF THE GREAT TRENCH MORTARS
Told by C. P. Thompson
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
"WITH OUR ARMY IN FLANDERS"--FIGHTING WITH TOMMY
ATKINS 165
WHERE MEN HOLD RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH
Told by G. Valentine Williams
(Permission of London Daily Mail)
COMEDIES OF THE GREAT WAR 176
TALES OF HUMOR ON THE FIGHTING LINES
Told by W. F. Martindale
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
LITTLE STORIES OF THE BIG WAR 188
UNUSUAL ANECDOTES AT FIRST HAND
Told by Karl K. Kitchen in Germany
(Permission of New York World)
POGROM--THE TRAGEDY OF THE JEWS AND THE ARMENIANS 194
A MASTERFUL TALE OF THE EASTERN FRONT
Told by M. C. della Grazie
(Permission of New York Tribune)
TALE OF THE SAVING OF PARIS 204
HOW A WOMAN'S WIT AVERTED A GREAT DISASTER
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
HOW IT FEELS TO A CLERGYMAN TO BE TORPEDOED ON
A MAN-OF-WAR 212
Told by the Rev. G. H. Collier
STORY OF LEON BARBESSE, SLACKER, SOLDIER, HERO 213
Told by Fred B. Pitney
(Permission of New York Tribune)
THE DESERTER--A BELGIAN INCIDENT 230
Told by Edward Eyre Hunt
(Permission of Red Cross Magazine)
GRIM HUMOR OF THE TRENCHES 240
AS SEEN BY PATRICK CORCORAN, OF THE ROYAL ENGINEERS
(Permission of New York World)
PRIVATE McTOSHER DISCOVERS LONDON 247
Told by C. Malcolm Hincks
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
RUSSIAN COUNTESS IN THE ARABIAN DESERT 259
ADVENTURES OF COUNTESS MOLITOR AS TOLD IN HER
DIARY
GERMAN STUDENTS TELL WHAT SHERMAN MEANT 270
THREE CONFESSIONS FROM GERMAN SOLDIERS
Told by Walter Harich, Wilhelm Spengler and Willie Treller
(Permission of New York Tribune)
BAITING THE BOCHE--THE WIT OF THE BELGIANS 277
Told by W. F. Martindale
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
HOW SERGEANT O'LEARY WON HIS VICTORIA CROSS 288
STORY OF THE FIRST BATTALION OF THE IRISH GUARDS
(Permission of New York American)
STORY OF A RUSSIAN IN AN AUSTRIAN PRISON 295
AN OFFICER'S REMARKABLE EXPERIENCE
(Permission of Current History)
TWO WEEKS ON A SUBMARINE 302
Told by Carl List
(Permission of Current History)
A GERMAN BATTALION THAT PERISHED IN THE SNOW 305
Told by a Russian Officer
THE FATAL WOOD--"NOT ONE SHALL BE SAVED" 309
A STORY OF VERDUN
Told by Bernard St. Lawrence
(Permission of Wide World Magazine)
HEROISM AND PATHOS OF THE FRONT 316
Told by Lauchlan MacLean Watt
AN AVIATOR'S STORY OF BOMBARDING THE ENEMY 321
Told by a French Aviator
(Permission of Illustration, Paris)
A DAY IN A GERMAN WAR PRISON 325
Told by Wilhelm Hegeler
MURDER TRIAL OF CAPTAIN HERAIL OF FRENCH HUSSARS 330
STRANGEST EPISODE OF THE WAR
Told by an Eye-Witness
(Permission of New York American)
HOW THEY KILLED "THE MAN WHO COULD NOT DIE" 338
Told by a Soldier Under General Cantore
(Permission of New York World)
HOW MLLE. DUCLOS WON THE LEGION OF HONOR 344
STORY OF A WOMAN WHO DROVE HER AUTO AT FULL
SPEED INTO A GERMAN FORCE
Told by an Eye-Witness
(Permission of New York American)
THE RUSSIAN "JOAN OF ARC'S" OWN STORY 351
Told by Mme. Alexandra Kokotseva
AN ITALIAN SOLDIER'S LAST MESSAGE TO HIS MOTHER 355
Translated by Father Pasquale Maltese
[Illustration: IN A PRISONERS' CAMP
Germans in a French Camp]
[Illustration: THE U-9 SPEEDING ON THE SURFACE
_From a Drawing by a German Artist Published in a German Magazine_]
[Illustration: A NARROW SHAVE!
_A Remarkable Photograph of a Torpedo That Missed Its Mark by a Scant
Ten Feet. The Men on This Vessel, From the Stern of Which the Picture
Was Made, Literally Looked Death in the Face and Watched Him Pass By._]
[Illustration: THE LAST ACT OF A SUDDEN SEA TRAGEDY
_Rescuing Sailors From H. M. S. Audacious_]
"BEHIND THE GERMAN VEIL" WITH VON HINDENBURG
_Record of a Remarkable War Pilgrimage_
_Told by Count Van Maurik De Beaufort_
This is the remarkable story of a titled Hollander, who was living
in America at the outbreak of the War. "Europe called me," he
says. "Blood will tell. I soon found myself getting restless. My
sympathies with the Allies ... urged that I had no right to lag
behind in making sacrifices. Before starting for the War, I applied
for my first American citizenship papers. I hope to obtain my
final papers shortly, after which I shall place my services at the
disposal of the American Government." This Hollander was educated
in Germany and recalls how in his youth he was forced to stand up
in front of the class and recite five verses, each ending with: "I
am a Prussian and a Prussian I will be." He later became a student
at Bonn. Count De Beaufort has written a book of sensational
revelations in which the German veil is lifted. With a magic
passport, nothing less than a letter to Von Hindenburg from his
nephew, he gained access to German headquarters and to the Eastern
front in Poland and East Prussia. We here record what he thinks
of Von Hindenburg from his book: "Behind the German Veil," by
permission of his publishers, _Dodd, Mead and Company_: Copyright
1917.
[1] I--GOING TO SEE VON HINDENBURG
Yes, if the truth be told, I must say that I felt just a wee bit
shaky about the knees. I wondered what view they would take of my
perseverance, worthy, I am sure, of a kind reception.
I would wager that in the whole of Germany there could not be found one
... whose hair would not have stood on end at the mere suggestion of
travelling to Hindenburg's headquarters without a pass. Why, he would
sooner think of calling at the Palace "_Unter den Linden_," and of
asking to interview the Kaiser.
I think I must describe to you the way I appeared at headquarters. At
Allenstein I had bought, the day before, a huge portrait of Hindenburg;
it must have been nearly thirty inches long.
Under one arm I carried the photograph, in my hand my letter of
introduction, and in my other hand a huge umbrella, which was a local
acquisition. On my face I wore that beatific, enthusiastic and very
naïve expression of "the innocent abroad." I had blossomed out into
that modern pest--the autographic maniac.
Army corps, headquarters, strategy and tactics were words that meant
nothing to me. How could they, stupid, unmilitary foreigner that I was!
It was a pure case of "Fools will enter where angels fear to tread."
You may be sure that my subsequent conversation with the Staff captain
confirmed the idea that I was innocent of all military knowledge, and
that I probably--so he thought--did not know the difference between an
army corps and a section of snipers.
Why had I come to Lötzen? Why, of course, to shake hands with the
famous General, the new Napoleon; to have a little chat with him,
and--last, but not least--to obtain his most priceless signature to
my most priceless photograph. What? Not as easy as all that, but why?
Could there be any harm in granting me those favors? Could it by the
furthest stretch of imagination be considered as giving information to
the enemy? What good was my letter of introduction from the General's
dear nephew? Of course, I would not ask the General where he had his
guns hidden, and when he intended to take Petrograd, Moscow or Kieff.
Oh, no; I knew enough about military matters not to ask such leading
questions.
But joking apart. On showing my famous letter I had no difficulty
whatsoever in entering the buildings of the General Staff. The first
man I met was Hauptmann Frantz. He didn't seem a bad sort at all, and
appeared rather to enjoy the joke and my "innocence," at imagining that
I could walk up to Hindenburg's Eastern headquarters and say "Hello!"
to the General.
He thought it was most "original," and certainly exceedingly American.
Still, it got him into the right mood. "Make people smile," might be a
good motto for itinerant journalists in the war zones. Few people, not
excepting Germans, are so mean as to bite you with a smile on their
faces. Make them laugh, and half the battle is won.
Frantz read my letter and was duly impressed. He never asked me whether
I had any passes. He advised me to go to the General's house, shook
hands, and wished me luck.
Phew! I was glad that my first contact with the General Staff had come
off so smoothly. I had been fully prepared for stormy weather, if not
for a hurricane. Cockily, I went off to Hindenburg's residence, a very
modest suburban village not far from the station, and belonging to a
country lawyer. There was a bit of garden in front, and at the back;
the house was new, and the bricks still bright red. Across the road on
two poles a wide banner was stretched, with "Willkommen" painted on it.
Two old Mecklenburger Landstrum men guarded the little wooden gate. I
told them that I came from Great Headquarters, and once more produced
the letter. They saluted, opened the gate, and one of them ran ahead to
ring the door bell.
II--HE ENTERS THE STRANGE HOUSE
I walked up the little gravel path with here and there a patch of green
dilapidated grass on either side. I remember the window curtains were
of yellow plush. In the window seat stood a tall vase with artificial
flowers flanked by a birdcage with two canaries. It was all very
suburban, and did not look at all like the residence of such a famous
man. An orderly, with his left arm thrust into a top-boot, opened
the door. In a tone of voice that left no chance for the familiar
War-Office question: "Have you an appointment, sir?" I inquired whether
the Field-Marshal was at home, at the same time giving him my letter.
The orderly peeled off his top-boot, unfastened his overalls, and
slipped on his coat.
Then he carefully took my letter, holding it gingerly between thumb
and third finger, so as not to leave any marks on it, and ushered me
into the "Wohnzimmer," a sort of living- and dining-room combined. It
was the usual German affair. A couch, a table, a huge porcelain stove,
were the prominent pieces of furniture. All three were ranged against
the long wall. The straight-backed chairs were covered with red plush.
On the walls hung several monstrosities, near-etchings representing
the effigies of the Kaiser, the Kaiserin, and, of course, of "Our"
Hindenburg. There was the usual overabundance of artificial flowers and
ferns so dear to the heart of every German Hausfrau.
The two canaries lived in the most elaborate homemade cage. (I
understand they were the property of the "Hausfrau," not of
Hindenburg!) On the table, covered with a check tablecloth, stood a
bowl containing three goldfish. The floor was covered with a bright
carpet, and in front of one of the doors lay a mat with "Salve" on
it. Over the couch hung a photographic enlargement of a middle-aged
soldier leaning nonchalantly against a door on which was chalked
"Kriegsjahr, 1914." Over the frame hung a wreath with a black and white
ribbon, inscribed "In Memoriam," telling its eloquent story.
Behind me was a map of the Eastern front, and pinned alongside of it a
caricature of a British Tommy sitting astride of a pyramid and pulling
a number of strings fastened to the legs, arms and head of the Sultan,
who was apparently dancing a jig.
That room impressed itself upon my memory for all time. I often dream
of it.
* * * * *
I had waited only a few minutes when a young officer came in, who,
bowing obsequiously, wished me a very formal good-morning. I took my
cue from the way he bowed. He explained that the General was out in
the car but was expected back before noon. Would I condescend to wait?
Needless to say, I did "condescend."
I forgot to mention one point in my meditations. When I took the chance
of continuing East instead of returning to Berlin, I thought there
might just be a possibility that the Adjutant or Staff Officer who
had spoken with von Schlieffen had entirely taken it upon himself to
say "No," and that it was not unlikely that the General knew nothing
whatever about my letter or my contemplated visit. If my surmise was
correct, I would stand a sporting chance, because it was hardly to be
expected that out of the thirty-odd officers comprising the Staff, I
should run bang into the very man who had telephoned.
I soon knew that the officer in immediate attendance on Hindenburg
was not aware of my _contretempts_ at Allenstein on the previous day.
Neither did he inquire after my passes. You see, they take these things
for granted. Would I prefer to wait here or come in his office, where
the stove was lit? Of course, I thought that would be more pleasant. I
thought, and am glad to say was not mistaken, that probably the young
officer felt he needed some mental relaxation. This will sound strange,
but I have found during my travels through Germany, that in spite of
the many warnings not to talk shop, every soldier, from the humblest
private to the highest General--I am sure not excepting the War Lord
himself--dearly loves to expatiate on matters military, his ambitions
and hopes. This one was no exception. He chatted away very merrily,
and more than once I recognized points and arguments which I had read
weeks ago in interviews granted by General Hindenburg to Austrian
journalists. He quite imagined himself an embryo Field-Marshal.
He showed me several excellent maps, which gave every railroad line
on both sides of the Polish frontier. They certainly emphasized the
enormous difference and the many advantages of German _versus_ Russian
railroad communications. Many of his predictions have since come
true, but most of them have not. He hinted very mysteriously, but
quite unmistakably, at a prospective Russian _débâcle_, and predicted
a separate peace with Russia before the end of 1915! "And then," he
added, "we will shake up the old women at the Western front a bit and
show them the 'Hindenburg method.'"
* * * * *
The room we were in was fitted up as an emergency staff office. There
were several large tables, maps galore, a safe, a number of books
that looked like ledgers and journals, six telephones and a telegraph
instrument. Two non-commissioned officers were writing in a corner. In
case anything important happens at night, such as an urgent despatch
that demands immediate attention, everything was at hand to enable the
General to issue new orders. A staff-officer and a clerk are always on
duty.
I learned later on, though, that a position in that auxiliary
staff-office at Hindenburg's residence is more or less of a sinecure.
All despatches go first to Ludendorff, Hindenburg's Chief-of-Staff,
who, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, issues orders without
consulting his Chief.
III--HE STANDS BEFORE VON HINDENBURG
In the midst of a long explanation of the Russian plight, the voluble
subaltern suddenly stopped short. I heard a car halt in front of the
house, and a minute or two later the door of the office opened and
Germany's giant idol entered. I rose and bowed. The officer and the two
sergeants clicked their heels audibly, and replied to the stentorian
"_Morgen, meine Herren_," with a brisk "_Morgen, Excellence_."
Hindenburg looked questions at me, but I thought I would let my young
friend do the talking and act as master of ceremonies. He handed
Hindenburg my letter, and introduced me as "Herr 'von' Beaufort, who
has just arrived from Rome." (I had left Rome nearly three months
before!) The General read his nephew's letter and then shook hands with
me, assuring me of the pleasure it gave him to meet me. Of course, I
was glad that he was glad, and expressed reciprocity of sentiments.
I looked at him--well, for lack of a better word, I will say, with
affection; you know the kind of childlike, simple admiration which
expresses so much. I tried to look at him as a certain little girl
would have done, who wrote: "You are like my governess: she, too, knows
everything." I felt sure that that attitude was a better one than
to pretend that I was overawed. That sort of homage he must receive
every day. Besides, as soon as I realized that he knew nothing of the
telephone message from and to Allenstein, my old self-assurance had
returned.
* * * * *
Now for my impressions of Germany's--and, as some people try to make us
believe, the world's--greatest military genius. They might be summed
up in two words: "Strength and cruelty." Hindenburg stands over six
feet high. His whole personality radiates strength, brute, animal
strength. He was, when I met him, sixty-nine years of age, but looked
very much younger. His hair and moustache were still pepper and salt
color. His face and forehead are deeply furrowed, which adds to his
forbidding appearance. His nose and chin are prominent, but the most
striking feature of the man's whole appearance are his eyes. They are
steel-blue and very small, much too small for his head, which, in turn,
is much too small compared with his large body. But what the eyes
lacked in size they fully made up for in intensity and penetrating
powers. Until I met Hindenburg I always thought that the eyes of the
Mexican rebel Villa were the worst and most cruel I had ever seen.
They are mild compared with those of Hindenburg. _Never in all my life
have I seen such hard, cruel, nay, such utterly brutal eyes as those
of Hindenburg._ The moment I looked at him I believed every story of
refined (and unrefined) cruelty I had ever heard about him.
He has the disagreeable habit of looking at you as if he did not
believe a word you said. Frequently in conversation he closes his
eyes, but even then it seemed as if their steel-like sharpness pierced
his eyelids. Instead of deep circles, such as, for instance, I have
noticed on the Kaiser, he has big fat cushions of flesh under his
eyes, which accentuate their smallness. When he closes his eyes, these
cushions almost touch his bushy eyebrows and give his face a somewhat
prehistoric appearance. His hair, about an inch long I should judge,
was brushed straight up--what the French call _en brosse_. The general
contour of his head seemed that of a square, rounded off at the corners.
* * * * *
Speaking about the stories of cruelty, one or two of them may bear
re-telling.
When during the heavy fighting, early in 1915, General Rennenkampf
was forced to evacuate Insterburg somewhat hastily, he was unable
to find transport for about fifty thousand loaves of bread. Not
feeling inclined to make a present of them to the Germans, he ordered
paraffin to be poured over them. When the Germans found that bread
and discovered its condition, Hindenburg is reported to have been
frantic with rage. The next day, after he had calmed down, he said
to one of his aides: "Well, it seems to be a matter of taste. If the
Russians like their bread that way, very well. _Give it to the Russian
prisoners._"
You may feel certain that his orders were scrupulously carried out.
Another incident which they are very fond of relating in Germany is
more amusing, though it also plays on their idol's cruelty.
It is a fact that both officers and men are deadly afraid of him. It is
said that the great General has a special predilection for bringing the
tip of his riding boots into contact with certain parts of the human
anatomy. A private would far rather face day and night the Russian guns
than be orderly to Hindenburg.
But one day a man came up and offered himself for the job.
"And what are you in private life?" the General snorted at him.
"At your orders, sir, I am a wild animal trainer."
IV--"WHAT VON HINDENBURG TOLD ME"
Hindenburg and I talked for about twenty minutes on various
subjects--Holland, Italy, America, and, of course, the campaign.
When he tried to point out to me how all-important it was for Holland
that Germany should crush England's "world-domination," I mentioned
the Dutch Colonies. That really set him going. "Colonies," he shouted.
"Pah! I am sick of all this talk about colonies. It would be better
for people, and I am not referring to our enemies alone, to pay more
attention to events in Europe. I say 'to the devil' (_zum Teufel_) with
the colonies. Let us first safeguard our own country; the colonies will
follow. It is here," and he went up to a large map of Poland hanging on
the wall, and laid a hand almost as large as a medium-sized breakfast
tray over the center of it--"It is here," he continued, "that European
and colonial affairs will be settled and nowhere else. As far as the
colonies are concerned, it will be a matter of a foot for a mile, as
long as we hold large slices of enemy territory."
He spoke with great respect of the Russian soldier, but maintained that
they lacked proper leaders. "It takes more than ten years to reform
the morale of an officers' corps. From what I have learned, the morale
of the Russian officer is to this day much the same as it was in the
Russo-Japanese war. We will show you one of their ambulance trains
captured near Kirbaty. It is the last word in luxury. By all means
give your wounded all the comfort, all the attention you can; but I
do not think that car-loads of champagne, oysters, caviare and the
finest French liqueurs are necessary adjuncts to an ambulance train.
The Russian soldier is splendid, but his discipline is not of the same
quality as that of our men. In our armies discipline is the result of
spiritual and moral training; in the Russian armies discipline stands
for dumb obedience. The Russian soldier remains at his post because he
has been ordered to stay there, and he stands as if nailed to the spot.
What Napoleon I. said still applies to-day: 'It is not sufficient to
kill a Russian, you have to throw him over as well.'
"It is absurd," the General continued, "for the enemy Press to compare
this campaign with that of Napoleon in 1812." Again he got up, and
pointing to another map, he said: "This is what will win the war for
us." The map showed the close railroad net of Eastern Germany and the
paucity of permanent roads in Russia. Hindenburg is almost a crank on
the subject of railroads in connection with strategy. In the early days
of the war he shuffled his army corps about from one corner of Poland
to the other. It is said that he transferred four army corps (160,000
men--about 600 trains) in two days from Kalish, in Western Poland, to
Tannenberg, a distance of nearly two hundred miles. On some tracks the
trains followed each other at intervals of six minutes.
"Our enemies reckon without two great factors unknown in Napoleon's
time: railroads and German organization. Next to artillery this war
means railroads, railroads, and then still more railroads. The Russians
built forts; we built railroads. They would have spent their millions
better if they had emulated our policy instead of spending millions
on forts. For the present fortresses are of no value against modern
siege guns--at least, not until another military genius such as Vauban,
Brialmont, Montalembert, Coehoorn, springs up, who will be able to
invent proper defensive measures against heavy howitzers.
"Another delusion under which our enemies are laboring is that of
Russia's colossal supply of men. He who fights with Russia must always
expect superiority in numbers; but in this age of science, strategy
and organization, numbers are only decisive, 'all else being equal.'
The Russian forces opposed to us on this front have always been far
superior in numbers to ours, but we are not afraid of that. A crowd of
men fully armed and equipped does not make an army in these days."
This brought him to the subject of the British forces, more especially
to Kitchener's army. "It is a great mistake to underestimate your
enemy," said Hindenburg, referring to the continual slights and
attacks appearing in the German Press. "I by no means underrate the
thoroughness, the fighting qualities of the British soldier. England
is a fighting nation, and has won her spurs on many battlefields. But
to-day they are up against a different problem. Even supposing that
Kitchener should be able to raise his army of several millions, where
is he going to get his officers and his non-commissioned officers from?
How is he going to train them, so to speak, overnight, when it has
taken us several generations of uninterrupted instruction, study and
work to create an efficient staff? Let me emphasize, and with all the
force I can: 'Efficiency and training are everything.' There lies their
difficulty. I have many officers here with me who have fought opposite
the English, and all are united in their opinion that they are brave
and worthy opponents; but one criticism was also unanimously made:
'Their officers often lead their men needlessly to death, either from
sheer foolhardiness, but more often through inefficiency.'"
V--"WHEN I LEFT VON HINDENBURG"
Although he did not express this opinion to me personally, I have it on
excellent authority that Hindenburg believes this war will last close
on four years at least. And the result--stalemate. He does not believe
that the Allies will be able to push the Germans out of Belgium, France
or Poland.
Personally, I found it impossible to get him to make any definite
statement on the probable outcome and duration of the war. "Until we
have gained an honorable peace," was his cryptic reply. He refused to
state what, in his opinion, constituted an honorable peace. If I am to
believe several of his officers--and I discussed the subject almost
every day--then Hindenburg must by now be a very disappointed man. I
was told that he calculated as a practical certainty on a separate
peace with Russia soon after the fall of Warsaw. (I should like to
point out here that this "separate peace with Russia" idea was one of
the most popular and most universal topics of conversation in Germany
last year.)
* * * * *
When Hindenburg learnt that I had come all the way from Berlin without
a pass from the General Staff, he appeared very much amused; but in a
quasi-serious manner he said:
"Well, you know that I ought to send you back at once, otherwise
I shall risk getting the sack myself; still, as all ordinary
train-service between here and Posen will be suspended for four days,
the only way for you to get back is by motor-car. It would be a pity to
come all the way from sunny Italy to this Siberian cold, and not see
something of the men and of the hardships of a Russian winter campaign.
Travelling by motor-car, you will have ample opportunity to see
something of the country, and, if you feel so inclined, of the fighting
as well. And then go home and tell them abroad about the insurmountable
obstacles, the enormous difficulties the German has to overcome."
Hindenburg does not like the Berlin General Staff officers, and that is
why he was so amused at my having got the better of them. He describes
them as "drawing-room" officers, who remain safely in Berlin. With
their spick and span uniforms they look askance at their mud-stained
colleagues at the front. His officers, who know Hindenburg's feelings
towards these gentlemen, play many a practical joke on their Berlin
_confrères_. The latter have frequently returned from a visit to some
communication trenches only to find that their car has mysteriously
retreated some two or three miles ... over Polish roads.
Any one who can tell of such an experience befalling a "Salon Offizier"
is sure to raise a good laugh from Hindenburg.
At the conclusion of our conversation he instructed the young A.D.C. to
take me over to Headquarters and present me to Captain Cämmerer. "Tell
him," and I inscribed the words that followed deeply on my mind, "to be
kind to Herr Beaufort."
* * * * *
My introduction to Cämmerer proved to be one of those curious vagaries
of fate. He was the very man who less than twenty-four hours ago
had spoken with General von Schlieffen, and who had assured him how
impossible it was for me to continue, and that I was to be sent back to
Berlin at once!
"Beaufort, Beaufort," he sniffed once or twice before he could place
me. Then suddenly he remembered. "Ah, yes, him! You are the man General
von Schlieffen telephoned about yesterday? But did he not instruct you
to return to Berlin?"
However, I remembered Hindenburg's injunction: "Tell Cämmerer to be
kind to him," so what did I care for a mere captain?
Consequently, as they say in the moving pictures, I "registered" my
most angelic smile, and sweetly said:
"Ah, yes, Captain, quite so, quite so. But, you see, I felt _certain_
that there was some misunderstanding at this end of the wire. Probably
it was not clearly explained to you that I had this very important
letter of introduction to General von Hindenburg from my friend his
nephew. As you see," and I waved my hand at the A.D.C., my master of
ceremonies, "I was quite right in my surmise."
* * * * *
However that may be, you may be certain that I saw to it that when
we mapped out my return journey, Cämmerer was being "kind" to me.
Consequently, I spent two most interesting weeks in the German Eastern
war-zones, much to the surprise and disgust of the "Drawing-room Staff"
in Berlin.
(Count De Beaufort's revelations form one of the most valuable records
of the war. He tells about "Spies and Spying;" "German Women;" "When I
Prayed with the Kaiser;" "An Incognito Visit to the Fleet and German
Naval Harbors;" "Interviews with the Leading Naval, Military and Civil
Authorities in Germany"--closing with an interview that upset Berlin,
caused his arrest, and as he describes it, "My Ultimate Escape Across
the Baltic.")
FOOTNOTE:
[1] All numerals throughout this volume relate to the stories herein
told--not to chapters in the original sources.
"KITCHENER'S MOB"--ADVENTURES OF AN AMERICAN WITH THE BRITISH ARMY
_Uncensored Account of a Young Volunteer_
_Told by James Norman Hall, of the First Expeditionary Force_
This is a glimpse of life in a battalion of one of Lord Kitchener's
first armies. It gives an intimate view of the men who are so
gallantly laying down their lives for England. Kitchener's Mob
has become the greatest volunteer army in the history of the
world--for more than three million of disciplined fighting men are
united under one flag in this magnificent military organization.
Their fighting has become an epic of heroism in France, Belgium,
Africa and the Balkans. Some of them have seen service in India,
Egypt and South Africa; they might have stepped out of any of the
"Barrack-Room Ballads." The name which they bear was fastened
upon them by themselves--thereby hangs a tale. Stories of their
adventures have been gathered into a volume under title of
"Kitchener's Mob"--and published by _Houghton, Mifflin Company_:
Copyright, 1916, by _Atlantic Monthly Company_; Copyright, 1916, by
James Norman Hall.
[2] I--STORY OF A YANKEE IN THE TRENCHES
With Kitchener's mob we wandered through the trenches listening to the
learned discourse of the genial professors of the Parapet-etic School,
storing up much useful information for future reference. I made a
serious blunder when I asked one of them a question about Ypres, for I
pronounced the name French fashion, which put me under suspicion as a
"swanker."
"Don't try to come it, son," he said. "S'y 'Wipers.' That's wot we
calls it."
Henceforth it was "Wipers" for me, although I learned that "Eeps" and
"Yipps" are sanctioned by some trench authorities. I made no further
mistakes of this nature, and by keeping silent about the names of
the towns and villages along our front, I soon learned the accepted
pronunciation of all of them. Armentières is called "Armenteers";
Balleul, "Ballyall"; Hazebrouck, "Hazy-Brook"; and what more natural
than "Plug-Street," Atkinsese for Ploegsteert?
As was the case wherever I went, my accent betrayed my American birth;
and again, as an American Expeditionary Force of one, I was shown many
favors. Private Shorty Holloway, upon learning that I was a "Yank,"
offered to tell me "every bloomin' thing about the trenches that a
bloke needs to know." I was only too glad to place myself under his
instruction.
"Right you are!" said Shorty; "now, sit down 'ere w'ile I'm going over
me shirt, an' arsk me anything yer a mind to." I began immediately by
asking him what he meant by "going over" his shirt.
"Blimy! You are new to this game, mate! You mean to s'y you ain't got
any graybacks?"
I confessed shamefacedly that I had not. He stripped to the waist,
turned his shirt wrong side out, and laid it upon his knee.
"'Ave a look," he said proudly.
The less said about my discoveries the better for the fastidiously
minded. Suffice it to say that I made my first acquaintance with
members of a British Expeditionary Force which is not mentioned in
official _communiqués_.
"Trench pets," said Shorty. Then he told me that they were not all
graybacks. There is a great variety of species, but they all belong to
the same parasitical family, and wage a non-discriminating warfare upon
the soldiery on both sides of No-man's-Land. Germans, British, French,
Belgians alike were their victims.
"You'll soon 'ave plenty," he said reassuringly; "I give you about a
week to get covered with 'em. Now, wot you want to do is this: always
'ave an extra shirt in yer pack. Don't be a bloomin' ass an' sell
it fer a packet o' fags like I did! An' the next time you writes to
England, get some one to send you out some Keatings"--he displayed a
box of grayish-colored powder. "It won't kill 'em, mind you! They ain't
nothin' but fire that'll kill 'em. But Keatings tykes all the ginger
out o' 'em. They ain't near so lively arter you strafe 'em with this
'ere powder."
I remembered Shorty's advice later when I became a reluctant host to a
prolific colony of graybacks. For nearly six months I was never without
a box of Keatings, and I was never without the need for it.
II--IN THE BARBED-WIRE "MAN-TRAPS"
Barbed wire had a new and terrible significance for me from the first
day which we spent in the trenches. I could more readily understand
why there had been so long a deadlock on the western front. The
entanglements in front of the first line of trenches were from fifteen
to twenty yards wide, the wires being twisted from post to post in such
a hopeless jumble that no man could possibly get through them under
fire. The posts were set firmly in the ground, but there were movable
segments, every fifty or sixty yards, which could be put to one side in
case an attack was to be launched against the German lines.
At certain positions there were what appeared to be openings through
the wire, but these were nothing less than man-traps which have been
found serviceable in case of an enemy attack. In an assault men follow
the line of least resistance when they reach the barbed wire. These
apparent openings are V-shaped with the open end toward the enemy. The
attacking troops think they see a clear passage-way. They rush into the
trap and when it is filled with struggling men machine guns are turned
upon them, and, as Shorty said, "You got 'em cold."
That, at least, was the presumption. Practically, man-traps were not
always a success. The intensive bombardments which precede infantry
attacks play havoc with entanglements, but there is always a chance of
the destruction being incomplete, as upon one occasion farther north,
where, Shorty told me, a man-trap caught a whole platoon of Germans
"dead to rights."
"But this is wot gives you the pip," he said. "'Ere we got three
lines of trenches, all of 'em wired up so that a rat couldn't get
through without scratchin' hisself to death. Fritzie's got better wire
than wot we 'ave, an' more of it. An' 'e's got more machine guns,
more artill'ry, more shells. They ain't any little old man-killer
ever invented wot they 'aven't got more of than we 'ave. An' at 'ome
they're a-s'yin', 'W'y don't they get on with it? W'y don't they smash
through?' Let some of 'em come out 'ere an' 'ave a try! That's all I
got to s'y."
I didn't tell Shorty that I had been, not exactly an armchair critic,
but at least a barrack-room critic in England. I had wondered why
British and French troops had failed to smash through. A few weeks
in the trenches gave me a new viewpoint. I could only wonder at the
magnificent fighting qualities of soldiers who had held their own so
effectively against armies equipped and armed and munitioned as the
Germans were.
After he had finished drugging his trench pets, Shorty and I made a
tour of the trenches. I was much surprised at seeing how clean and
comfortable they can be kept in pleasant summer weather. Men were
busily at work sweeping up the walks, collecting the rubbish, which
was put into sandbags hung on pegs at intervals along the fire trench.
At night the refuse was taken back of the trenches and buried. Most of
this work devolved upon the pioneers whose business it was to keep the
trenches sanitary.
The fire trench was built in much the same way as those which we had
made during our training in England. In pattern it was something like
a tesselated border. For the space of five yards it ran straight, then
it turned at right angles around a traverse of solid earth six feet
square, then straight again for another five yards, then around another
traverse, and so throughout the length of the line. Each five-yard
segment, which is called a "bay," offered firing room for five men. The
traverses, of course, were for the purpose of preventing enfilade fire.
They also limited the execution which might be done by one shell. Even
so they were not an unmixed blessing, for they were always in the way
when you wanted to get anywhere in a hurry.
"An' you are in a 'urry w'en you sees a Minnie [_Minnenwerfer_] comin'
your w'y. But you gets trench legs arter a w'ile. It'll be a funny
sight to see blokes walkin' along the street in Lunnon w'en the war's
over. They'll be so used to dogin' in an' out o' traverses they won't
be able to go in a straight line."
III--STORIES OF SHORTY HOLLOWAY--"PROFESSOR OF TRENCHES"
As we walked through the firing-line trenches, I could quite understand
the possibility of one's acquiring trench legs. Five paces forward,
two to the right, two to the left, two to the left again, then five to
the right, and so on to Switzerland. Shorty was of the opinion that
one could enter the trenches on the Channel coast and walk through
to the Alps without once coming out on top of the ground. I am not
in a position either to affirm or to question this statement. My own
experience was confined to that part of the British front which lies
between Messines in Belgium and Loos in France. There, certainly,
one could walk for miles, through an intricate maze of continuous
underground passages.
But the firing-line trench was neither a traffic route nor a promenade.
The great bulk of inter-trench business passed through the travelling
trench, about fifteen yards in rear of the fire trench and running
parallel to it. The two were connected by many passageways, the chief
difference between them being that the fire trench was the business
district, while the traveling trench was primarily residential. Along
the latter were built most of the dugouts, lavatories, and trench
kitchens. The sleeping quarters for the men were not very elaborate.
Recesses were made in the wall of the trench about two feet above the
floor. They were not more than three feet high, so that one had to
crawl in head first when going to bed. They were partitioned in the
middle, and were supposed to offer accommodations for four men, two
on each side. But, as Shorty said, everything depended on the ration
allowance. Two men who had eaten to repletion could not hope to occupy
the same apartment. One had a choice of going to bed hungry or of
eating heartily and sleeping outside on the firing-bench.
"'Ere's a funny thing," he said. "W'y do you suppose they makes the
dugouts open at one end?"
I had no explanation to offer.
"Crawl inside an' I'll show you."
I stood my rifle against the side of the trench and crept in.
"Now, yer supposed to be asleep," said Shorty, and with that he gave
me a whack on the soles of my boots with his entrenching tool handle.
I can still feel the pain of the blow.
"Stand to! Wyke up 'ere! Stand to!" he shouted, and gave me another
resounding wallop.
I backed out in all haste.
"Get the idea? That's 'ow they wykes you up at stand-to, or w'en your
turn comes fer sentry. Not bad, wot?"
I said that it all depended on whether one was doing the waking or the
sleeping, and that, for my part, when sleeping, I would lie with my
head out.
"You wouldn't if you belonged to our lot. They'd give it to you on the
napper just as quick as 'it you on the feet. You ain't on to the game,
that's all. Let me show you suthin'."
He crept inside and drew his knees up to his chest so that his feet
were well out of reach. At his suggestion I tried to use the active
service alarm clock on him, but there was not room enough in which to
wield it. My feet were tingling from the effect of his blows, and I
felt that the reputation for resourcefulness of Kitchener's Mob was at
stake. In a moment of inspiration I seized my rifle, gave him a dig in
the shins with the butt, and shouted, "Stand to, Shorty!" He came out
rubbing his leg ruefully.
"You got the idea, mate," he said. "That's just wot they does w'en you
tries to double-cross 'em by pullin' yer feet in. I ain't sure w'ere I
likes it best, on the shins or on the feet."
This explanation of the reason for building three-sided dugouts,
while not, of course, the true one, was none the less interesting.
And certainly, the task of arousing sleeping men for sentry duty was
greatly facilitated with rows of protruding boot soles "simply arskin'
to be 'it," as Shorty put it.
All of the dugouts for privates and N.C.O.s were of equal size and
built on the same model, the reason being that the walls and floors,
which were made of wood, and the roofs, which were of corrugated
iron, were put together in sections at the headquarters of the Royal
Engineers, who superintended all the work of trench construction. The
material was brought up at night ready to be fitted into excavations.
Furthermore, with thousands of men to house within a very limited
area, space was a most important consideration. There was no room for
indulging individual tastes in dugout architecture. The roofs were
covered with from three to four feet of earth, which made them proof
against shrapnel or shell splinters. In case of a heavy bombardment
with high explosives, the men took shelter in deep and narrow "slip
trenches." These were blind alley-ways leading off from the traveling
trench, with room for from ten to fifteen men in each. At this part of
the line there were none of the very deep shell-proof shelters, from
fifteen to twenty feet below the surface of the ground, of which I had
read. Most of the men seemed to be glad of this. They preferred taking
their chances in an open trench during heavy shell fire.
IV--THE "SUICIDE CLUB"--A BOMBING SQUAD
Realists and Romanticists lived side by side in the traveling trench.
"My Little Gray Home in the West" was the modest legend over one
apartment. The "Ritz Carlton" was next door to "The Rats' Retreat,"
with "Vermin Villa" next door but one. "The Suicide Club" was the
suburban residence of some members of the bombing squad. I remarked
that the bombers seemed to take rather a pessimistic view of their
profession, whereupon Shorty told me that if there were any men slated
for the Order of the Wooden Cross, the bombers were those unfortunate
ones. In an assault they were first at the enemy's position. They had
dangerous work to do even on the quietest of days. But theirs was a
post of honor, and no one of them but was proud of his membership in
the Suicide Club.
The officers' quarters were on a much more generous and elaborate
scale than those of the men. This I gathered from Shorty's description
of them, for I saw only the exteriors as we passed along the trench.
Those for platoon and company commanders were built along the traveling
trench. The colonel, major, and adjutant lived in a luxurious palace,
about fifty yards down a communication trench. Near it was the
officers' mess, a café de luxe with glass panels in the door, a cooking
stove, a long wooden table, chairs,--everything, in fact, but hot and
cold running water.
"You know," said Shorty, "the officers thinks they 'as to rough it, but
they got it soft, I'm tellin' you! Wooden bunks to sleep in, batmen
to bring 'em 'ot water fer shavin' in the mornin', all the fags they
wants,----Blimy, I wonder wot they calls livin' 'igh?"
I agreed that in so far as living quarters are concerned, they were
roughing it under very pleasant circumstances. However, they were not
always so fortunate, as later experience proved. Here there had been
little serious fighting for months and the trenches were at their best.
Elsewhere the officers' dugouts were often but little better than those
of the men.
The first-line trenches were connected with two lines of support or
reserve trenches built in precisely the same fashion, and each heavily
wired. The communication trenches which joined them were from seven to
eight feet deep and wide enough to permit the convenient passage of
incoming and outgoing troops, and the transport of the wounded back to
the field dressing stations. From the last reserve line they wound on
backward through the fields until troops might leave them well out of
range of rifle fire. Under Shorty's guidance I saw the field dressing
stations, the dugouts for the reserve ammunition supply and the stores
of bombs and hand grenades, battalion and brigade trench headquarters.
We wandered from one part of the line to another through trenches, all
of which were kept amazingly neat and clean. The walls were stayed with
fine-mesh wire to hold the earth in place. The floors were covered with
board walks carefully laid over the drains, which ran along the center
of the trench and emptied into deep wells, built in recesses in the
walls. I felt very much encouraged when I saw the careful provision for
sanitation and drainage. On a fine June morning it seemed probable that
living in ditches was not to be so unpleasant as I had imagined it.
Shorty listened to my comments with a smile.
"Don't pat yerself on the back yet a w'ile, mate," he said. "They looks
right enough now, but wite till you've seen 'em arter a 'eavy rain."
I had this opportunity many times during the summer and autumn. A more
wretched existence than that of soldiering in wet weather could hardly
be imagined. The walls of the trenches caved in in great masses. The
drains filled to overflowing, and the trench walks were covered deep in
mud. After a few hours of rain, dry and comfortable trenches became a
quagmire, and we were kept busy for days afterward repairing the damage.
As a machine gunner I was particularly interested in the construction
of the machine-gun emplacements. The covered battle positions were
very solidly built. The roofs were supported with immense logs or
steel girders covered over with many layers of sandbags. There were
two carefully concealed loopholes looking out to a flank, but none for
frontal fire, as this dangerous little weapon best enjoys catching
troops in enfilade owing to the rapidity and the narrow cone of its
fire. Its own front is protected by the guns on its right and left. At
each emplacement there was a range chart giving the ranges to all parts
of the enemy's trenches, and to every prominent object both in front of
and behind them, within its field of fire. When not in use the gun was
kept mounted and ready for action in the battle position.
"But remember this," said Shorty, "you never fires from your battle
position except in case of attack. W'en you goes out at night to 'ave
a little go at Fritzie, you always tykes yer gun sommers else. If you
don't, you'll 'ave Minnie an' Busy Bertha an' all the rest o' the Krupp
childern comin' over to see w'ere you live."
This was a wise precaution, as we were soon to learn from experience.
Machine guns are objects of special interest to the artillery, and the
locality from which they are fired becomes very unhealthy for some
little time thereafter.
V--AT THE "MUD LARKS'" BEAUTY SHOP
We stopped for a moment at "The Mud Larks' Hair-dressing Parlor," a
very important institution if one might judge by its patronage. It was
housed in a recess in the wall of the traveling trench, and was open
to the sky. There I saw the latest fashion in "oversea" hair cuts. The
victims sat on a ration box while the barber mowed great swaths through
tangled thatch with a pair of close-cutting clippers. But instead of
making a complete job of it, a thick fringe of hair which resembled a
misplaced scalping tuft was left for decorative purposes, just above
the forehead. The effect was so grotesque that I had to invent an
excuse for laughing. It was a lame one, I fear, for Shorty looked at me
warningly. When we had gone on a little way he said:--
"Ain't it a proper beauty parlor? But you got to be careful about
larfin'. Some o' the blokes thinks that 'edge-row is a regular
ornament."
I had supposed that a daily shave was out of the question on the
firing-line; but the British Tommy is nothing if not resourceful.
Although water is scarce and fuel even more so, the self-respecting
soldier easily surmounts difficulties, and the Gloucesters were all
nice in matters pertaining to the toilet. Instead of draining their
canteens of tea, they saved a few drops for shaving purposes.
"It's a bit sticky," said Shorty, "but it's 'ot, an' not 'arf bad w'en
you gets used to it. Now, another thing you don't want to ferget is
this: W'en yer movin' up fer yer week in the first line, always bring a
bundle o' firewood with you. They ain't so much as a match-stick left
in the trenches. Then you wants to be savin' of it. Don't go an use it
all the first d'y or you'll 'ave to do without yer tea the rest o' the
week."
I remembered his emphasis upon this point afterward when I saw men
risking their lives in order to procure firewood. Without his tea Tommy
was a wretched being. I do not remember a day, no matter how serious
the fighting, when he did not find both the time and the means for
making it.
VI--FLIES--RATS--AND DOMESTIC SCIENCE
Shorty was a Ph.D. in every subject in the curriculum, including
domestic science. In preparing breakfast he gave me a practical
demonstration of the art of conserving a limited resource of fuel,
bringing our two canteens to a boil with a very meager handful of
sticks; and while doing so he delivered an oral thesis on the best
methods of food preparation. For example, there was the item of corned
beef--familiarly called "bully." It was the _pièce de résistance_ at
every meal with the possible exception of breakfast, when there was
usually a strip of bacon. Now, one's appetite for "bully" becomes jaded
in the course of a few weeks or months. To use the German expression
one doesn't eat it _gern_. But it is not a question of liking it. One
must eat it or go hungry. Therefore, said Shorty, save carefully all
of your bacon grease, and instead of eating your "bully" cold out of
the tin, mix it with bread crumbs and grated cheese and fry it in
the grease. He prepared some in this way, and I thought it a most
delectable dish. Another way of stimulating the palate was to boil the
beef in a solution of bacon grease and water, and then, while eating
it, "kid yerself that it's Irish stew." This second method of taking
away the curse did not appeal to me very strongly, and Shorty admitted
that he practiced such self-deception with very indifferent success;
for after all "bully" was "bully" in whatever form you ate it.
In addition to this staple, the daily rations consisted of bacon,
bread, cheese, jam, army biscuits, tea, and sugar. Sometimes they
received a tinned meat and vegetable ration, already cooked, and at
welcome intervals fresh meat and potatoes were substituted for corned
beef. Each man had a very generous allowance of food, a great deal
more, I thought, than he could possibly eat. Shorty explained this by
saying that allowance was made for the amount which would be consumed
by the rats and the blue-bottle flies.
There were, in fact, millions of flies. They settled in great swarms
along the walls of the trenches, which were filled to the brim with
warm light as soon as the sun had climbed a little way up the sky.
Empty tin-lined ammunition boxes were used as cupboards for food. But
of what avail were cupboards to a jam-loving and jam-fed British army
living in open ditches in the summer time? Flytraps made of empty jam
tins were set along the top of the parapet. As soon as one was filled,
another was set in its place. But it was an unequal war against an
expeditionary force of countless numbers.
"They ain't nothin' you can do," said Shorty. "They steal the jam right
off yer bread."
As for the rats, speaking in the light of later experience, I can say
that an army corps of Pied Pipers would not have sufficed to entice
away the hordes of them that infested the trenches, living like house
pets on our rations. They were great lazy animals, almost as large
as cats, and so gorged with food that they could hardly move. They
ran over us in the dugouts at night, and filched cheese and crackers
right through the heavy waterproofed coverings of our haversacks. They
squealed and fought among themselves at all hours. I think it possible
that they were carrion eaters, but never, to my knowledge, did they
attack living men. While they were unpleasant bedfellows, we became so
accustomed to them that we were not greatly concerned about our very
intimate associations.
Our course of instruction at the Parapet-etic School was brought to a
close late in the evening when we shouldered our packs, bade good-bye
to our friends the Gloucesters, and marched back in the moonlight to
our billets. I had gained an entirely new conception of trench life, of
the difficulties involved in trench building, and the immense amount of
material and labor needed for the work.
Americans who are interested in learning of these things at first hand
will do well to make the grand tour of the trenches when the war is
finished. Perhaps the thrifty continentals will seek to commercialize
such advantage as misfortune as brought them, in providing favorable
opportunities. Perhaps the Touring Club of France will lay out a new
route, following the windings of the firing line from the Channel coast
across the level fields of Flanders, over the Vosges Mountains to
the borders of Switzerland. Pedestrians may wish to make the journey
on foot, cooking their supper over Tommy's rusty biscuit-tin stoves,
sleeping at night in the dugouts where he lay shivering with cold
during the winter nights of 1914 and 1915. If there are enthusiasts
who will be satisfied with only the most intimate personal view of the
trenches, if there are those who would try to understand the hardships
and discomforts of trench life by living it during a summer vacation,
I would suggest that they remember Private Shorty Holloway's parting
injunction to me:--
"Now, don't ferget, Jamie!" he said as we shook hands, "always 'ave a
box o' Keatings 'andy, an' 'ang on to yer extra shirt!"
* * * * *
(Private Hall, of Kitchener's Mob, describes the scenes when the army
was being organized for the first British expeditionary force. He
tells about "The Rookies"; "The Mob in Training"; "Ordered Abroad." He
describes their fights; their life under cover; their lodgings, billets
and experiences in the trenches, "sitting tight." It is "men of this
stamp," he says, "who have the fortunes of England in their keeping.
And they are called 'The Boys of the Bulldog Breed.'")
FOOTNOTE:
[2] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.
"HOW BELGIUM SAVED EUROPE"--THE LITTLE KINGDOM OF HEROES
_Tragedy of the Belgians_
_Told by Dr. Charles Sarolea, Ph. D. (Liège), Litt. D. (Brussels),
Belgian Consul in Edinburgh_
Dr. Sarolea is the historian of the Belgian people in the world
tragedy through which they have passed. Count D'Aviella, Belgian
Secretary of State, exclaims: "I am sure no one can read these
tragic pages without becoming more than ever confirmed in his
conviction that we are fighting in the cause of right, of liberty,
and of civilization." Dr. Sarolea has for twelve years been Belgian
Consul in Scotland; he is the personal friend of His Majesty
King Albert of Belgium, with whom he frequently sits in private
audience. He has written a book, "How Belgium Saved Europe," which
sets forth the great tragedy which places the Belgian people on the
same plane with those soul stirring heroes of universal history in
the Persian Wars of Greece, the Punic Wars of Rome, the Wars of
Spain against the Moors, the epic of Joan of Arc, the Wars of the
French Revolution--and all the outstanding and inspiring chapters
in the drama of human heroism. He tells about "The Hero-King" and
"The German Plot in Belgium." We here record his story on "The
Destruction of Louvain," by permission of his publishers, _J. B.
Lippincott Company_: Copyright 1915.
[3] I--STORIES OF MAD FURY IN LOUVAIN
On September 1 (1914) a procession of refugees from Louvain arrived at
Malines in a frenzy of terror with the news that the town of Louvain
had been set on fire by the Germans and that the whole city was a heap
of ruins. The wildest stories added to the horror of the tale. It
was said that there had been a wholesale massacre of men, women, and
children, and that hundreds of priests, and especially Jesuits, had
been singled out for murder. Many of the stories proved to be without
any foundation. But when all the exaggerations had been discounted
there remained a body of substantial facts that were enough to send a
thrill of indignation through Europe.
Two certainties emerged from the chaos of conflicting evidence. First,
there had been indiscriminate slaughter of civilians and looting of
property. Secondly, the Germans, armed with incendiary fuses and
obeying the order of the military authorities, had methodically burned
the whole section of Louvain which extends from the station in the
centre of the town, including the University and the church of St.
Pierre.
Since the destruction of the hapless University town other atrocities
have followed in almost daily succession, Termonde, Aerschot, Malines,
Antwerp. The world has almost got accustomed to them. There has been
nothing like this mad fury of destruction in the whole history of
modern warfare. Rheims has outdone even Louvain, and the ruin of the
Cathedral of Rheims is an even greater loss than the destruction of the
old Belgian Catholic University.
Still Louvain remains the one crowning infamy. German casuistry may at
least find some extenuating circumstances in the fact that Rheims was
a fortified town, and that the Cathedral tower might have been used as
an observation post for the French armies. For the crime of Louvain
no extenuating circumstance can be urged. Louvain was undefended. It
was a peaceful city of students, priests, and landladies. It was in
the occupation of the Germans. Its destruction, therefore, was both a
wanton and a cowardly act of cruelty, and being both wanton and cruel,
it will stand out as the typical atrocity of German militarism.
Only those who are familiar with the history of Belgium and Brabant,
and with the history of Belgian Universities, know what Louvain and
the University stood for. Founded in 1425, in the days of Petrarch,
Froissart, and Chaucer, it was one of the oldest and most illustrious
seats of learning in Europe. It was the seat of Pope Adrian VI,
the tutor of Charles V. It still remained the most famous Catholic
University in the world. It still attracted scholars from every
country. It was still the nursery of Irish, English, and American
priests.
And not only had Louvain 500 years of learning behind it, it was also a
city with a magnificent municipal tradition. The town hall, one of the
gems of Gothic architecture, was a glorious monument to that municipal
tradition. By the destruction of Louvain the German soldiery have
wiped out five centuries of religious and intellectual culture and of
municipal freedom.
II--THE TRUTH ABOUT GERMAN ATROCITIES
Wherever the Germans have perpetrated some atrocious crime they have
used the same threadbare excuse--the shooting of German soldiers by
civilians. Civilians fired on German soldiers at Visé, therefore Visé
was razed to the ground. The fourteen-year-old son of the Burgomaster
of Aerschot killed a German officer, therefore the whole city of
Aerschot had to be destroyed. Similarly, it was to avenge the murder of
German soldiers that Louvain was burned. It is the civilian population
of Louvain who must ultimately be held responsible.
On the face of it, the German version is an incredible invention.
Louvain was in the occupation of German troops. _All the arms had
been handed in days before by the civil population._ The authorities
had posted placards recommending tranquility to the population, and
warning them that any individual act of hostility would bring down
instant vengeance. Those placards could still be read on the walls
on the day of the destruction of Louvain. Under those circumstances,
is it credible that a few peaceful citizens should have brought down
destruction by their own deliberate act, which they knew would be met
with instant and ruthless retribution?
But even assuming that individual Belgians had been guilty of firing
on the German troops, supposing a civilian exasperated by the
monstrous treatment described in the narrative of Mr. Van Ernem, the
Town Treasurer. When the Belgian troops were repulsed by the enemy's
crushing numbers, and the Germans had put their big guns in position
on all the heights dominating the town, the Germans sent a deputation
to the Burgomaster, who agreed to receive the officers to hear their
proposals and conditions for occupying the town.
The German General with his état-major then came to the town hall to
confer with the Burgomaster, councillors, and myself as treasurer of
the town.
These were the stipulated conditions.
First: That the town should fully provide for the invaders, in
consideration of which no war contributions would be exacted.
Secondly: The soldiers not billeted in private houses were to pay cash
for all goods obtained; also, they were not to molest the inhabitants
under any circumstances.
These stiplations, agreed to on both sides, were most scrupulously kept
by the Belgians, but not by the Germans. On certain days, for example,
the Germans would exact 67,000 pounds of meat, and would let 20,000
pounds of it rot, although the population were suffering from hunger.
On Monday, August 24, toward 10 P. M., the Burgomaster--a respectable
merchant, sixty-two years of age--was arrested in his bed, where he was
lying ill. He was forced to rise and marched to the railway station,
where it was demanded of him that he should provide immediately 250
warm meals and as many mattresses for the soldiers, under penalty of
being shot. With admirable dispatch the inhabitants rushed to comply
with the German demand. In their solicitude and pity for their aged
chief, and their anxiety to save his life, they gave their own beds and
their last drops of wine.
The Germans acted without the slightest consideration or regard for the
faithful promises of their état-major. The troops rushed into private
houses, making forcible entrances, and taking from old and young,
many of the latter already orphans, whatever they fancied, paying
for nothing except with paper money to be presented to the "caisse
communal" at the end of the war.
The promise of exemption from contribution to a war levy was violated,
like every other contract. Failing to find enough money in the
treasury, the Germans in authority ordered the immediate payment of
100,000 francs.
This large sum could not be gathered from the inhabitants, and nearly
all the banks had on the first warning of the approach of the enemy
succeeded in transferring their funds to the National Bank.
Finally, after much bickering, the officer in command of the German
troops agreed to accept 3,000 fr., to be paid the next day. But with
the next morning came a further demand for 5,000 fr. The Burgomaster
vigorously protested against this new exaction; but nevertheless I,
as treasurer of the town, was held responsible for collecting 5,000
fr. With the greatest difficulty, I succeeded in procuring 3,080 fr.,
and after considerable bickering this sum was accepted by the enemy,
and the horrors of reprisals were delayed. The population, conscious
of the terrible risk which they ran, submitted with calm resignation
to the inevitable. As a functionary of the city, I can vouch for the
absolutely dignified and passive attitude of the whole population
of Louvain. They understood perfectly well their grave individual
responsibility, and that any break of their promises would be instantly
met by crushing action.
The position of affairs was minutely explained to the inhabitants in
several printed proclamations, and they were personally warned by our
venerable Burgomaster. Good order was so rigorously maintained that the
German authorities praised the exemplary conduct of the inhabitants.
This attitude was all the more laudable because the invaders,
immediately upon entering the city, liberated nine of their compatriots
who had been incarcerated before the war for murder, theft, and other
felonies.
III--TRUE STORIES OF "THE UNSPEAKABLE CRIME"
At last, on the Tuesday night, there took place the unspeakable crime,
the shame of which can be understood only by those who followed and
watched the different phases of the German occupation of Louvain.
It is a significant fact that the German wounded and sick, including
their Red Cross nurses, were all removed from the hospitals. The
Germans meanwhile proceeded methodically to make a last and supreme
requisition, although they knew the town could not satisfy it.
Towards 6 o'clock the bugle sounded, and officers lodging in private
houses left at once with arms and luggage. At the same time thousands
of additional soldiers, with numerous field-pieces and cannon, marched
into the town to their allotted positions. The gas factory, which
had been idle, had been worked through the previous night and day by
Germans, so that during this premeditated outrage the people could not
take advantage of darkness to escape from the town. A further fact
that proves their premeditation is that the attack took place at 8
o'clock, the exact time at which the population entered their houses in
conformity with the German orders--consequently escape became well-nigh
impossible. At 8.20 a full fusillade with the roar of the cannons came
from all sides of the town at once.
The sky at the same time was lit up with the sinister light of fires
from all quarters. The cavalry charged through the streets, sabring
fugitives, while the infantry, posted on the footpaths, had their
fingers on the triggers of their guns waiting for the unfortunate
people to rush from the houses or appear at the windows, the soldiers
complimenting each other on their marksmanship as they fired at the
unhappy fugitives.
Those whose homes were not yet destroyed were ordered to quit and
follow the soldiers to the railway station. There the men were
separated from mothers, wives, and children, and thrown, some bound,
into trains leaving in the direction of Germany.
I cannot but feel that, following the system they have inaugurated
in this campaign, the Germans will use these non-combatant prisoners
as human shields when they are fighting the Allies. The cruelty of
these madmen surpasses all limits. They shot numbers of absolutely
inoffensive people, forcing those who survived to bury their dead in
the square, already encumbered with corpses whose positions suggested
that they had fallen with arms uplifted in token of surrender.
Others who have been allowed to live were driven past approving drunken
officers by the brutal use of rifle butts, and while they were being
maltreated they saw their carefully collected art and other treasures
being shared out by the soldiers, the officers looking on. Those
who attempted to appeal to their tormentors' better feelings were
immediately shot. A few were let loose, but most of them were sent to
Germany.
On Wednesday at daybreak the remaining women and children were driven
out of the town--a lamentable spectacle--with uplifted arms and under
the menace of bayonets and revolvers.
The day was practically calm. The destruction of the most beautiful
part of the town seemed to have momentarily soothed the barbarian rage
of the invaders.
On the Thursday the remnant of the Civil Guard was called up on
the pretext of extinguishing the conflagration; those who demurred
were chained and sent with some wounded Germans to the Fatherland.
The population had to quit at a moment's notice before the final
destruction.
Then, to complete their devastation, the German hordes fell back on the
surrounding villages to burn them. They tracked down the men--some were
shot, some made prisoners--and during many long hours they tortured the
helpless women and children. This country of Eastern Brabant, so rich,
so fertile, and so beautiful, is to-day a deserted charnel-house.
Why should these individual deeds have been visited on thousands of
innocent and inoffensive people? Why should those deeds have been
visited on monuments of brick and stone? Why should treasuries of
learning and shrines of religion be destroyed? Why should the six
centuries of European history be destroyed because of the acts of a few
patriots acting under the impulse of terror or indignation?
As I said, the whole truth cannot yet be revealed. It is difficult
to disentangle the facts even from ocular witnesses, from terrorized
victims who were present at the ghastly crime. I have cross-examined
some of those witnesses. I have read private letters from my cousin,
Professor Albert Nerincx, at present Acting-Burgomaster of Louvain, who
assumed office when the civic authorities had left, and whose heroic
conduct is one of the few bright spots in the tragedy. Comparing and
collating all the evidence at our disposal, we may take the following
version given by the Belgian Commission of Inquiry as substantially
correct:
"On Tuesday evening a German corps, after receiving a check, withdrew
in disorder into the town of Louvain. A German guard at the entrance of
the town mistook the nature of this incursion and fired on their routed
fellow-countrymen, mistaking them for Belgians.
"In spite of all denials from the authorities the Germans, in order
to cover their mistake, pretended that it was the inhabitants who had
fired on them, whereas the inhabitants, including the police, had been
disarmed more than a week ago.
"Without inquiry, and without listening to any protests, the German
Commander-in-Chief announced that the town would be immediately
destroyed. The inhabitants were ordered to leave their dwellings; a
party of men were made prisoners and the women and children put into
trains the destination of which is unknown. Soldiers furnished with
bombs set fire to all parts of the town."
IV--MURDER--LOOT--RAPINE--IN BELGIUM
An Oxford student who visited the scene of the disaster with Mr. Henry
Fürst, of Exeter College, Oxford, on August 29, gives the following
description of the awful picture:
"Burning houses were every moment falling into the roads; shooting
was still going on. The dead and dying, burnt and burning, lay on all
sides. Over some the Germans had placed sacks. I saw about half a dozen
women and children. In one street I saw two little children walking
hand in hand over the bodies of dead men. I have no words to describe
these things. I hope people will not make too much of the saving of the
Hôtel de Ville.
"The Hôtel de Ville was standing on Friday morning last, and, as we
plainly saw, every effort was being made to save it from the flames. We
were told by German officers that it was not to be destroyed. I have
personally no doubt that it is still standing. The German officers
dashing about the streets in fine motor-cars made a wonderful sight.
They were well-dressed, shaven, and contented-looking; they might have
been assisting at a fashionable race-meeting. The soldiers were looting
everywhere; champagne, wines, boots, cigars--everything was being
carried off."
But let it not be thought that Louvain was destroyed in vain. To the
Belgian people it has meant more than a glorious victory. To the
Germans it has been more disastrous than the most ignominious defeat.
Until Louvain neutral peoples might still hesitate in their sympathies.
Pacifists might still waver as to the justice of the cause. After
Louvain any hesitation or doubt became impossible. The destruction of
Louvain was needed to drive home the meaning of German culture. The
crime of Louvain branded the German rulers and the commanders of the
German armies as the enemies of the human race.
* * * * *
The atrocities committed by the German armies have roused the
indignation of both hemispheres. They have placed Germany outside the
pale of civilization. They have covered the German armies with eternal
infamy. In the full light of the twentieth century the German terror
has outdone the deeds and wiped out the memory of the Spanish terror.
We make ample allowances for wild rumors bred of panic, although
in the present instance the panic caused by the mere approach of
the German soldiery is in itself a most significant symptom. If the
German armies had observed the laws of civilized warfare which protect
the defenceless inhabitants, there would have been no need for the
population to fly for their lives, and there would not be at present a
million homeless exiles wandering over the high roads of Holland.
* * * * *
(Dr. Sarolea describes the vicissitudes of Belgian triumphants
alternating with Belgian reverses, the pathetic story of brave endeavor
and of suffering nobly endured in the noblest of causes. The Defense of
Liège, the fall of Namur, the capture of Brussels and the beleaguering
of Antwerp: the destruction of Dinant and Termonde, the bursting of the
dykes of the Scheldt, the German Terror and the wholesale exodus of the
stricken nation which through all time will be the favorite theme of
historians and poets.)
FOOTNOTE:
[3] All numerals throughout this volume relate to the stories herein
told--not to chapters in the original books.
THE BISHOP OF LONDON'S VISIT TO THE FRONT
_Taking the Message of Christ to the Battle Lines_
_Told by The Reverend G. Vernon Smith, Resident Chaplain to the Bishop
of London, Deputy Priest in Ordinary to the King_
This is an account of how a Bishop of the Church of England visited
the troops at the front. He went to France as the guest of Sir John
French, Field Marshall of the British Army, to spend Holy Week and
Easter with the troops. The chaplain who relates these experiences
was one of the guests. He said before he left London, the Bishop
received most cordial letters of God-speed from the Bishops of
Canterbury and York. The Bishop's first evening in France was spent
at the Soldiers' Institute at Boulogne, and this building was
packed with soldiers at a concert. He then started in a motor car
for the headquarters of the British Army, where he was received by
the Field Marshall with all the members of the staff. A complete
record of his journeys has been published by _Longmans, Green and
Company_, with whose permission the following chapter is here
presented.
[4] I--HOLY COMMUNION AT THE FRONT
It was in ---- that the Bishop for the first time came close to the
actual front and within range of the German guns. The cars were at the
door of the house where the Bishop was billeted, in a quiet little
side-street, at 6:45 in the morning, for an early start had been
arranged.
We drove through the narrow streets to one of the large Hospitals in
the town, where he celebrated the Holy Communion at seven o'clock for
those of the officers and patients who wished to attend. After this
service the other patients came in for morning prayers, at which the
Bishop said a few words to them. It was invariably the case, when the
Bishop visited a hospital, that there were many patients who wished to
have a word with him. There were always, also, some men to whom, for
some special reason, the Medical Officer or Chaplain wished to take
him, and not infrequently in the Officers' Hospitals there were men
whom he knew personally.
It was, therefore, a hard task to keep up to time in saying "Good-bye"
at a hospital, and Mr. Macpherson, whom the Bishop soon called his
"nigger-driver," and who was responsible for seeing that the time-table
was strictly kept--a task of considerable difficulty--had generally to
remind the Bishop at a suitable moment that his car was waiting at the
door.
In a few minutes we had arrived at the Jute Factory again, where thirty
men were ready and waiting to be confirmed in the little Chapel which
has been carefully partitioned off in one corner of the building.
It had been arranged that on this day the Bishop should visit some of
the London Regiments that have recently gone to the front. Naturally
he always looked forward with special eagerness to an opportunity of
meeting, in these fresh surroundings, London men, to so many of whom he
has spoken and preached in his diocese. Fortunately he was able in the
course of the week to visit nearly all these regiments, although some
of the men who were in the trenches could not, of course, be present
at his services. To us, coming out from London, it was a great source
of satisfaction and pride to hear of the high esteem in which these
Territorial regiments are held by the leaders of our Army.
It was not a very long time, as the motors slipped along the quiet
country roads, before we began to hear the distant sound of guns, and
as long as we were within a short distance of the firing-line there was
seldom an hour in which guns could not be distinctly heard.
Here and there, too, could be seen a battery hidden beneath a belt of
trees, or sheltered under the hedge by the side of the road. We were
curious to see how the countryside would look after its long occupation
by the British Army. We had expected, perhaps, to see more signs of
war, although we had not known what to anticipate.
Beyond the fact that there were many bodies of troops moving on the
roads, and that many farms and other large houses had notices fixed
up outside to show they were the Headquarters of some unit, there
was nothing, as a rule, except in the areas which have been actually
shelled, to give any indication of the terrible nature of the struggle
which is being waged so close at hand. Indeed, if the road took us to
the top of one of the few hills in that country, and we looked out over
the landscape, just beginning to show the first touches of spring,
it was almost impossible to realize that between us and the horizon
stretched that long valley of trenches which divides the two great
armies.
When we drove along the roads at some distance from the actual front,
it was often hard to believe that this was the real seat of war; but a
passing transport wagon or a patrol of cavalry riding by soon reminded
us of stern realities. The recent absence of rain, and the warm sun,
had caused the roads to dry up considerably, and many officers seemed
to be quite disappointed not to be able to show us many samples of
the mud to which they had become so accustomed, and of which we had
heard so much. We wondered, also, very much how the men would look
after their hard and trying winter. Certainly I was surprised to notice
how very clean and tidy they invariably appeared to be; although, of
course, uniforms must show signs of wear and tear. In every case,
except where the men were actually fresh from the trenches, the
Battalions presented a smart appearance.
II--SOLDIERS SINGING: "JESUS LOVER OF MY SOUL"
At our first halt a Battalion of the London Regiment was drawn up on
parade in a field, and for the first time we opened the large red box
and handed round the hymn-sheets. It was here that we were to begin to
understand the wonderful uplifting power of our great English hymns
when they are sung on great occasions. After all, the heart of a nation
is often to be found in its hymns. They express a simple theology in
simple terms, and words and tunes of hymns learned in childhood are
very dear to men, even if in the rush of life they have not, as many
said, "found much time for religion before I came to France." The
Bishop had chosen hymns which he knew would be familiar to all the men
of all denominations.
Only four hymns were sung throughout the week--"When I Survey the
Wondrous Cross," "Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me," "There Is a Green
Hill Far Away," and "Jesus, Lover of My Soul"--hymns which are known
throughout the world wherever British men have gone. There was no
necessity to have an accompaniment, for everybody knew the tunes. Once
or twice a band was present, and now and then a small harmonium was
used, but as a rule the hymns were sung unaccompanied, except by the
thunder of the guns.
It is always moving and inspiring to join in hymns when they are
sung by large bodies of men, especially when those hymns have been
associated with great moments in our lives, but never before can these
familiar tunes have had such a setting; never, certainly, have they
been sung more reverently or with greater earnestness. Perhaps, as
children they liked the tunes best, but now that they have become men
and put away childish things, the soldiers think first of the words.
How much those words meant to many hearts no one but He to Whom all
hearts are open can ever know; but that they moved thoughts too deep
for words was clearly written on every face in those great gatherings
of men. As they must have raised many memories of childhood in the
hearts of many of the men, so now they will in future years be sung by
many with another and a deeper memory of the occasions when they were
sung upon the battlefields of Flanders in the days of the Great War.
There was one verse in the Gospels which was continually in my mind at
these great services. In Holy Week, of course, we were often thinking
of that last night of our Lord with His disciples in the upper room at
Jerusalem before He went out to His great battle in Gethsemane, and on
the Cross: "When they had sung an hymn, they went out into the Mount of
Olives."
We were with men at the great moments of their lives, many of them
having come straight out of the trenches, many going back to the
trenches in but a few moments after we had left them--men who had
been in battle, and men who were preparing for battle. Nobody who was
present at those services would ever forget what it meant to say: "And
when they had sung a hymn, they went back to the trenches."
Every service, of course, was closed with the National Anthem. At
the front, men seem instinctively to know that this great hymn is in
reality a prayer, and on not a few occasions the whole body of men
reverently sang "Amen" at the conclusion of the last line. So also "God
Save the King" will have won for itself an even deeper place in the
hearts of men than that which it has held for so many generations.
From the open field, it was not far to pass on to a little French town
where another regiment was drawn up in the principal square. No more
suitable place could have been chosen for a service, and a wagon, which
served as a pulpit for the Bishop, was just in front of the western
door of the fine old church.
III--"THE KINGDOM OF GOD"--NEAR THE GUNS
To see a Bishop of the Anglican Communion preaching in France at the
door of a Roman Catholic church raised many thoughts in my mind.
I could not but hope that these days of trial may draw the Allies
together by something that is deeper than the bonds of friendship.
We had heard not infrequently of the sympathetic help which is being
offered by many priests of the Roman Catholic Church to our own
Chaplains, and I thought, as many are thinking at this time, that if
the war could serve in any way to help the two great Communions to
understand better their distinctive points of view, some real step
will have been taken to advance the cause of the Kingdom of God.
This service was reverently watched by a considerable number of the
inhabitants of the place.
After holding a short service for two batteries near their guns, the
Bishop came to another open square where a Brigade was assembled, which
included a regiment almost, if not entirely, recruited from East
London. The East Londoner has his own unique characteristics, and his
friends will be glad to know that he is just as cheerful and bright in
France at war as he is in England in times of peace. It was hard to
distinguish faces, but as the regiment swung by the place where I was
standing, I saw many who remembered me from the time that I spent at
Oxford House, and they waved just as hearty a greeting from the ranks
as they used to wave from the top of a van in the Bethnal Green Road
five years ago.
The deepest note on this day was struck when we came to a little town
filled with British troops, a very large number of whom had been
recently engaged in heavy fighting. The Chaplain had sent a notice
throughout one Division that the Bishop would hold a short service in
the evening for officers, and that this would be followed by a service
for non-commissioned officers and men. As he entered the large hall
which is used for a church in that town, he found at least five hundred
officers, including many Generals, waiting in silence. They had come,
some of them, from considerable distances, and almost every officer
who was off duty in that district must have been present. It was only
a bare, whitewashed building, with a hard stone floor, and a little
platform at the end, but in it were gathered together some of the
flower of the British Army.
There were Generals kneeling side by side with subalterns--men who had
faced together the terrible ordeal of battle. Those who were present
will surely never forget the silence and reverence of that service.
IV--THE CANADIANS--AND A BENEDICTION
After so long a day the Bishop was naturally beginning to feel tired,
and his voice began to show signs of the great tax which frequent
speaking in the open air had placed upon it. But there was one more
gathering at which he was to be present, and in many ways this was the
most striking and memorable of the whole Mission.
The Canadians were there, and they wished to see him. That was quite
enough for the Bishop. His two visits to the Dominion have made Canada
very dear to his heart, and to Canada he will always give of his best.
It was not far to go to the large open square in the town where the
Canadians were waiting for him. The square was packed with men, and in
the center was a statue or fountain--I really could not distinguish
which, so completely was it concealed by the men sitting and standing
upon it.
The last rays of the sun came across the old tiled roofs, and lent a
touch of color to the scene. On one side of the square was the Town
Hall, and the Bishop stood in the balcony, surrounded by the General
and staff officers. It was a moving sight to look down from the balcony
of this old French Town Hall upon this great gathering of men who had
come so many thousands of miles from their homes to fight for the
honor of the Empire. There was no opportunity for an ordinary service.
The gathering darkness would have made it impossible for the men to
read, and, even if it had been lighter, the men were so closely packed
together that hymn-sheets could not have been held.
It is always difficult to estimate numbers, but someone said that
nearly ten thousand men must have been present. When the Bishop
appeared on the balcony there was a Canadian cheer. He is well known in
the Dominion, and the volume of sound left no doubt as to the warmth of
feeling with which he is regarded there.
"This is a sight," he began, "which reminds me of Montreal and
Toronto."
"How about Winnipeg?" came a voice from the crowd, and the men all
laughed. It was a glorious chance to tell them of the way in which the
Mother Country appreciates the splendid loyalty with which her sons
beyond the seas have rallied at the Empire's call, and the Bishop was
not slow to let them know that we in Great Britain rejoice to feel
that the men of Canada and the men of Britain are standing shoulder to
shoulder in France. And then they cheered again.
"Yes, you may cheer that," he added, "while I get breath for the next
sentence." He passed on to speak of the great cause of the freedom of
the world for which the Empire and the Allies are fighting to-day.
Canada, the great self-governing Dominion--free, and yet part of the
Empire--would understand what freedom means.
"Yes, you may cheer that too," the Bishop said, "while I get breath
again."
And then, as he turned to deeper thoughts and closed, he added: "Now
we will all together say the Lord's Prayer." In a flash there was not
a cap to be seen in the square, but only the bared heads of that great
throng of men reverently bent forward in prayer. Then, in absolute
silence, the Bishop gave the Blessing, and as he left the balcony a
staff officer turned to me and said: "That is a really great man."
FOOTNOTE:
[4] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.
"GRAPES OF WRATH"--WITH THE "BIG PUSH" ON THE SOMME
_Twenty-four Hours in the Life of a Private Soldier_
_Told by Boyd Cable, an English Author in the British Army_
Boyd Cable has suddenly become one of the foremost word painters
of active fighting--"the greatest literary discovery of the War."
He is primarily a man of action. At the age of twenty, he joined a
corps of Scouts in the Boer War and fought in South Africa. He then
became a traveler and spent some time in Australia and New Zealand,
in the Philippines, Java and the Islands of the Pacific. He is a
"knight of adventure"--he has been an ordinary seaman, a typewriter
agent, a steamer fireman, office manager, hobo, gold prospector,
coach driver, navvy. He was one of the first men not in the Regular
Army to get a commission and be sent to the front in 1914. As an
observation officer in the artillery, he was "spotted" by the enemy
sharpshooters, got a bullet through his cap, one through the inside
of his sleeve close to his heart, and fifty-three others near
enough for him to hear them pass--all in less than an hour. After
eighteen months of this death-defying work without even a wound,
he was invalided home on account of stomach trouble and then began
to write of his adventures. His books, "Behind the Line," "Action
Front," and "Doing Their Bit," are acknowledged to be the most
vivid and stimulating pictures of the War as seen by the men in the
trenches. We here record his story of the tanks from his volume of
tales entitled "Grapes of Wrath," by permission of his publishers,
_E. P. Dutton and Company_: Copyright 1917.
[5] I--STORY OF "KENTUCKY"--AN AMERICAN IN THE BRITISH TRENCHES
Soon after Kentucky rejoined them the Stonewalls were moved forward a
little clear of the village they had helped to take, just as one or two
heavy shells whooped over from the German guns and dropped crashing on
the ground that had been theirs. The men were spread out along shell
holes and told to dig in for better cover because a bit of a redoubt on
the left flank hadn't been taken and bullets were falling in enfilade
from it.
"Dig, you cripples," said the sergeant, "dig in. Can't you see that
if they counter-attack from the front now you'll get shot in the back
while you're lining the front edge of those shell holes. Get to it
there, you Pug."
"Shot in the back, linin' the front," said Pug as the sergeant passed
on. "Is it a conundrum, Kentuck?"
"Sounds sort of mixed," admitted Kentucky. "But it's tainted some with
the truth. That redoubt is half rear to us. If another lot comes at us
in front and we get up on the front edge of this shell hole, there's
nothing to stop the redoubt bullets hitting us in the back. Look at
that," he concluded, nodding upward to where a bullet had smacked
noisily into the mud above their heads as they squatted in the hole.
The two commenced wearily to cut out with their trenching tools a
couple of niches in the sides of the crater which would give them
protection from the flank and rear bullets. They made reasonably
secure cover and then stayed to watch a hurricane bombardment that was
developing on the redoubt. "_Goo_ on the guns," said Pug joyfully.
"That's the talk; smack 'em about."
The gunners "smacked 'em about" with fifteen savage minutes' deluge
of light and heavy shells, blotting out the redoubt in a whirlwind of
fire-flashes, belching smoke clouds and dust haze. Then suddenly the
tempest ceased to play there, lifted and shifted and fell roaring in a
wall of fire and steel beyond the low slope which the redoubt crowned.
With past knowledge of what the lift and the further barrage meant the
two men in the shell-pit turned and craned their necks and looked out
along the line.
"There they go," said Pug suddenly, and "Attacking round a
half-circle," said Kentucky. The British line was curved in a horseshoe
shape about the redoubt and the two being out near one of the points
could look back and watch clearly the infantry attack launching from
the center and half-way round the sides of the horseshoe. They saw
the khaki figures running heavily, scrambling round and through the
scattered shell holes, and presently, as a crackle of rifle fire rose
and rose and swelled to a sullen roar with the quick, rhythmic clatter
of machine guns beating through it, they saw also the figures stumbling
and falling, the line thinning and shredding out and wasting away under
the withering fire.
The sergeant dodged along the pit-edge above them. "Covering fire," he
shouted, "at four hundred--slam it in," and disappeared. The two opened
fire, aiming at the crest of the slope and beyond the tangle of barbed
wire which alone indicated the position of the redoubt.
They only ceased to fire when they saw the advanced fringe of the line,
of a line by now woefully thinned and weakened, come to the edge of the
barbed wire and try to force a way through it.
"They're beat," gasped Pug. "They're done in ..." and cursed long and
bitterly, fingering nervously at his rifle the while. "Time we rung in
again," said Kentucky. "Aim steady and pitch 'em well clear of the
wire." The two opened careful fire again while the broken remnants of
the attacking line ran and hobbled and crawled back or into the cover
of shell holes. A second wave flooded out in a new assault, but by now
the German artillery joining in helped it and the new line was cut
down, broken and beaten back before it had covered half the distance to
the entanglements. Kentucky and Pug and others of the Stonewalls near
them could only curse helplessly as they watched the tragedy and plied
their rifles in a slender hope of some of their bullets finding those
unseen loopholes and embrasures.
II--HIS MAJESTY'S LAND SHIP--"WE ARE HERE"
"An' wot's the next item o' the program, I wonder?" said Pug half an
hour after the last attack had failed, half an hour filled with a
little shooting, a good deal of listening to the pipe and whistle of
overhead bullets and the rolling thunder of the guns, a watching of the
shells falling and spouting earth and smoke on the defiant redoubt.
"Reinforcements and another butt-in at it, I expect," surmised
Kentucky. "Don't see anything else for it. Looks like this
pimple-on-the-map of a redoubt was holdin' up any advance on this
front. Anyhow I'm not hankering to go pushin' on with that redoubt
bunch shootin' holes in my back, which they'd surely do."
"Wot's all the buzz about be'ind us?" said Pug suddenly, raising
himself for a quick look over the covering edge of earth behind him,
and in the act of dropping again stopped and stared with raised
eyebrows and gaping mouth.
"What is it?" said Kentucky quickly, and also rose, and also stayed
risen and staring in amazement. Towards them, lumbering and rolling,
dipping heavily into the shell holes, heaving clumsily out of them,
moving with a motion something between that of a half-sunken ship and a
hamstrung toad, striped and banded and splashed from head to foot, or,
if you prefer, from fo'c'sl-head to cutwater, with splashes of lurid
color, came His Majesty's Land Ship "Here We Are."
"Gor-_strewth_!" ejaculated Pug. "Wha-what is it?"
Kentucky only gasped.
"'Ere," said Pug hurriedly, "let's gerrout o' this. It's comin' over
atop of us," and he commenced to scramble clear.
But a light of understanding was dawning on Kentucky's face and a wide
grin growing on his lips. "It's one of the Tanks," he said, and giggled
aloud as the Here We Are dipped her nose and slid head first into a
huge shell-crater in ludicrous likeness to a squat bull-pup sitting
back on its haunches and dragged into a hole: "I've heard lots about
'em, but the seein' beats all the hearin' by whole streets," and he and
Pug laughed aloud together as the Here We Are's face and gun-port eyes
and bent-elbow driving gear appeared above the crater rim in still more
ridiculous resemblance to an amazed toad emerging from a rain-barrel.
The creature lumbered past them, taking in its stride the narrow trench
dug to link up the shell holes, and the laughter on Kentucky's lips
died to thoughtfully serious lines as his eye caught the glint of fat,
vicious-looking gun muzzles peering from their ports.
"Haw haw haw," guffawed Pug as the monster lurched drunkenly, checked
and steadied itself with one foot poised over a deep hole, halted and
backed away, and edged nervously round the rim of the hole. "See them
machine guns pokin' out, Kentucky," he continued delightedly. "They
won't 'arf pepper them Huns when they gets near enough."
Fifty yards in the wake of the Here We Are a line of men followed
up until an officer halted them along the front line where Pug and
Kentucky were posted.
"You blokes just takin' 'im out for an airin'?" Pug asked one of the
newcomers. "Oughtn't you to 'ave 'im on a leadin' string?"
"Here we are, Here we are again," chanted the other and giggled
spasmodically. "An' ain't he just hot stuff! But wait till you see 'im
get to work with his sprinklers."
"Does 'e bite?" asked Pug, grinning joyously. "Oughtn't you to 'ave 'is
muzzle on?"
"Bite," retorted another. "He's a bloomin' Hun-eater. Jes' gulps 'em
whole, coal-scuttle 'ats an' all."
"He's a taed," said another. "A lollopin, flat-nosed, splay-fittit,
ugly puddock, wi's hin' legs stuck oot whaur his front should be."
"Look at 'im, oh, look at 'im ... he's alive, lad, nobbut alive."...
"Does every bloomin' thing but talk."... "Skatin' he is now, skatin' on
'is off hind leg," came a chorus of delighted comment.
"Is he goin' to waltz in and take that redoubt on his ownsum?" asked
Kentucky. "No," some one told him. "We give him ten minutes' start and
then follow on and pick up the pieces, and the prisoners."
III--HOW THE "TOMMIES" CHEERED THE "PEPPER POTS"--TANK TALES
They lay there laughing and joking and watching the uncouth antics of
the monster waddling across the shell-riddled ground, cheering when
it appeared to trip and recover itself, cheering when it floundered
sideways into a hole and crawled out again, cheering most wildly of
all when it reached the barbed-wire entanglements, waddled through,
bursting them apart and trailing them in long tangles behind it, or
trampling them calmly under its churning caterpillar-wheel-bands. It
was little wonder they cheered and less wonder they laughed. The Here
We Are's motions were so weirdly alive and life-like, so playfully
ponderous, so massively ridiculous, that it belonged by nature to
nothing outside a Drury Lane Panto. At one moment it looked exactly
like a squat tug-boat in a heavy cross sea or an ugly tide-rip,
lurching, dipping, rolling rail and rail, plunging wildly bows under,
tossing its nose up and squattering again stern-rail deep, pitching
and heaving and diving and staggering, but always pushing forward.
Next minute it was a monster out of Prehistoric Peeps, or a new patent
fire-breathing dragon from the pages of a very Grimm Fairy Tale, nosing
its way blindly over the Fairy Prince's pitfalls; next it was a big
broad-buttocked sow nuzzling and rooting as it went; next it was a
drunk man reeling and staggering, rolling and falling, scrabbling and
crawling; next it was--was anything on or in, or underneath the earth,
anything at all except a deadly, grim, purposeful murdering product of
modern war.
The infantry pushed out after it when it reached the barbed wire,
and although they took little heed to keep cover--being much more
concerned not to miss any of the grave and comic antics of their giant
joke than to shelter from flying bullets--the line went on almost
without casualties. "Mighty few bullets about this time," remarked
Kentucky, who with Pug had moved out along with the others "to see the
fun." "That's 'cos they're too busy with the old Pepper-pots, an' the
Pepper-pots is too busy wi' them to leave much time for shootin' at
us," said Pug gayly. It was true too. The Pepper-pots--a second one
had lumbered into sight from the center of the horseshoe curve--were
drawing a tearing hurricane of machine-gun bullets that beat and
rattled on their armored sides like hail on a window-pane. They waddled
indifferently through the storm and Here We Are, crawling carefully
across a trench, halted half-way over and sprinkled bullets up and
down its length to port and starboard for a minute, hitched itself
over, steered straight for a fire-streaming machine-gun embrasure. It
squirted a jet of lead into the loophole, walked on, butted at the
emplacement once or twice, got a grip of it under the upward sloped
caterpillar band, climbed jerkily till it stood reared up on end like
a frightened colt, ground its driving bands round and round, and--fell
forward on its face with a cloud of dust belching up and out from the
collapsed dug-out. Then it crawled out of the wreckage, crunching over
splintered beams and broken concrete, wheeled and cruised casually down
the length of a crooked trench, halting every now and then to spray
bullets on any German who showed or to hail a stream of them down the
black entrance to a dug-out, straying aside to nose over any suspicious
cranny, swinging round again to plod up the slope in search of more
trenches.
The infantry followed up, cheering and laughing like children at a
fair, rounding up batches of prisoners who crawled white-faced and with
scared eyes from dug-out doors and trench corners, shouting jests and
comments at the lumbering Pepper-pots.
A yell went up as the Here We Are, edging along a trench, lurched
suddenly, staggered, side-slipped, and half disappeared in a fog of
dust. The infantry raced up and found it with its starboard driving
gear grinding and churning full power and speed of revolution above
ground and the whole port side and gear down somewhere in the depths of
the collapsed trench, grating and squealing and flinging out clods of
earth as big as clothes-baskets. Then the engines eased, slowed, and
stopped, and after a little and in answer to the encouraging yells of
the men outside, a scuttle jerked open and a grimy figure crawled out.
"Blimey," said Pug rapturously, "'ere's Jonah 'isself. Ol' Pepper-pot's
spewed 'im out."
IV--JONAH'S SHIP RECHRISTENED--"THE D.T.'S"
But "Jonah" addressed himself pointedly and at some length to the
laughing spectators, and they, urged on by a stream of objurgation and
invective, fell to work with trenching-tools, with spades retrieved
from the trench, with bare hands and busy fingers, to break down the
trench-side under Here We Are's starboard driver, and pile it down
into the trench and under the uplifted end of her port one. The second
Pepper-pot cruised up and brought to adjacent to the operations with
a watchful eye on the horizon. It was well she did, for suddenly a
crowd of Germans seeing or sensing that one of the monsters was out of
action, swarmed out of cover on the crest and came storming down on
the party. Here We Are could do nothing; but the sister ship could,
and did, do quite a lot to those Germans. It sidled round so as to
bring both bow guns and all its broadside to bear and let loose a
close-quarter tornado of bullets that cut the attackers to rags. The
men who had ceased digging to grab their rifles had not time to fire
a shot before the affair was over and "Jonah" was again urging them
to their spade-work. Then when he thought the way ready, Here We Are
at his orders steamed ahead again, its lower port side scraping and
jarring along the trench wall, the drivers biting and gripping at the
soft ground. Jerkily, a foot at a time, it scuffled its way along the
trench till it came to a sharp angle of it where a big shell hole had
broken down the wall. But just as the starboard driver was reaching
out over the shell hole and the easy job of plunging into it, gaining
a level keel and climbing out the other side, the trench wall on the
right gave way and the Here We Are sank its starboard side level to and
then below the port one. She had fallen bodily into a German dug-out,
but after a pause to regain its shaken breath--or the crew's--it began
once more to revolve its drivers slowly, and to churn out behind them,
first a cloud of dust and clots of earth, then, as the starboard
driver bit deeper into the dug-out, a mangled débris of clothing and
trench-made furniture. On the ground above the infantry stood shrieking
with laughter, while the frantic skipper raved unheard-of oaths and the
Here We Are pawed and hoofed behind, or caught on its driving band and
hoisted in turn into the naked light of day, a splintered bedstead,
a chewed-up blanket or two, separately and severally the legs, back,
and seat of a red velvet armchair, a torn gray coat and a forlorn and
muddy pair of pink pajama trousers tangled up in one officer's field
boot. And when the drivers got their grip again and the Here We are
rolled majestically forward and up the further sloping side of the
shell-crater and halted to take the skipper aboard again, Pug dragged
a long branch from the fascines in the trench débris, slid it up one
leg and down the other of the pink pajamas, tied the boot by its laces
to the tip and jammed the root into a convenient crevice in the Tank's
stern. And so beflagged she rolled her triumphant way up over the
captured redoubt and down the other side, with the boot-tip bobbing
and swaying and jerking at the end of her pink tail. The sequel to
her story may be told here, although it only came back to the men who
decorated her after filtering round the firing line, up and down the
communication lines, round half the hospitals and most of the messes
at or behind the Front.
And many as came to be the Tales of the Tanks, this of the Pink-Tailed
'un, as Pug called her, belonged unmistakably to her and, being so, was
joyfully recognized and acclaimed by her decorators. She came in due
time across the redoubt, says the story, and bore down on the British
line at the other extreme of the horseshoe to where a certain infantry
C.O., famed in past days for a somewhat speedy and hectic career,
glared in amazement at the apparition lurching and bobbing and bowing
and crawling toad-like towards him.
"I knew," he is reported to have afterwards admitted, "I knew it
couldn't be that I'd got 'em again. But in the old days I always had
one infallible sign. Crimson rats and purple snakes I might get over;
but if they had pink tails, I knew I was in for it certain. And I
tell you it gave me quite a turn to see this blighter waddling up and
wagging the old pink tail."
But this end of the story only came to the Stonewalls long enough
after--just as it is said to have come in time to the ears of the Here
We Are's skipper, and, mightily pleasing him and his crew, set him
chuckling delightedly and swearing he meant to apply and in due and
formal course obtain permission to change his land-ship's name, and
having regretfully parted with the pink tail, immortalize it in the
name of H.M.L.S. _The D.T.'s_.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.
A NOVELIST AND SOLDIER ON THE BATTLE LINE
_Letters by Coningsby Dawson_
_British-American Author of Many Notable Books_
Coningsby Dawson, the brilliant young novelist, was 31 years of
age at the outbreak of the war. He was graduated with honors from
Oxford in 1905 and came to the United States to take a theological
course at Union Seminary. After a year at the Seminary, he reached
the conclusion that his life work lay in literature. His family
left England and established their home in Taunton, Massachusetts.
Here, young Dawson began the career which is to place him in the
front rank of modern novelists. At the outbreak of the Great War,
he laid his pen aside and took up his sword for his native country.
Enlisting with the gallant Canadians, he went to the front where
he soon became a lieutenant. His letters home have been collected
by his father and published in book form under the title "Carry
On--Letters in War Time" by _John Lane Company_: Copyright 1917.
These intimate letters written from dug-outs on the Somme battle
fronts in the intervals of incessant artillery fire reveal the
heart of the young man who embodies the elements of greatness.
They breathe the very spirit of heroism. Several of the most
inspirational of these letters are here reproduced.
[6] I--WITH 6,000 TROOPS AND A CONVOY
Ottawa, July 16th, 1916.
DEAREST ALL:
So much has happened since last I saw you that it's difficult to know
where to start. On Thursday, after lunch, I got the news that we were
to entrain from Petewawa next Friday morning. I at once put in for
leave to go to Ottawa the next day until the following Thursday at
Reveille. We came here with a lot of the other officers who are going
over and have been having a very full time.
I am sailing from a port unknown on board the _Olympic_ with 6,000
troops--there is to be a big convoy. I feel more than ever I did--and
I'm sure it's a feeling that you share since visiting the camp--that I
am setting out on a Crusade from which it would have been impossible
to withhold myself with honor. I go quite gladly and contentedly, and
pray that in God's good time we may all sit again in the little shack
at Kootenay and listen to the rustling of the orchard outside. It will
be of those summer days that I shall be thinking all the time.
Yours, with very much love,
CON.
II--OFF FOR FRANCE--ACROSS THE CHANNEL
Shorncliff, August 30th, 1916.
MY DEARESTS:
I have just returned from sending you a cable to let you know that I'm
off to France. The word came out in orders yesterday, and I shall leave
before the end of the week with a draft of officers--I have been in
England just a day over four weeks....
Selfishly I wish that you were here at this moment--actually I'm glad
that you are away. Everybody goes out quite unemotionally and with very
few good-byes--we made far more fuss in the old days about a week-end
visit.
Now that at last it has come--this privileged moment for which I have
worked and waited--my heart is very quiet. It's the test of a character
which I have often doubted. I shall be glad not to have to doubt it
again. Whatever happens, I know you will be glad to remember that at a
great crisis I tried to play the man, however small my qualifications.
We have always lived so near to one another's affections that this
going out alone is more lonely to me than to most men. I have always
had some one near at hand with love-blinded eyes to see my faults
as springing from higher motives. Now I reach out my hands across
six thousand miles and only touch yours with my imagination to say
good-bye. What queer sights these eyes, which have been almost your
eyes, will witness! If my hands do anything respectable, remember that
it is your hands that are doing it. It is your influence as a family
that has made me ready for the part I have to play, and where I go, you
follow me.
Poor little circle of three loving persons, please be tremendously
brave. Don't let anything turn you into cowards--we've all got to be
worthy of each other's sacrifice; the greater the sacrifice may prove
to be for the one the greater the nobility demanded of the remainder.
How idle the words sound, and yet they will take deep meanings when
time has given them graver sanctions. I think gallant is the word I've
been trying to find--we must be gallant English women and gentlemen....
How far away the childish past seems--almost as though it never
happened. And was I really the budding novelist in New York? Life has
become so stern and scarlet--and so brave. From my window I look out on
the English Channel, a cold, grey-green sea, with rain driving across
it and a fleet of small craft taking shelter. Over there beyond the
curtain of mist lies France--and everything that awaits me.
News has just come that I have to start. Will continue from France.
Yours ever lovingly,
CON.
III--"HERE I AM IN FRANCE--A SOLDIER"
France, September 1st, 1916.
DEAREST M.:
Here I am in France with the same strange smells and street cries,
and almost the same little boys bowling hoops over the very cobbly
cobble stones. I had afternoon tea at a patisserie and ate a great
many gâteaux for the sake of old times. We had a very choppy crossing,
and you would most certainly have been sick had you been on board. It
seemed to me that I must be coming on one of those romantic holidays to
see churches and dead history--only the khaki-clad figures reminded me
that I was coming to see history in the making. It's a funny world that
batters us about so. It's three years since I was in France--the last
time was with Arthur in Provence. It's five years since you and I did
our famous trip together.
I wish you were here--there are heaps of English nurses in the
streets. I expect to sleep in this place and proceed to my destination
to-morrow. How I wish I could send you a really descriptive letter! If
I did, I fear you would not get it--so I have to write in generalities.
None of this seems real--it's a kind of wild pretence from which I
shall awake--and when I tell you my dream you'll laugh and say, "How
absurd of you, dreaming that you were a soldier. I must say you look
like it."
Good-bye, my dearest girl,
God bless you,
CON.
IV--"I HAVE SEEN MY FIRST BATTLEFIELD"
September 19th, 1916.
DEAREST FATHER:
I'm writing you your birthday letter early, as I don't know how busy
I may be in the next week, nor how long this may take to reach you.
You know how much love I send you and how I would like to be with you.
D'you remember the birthday three years ago when we set the victrola
going outside your room door? Those were my high-jinks days when very
many things seemed possible. I'd rather be the person I am now than the
person I was then. Life was selfish though glorious.
Well, I've seen my first modern battlefield and am quite disillusioned
about the splendor of war. The splendor is all in the souls of the men
who creep through the squalor like vermin--it's in nothing external.
There was a chap here the other day who deserved the V. C. four times
over by running back through the Hun shell fire to bring news that the
infantry wanted more artillery support. I was observing for my brigade
in the forward station at the time. How he managed to live through the
ordeal nobody knows. But men laugh while they do these things. It's
fine.
A modern battlefield is the abomination of abominations. Imagine a
vast stretch of dead country, pitted with shell-holes as though it had
been mutilated with smallpox. There's not a leaf or a blade of grass
in sight. Every house has either been leveled or is in ruins. No bird
sings. Nothing stirs. The only live sound is at night--the scurry
of rats. You enter a kind of ditch, called a trench; it leads on to
another and another in an unjoyful maze. From the sides feet stick
out, and arms and faces--the dead of previous encounters. "One of our
chaps," you say casually, recognizing him by his boots or khaki, or
"Poor blighter--a Hun!" One can afford to forget enmity in the presence
of the dead. It is horribly difficult sometimes to distinguish between
the living and the slaughtered--they both lie so silently in their
little kennels in the earthen bank. You push on--especially if you
are doing observation work, till you are past your own front line and
out in No Man's Land. You have to crouch and move warily now. Zing! A
bullet from a German sniper. You laugh and whisper, "A near one, that."
My first trip to the trenches was up to No Man's Land. I went in the
early dawn and came to a Madame Tussaud's show of the dead, frozen
into immobility in the most extraordinary attitudes. Some of them were
part way out of the ground, one hand pressed to the wound, the other
pointing, the head sunken and the hair plastered over the forehead
by repeated rains. I kept on wondering what my companions would look
like had they been three weeks dead. My imagination became ingeniously
and vividly morbid. When I had to step over them to pass, it seemed
as though they must clutch at my trench coat and ask me to help. Poor
lonely people, so brave and so anonymous in their death! Somewhere
there is a woman who loved each one of them and would give her life for
my opportunity to touch the poor clay that had been kind to her. It's
like walking through the day of resurrection to visit No Man's Land.
Then the Huns see you and the shrapnel begins to fall--you crouch like
a dog and run for it.
One gets used to shell-fire up to a point, but there's not a man who
doesn't want to duck when he hears one coming. The worst of all is the
whizz-bang, because it doesn't give you a chance--it pounces and is on
you the same moment that it bangs. There's so much I wish that I could
tell you. I can only say this, at the moment we're making history.
What a curious birthday letter! I think of all your other
birthdays--the ones before I met these silent men with the green and
yellow faces, and the blackened lips which will never speak again.
What happy times we have had as a family--what happy jaunts when you
took me in those early days, dressed in a sailor suit, when you went
hunting pictures. Yet, for all the damnability of what I now witness,
I was never quieter in my heart. To have surrendered to an imperative
self-denial brings a peace which self-seeking never brought.
So don't let this birthday be less gay for my absence. It ought to be
the proudest in your life--proud because your example has taught each
of your sons to do the difficult things which seem right. It would have
been a condemnation of you if any one of us had been a shirker.
"I want to buy fine things for you
And be a soldier if I can."
The lines come back to me now. You read them to me first in the dark
little study from a green oblong book. You little thought that I would
be a soldier--even now I can hardly realize the fact. It seems a dream
from which I shall wake up. Am I really killing men day by day? Am I
really in jeopardy myself?
Whatever happens I'm not afraid, and I'll give you reason to be glad of
me.
Very much love,
CON.
V--"I AM IN THE TRENCHES--UNDER FIRE"
November 6th, 1916.
MY DEAR ONES:
Such a wonderful day it has been--I scarcely know where to start. I
came down last night from twenty-four hours in the mud, where I had
been observing. I'd spent the night in a hole dug in the side of the
trench and a dead Hun forming part of the roof. I'd sat there reliving
so many things--the ecstatic moments of my life when I first touched
fame--and my feet were so cold that I could not feel them, so I thought
all the harder of the pleasant things of the past. Then, as I say, I
came back to the gun position to learn that I was to have one day off
at the back of the lines. You can't imagine what that meant to me--one
day in a country that is green, one day where there is no shell-fire,
one day where you don't turn up corpses with your tread! For two months
I have never left the guns except to go forward and I have never been
from under shell-fire. All night long as I have slept the ground had
been shaken by the stamping of the guns--and now after two months,
to come back to comparative normality! The reason for this privilege
being granted was that the powers that be had come to the conclusion
that it was time I had a bath. Since I sleep in my clothes and water
is too valuable for washing anything but the face and hands, they were
probably right in their guess at my condition.
So with the greatest holiday of my life in prospect I went to the empty
gunpit in which I sleep, and turned in. This morning I set out early
with my servant, tramping back across the long, long battlefields which
our boys have won. The mud was knee-deep in places, but we floundered
on till we came to our old and deserted gun-position where my horses
waited for me. From there I rode to the wagon-lines--the first time
I've sat a horse since I came into action. Far behind me the thunder of
winged murder grew more faint. The country became greener; trees even
had leaves upon them which fluttered against the grey-blue sky. It was
wonderful--like awaking from an appalling nightmare. My little beast
was fresh and seemed to share my joy, for she stepped out bravely.
When I arrived at the wagon-lines I would not wait--I longed to see
something even greener and quieter. My groom packed up some oats and
away we went again. My first objective was the military baths; I lay in
hot water for half-an-hour and read the advertisements of my book. As
I lay there, for the first time since I've been out, I began to get a
half-way true perspective of myself. What's left of the egotism of the
author came to life, and--now laugh--I planned my next novel--planned
it to the sound of men singing, because they were clean for the first
time in months. I left my towels and soap with a military policeman, by
the roadside, and went prancing off along country roads in search of
the almost forgotten places where people don't kill one another. Was it
imagination? There seemed to me to be a different look in the faces of
the men I met--for the time being they were neither hunters nor hunted.
There were actually cows in the fields. At one point, where pollarded
trees stand like a Hobbema sketch against the sky, a group of officers
were coursing a hare, following a big black hound on horseback. We lost
our way. A drenching rainstorm fell over us--we didn't care; and we saw
as we looked back a most beautiful thing--a rainbow over green fields.
It was as romantic as the first rainbow in childhood.
All day I have been seeing lovely and familiar things as though for
the first time. I've been a sort of Lazarus, rising out of his tomb
and praising God at the sound of a divine voice. You don't know how
exquisite a ploughed field can look, especially after rain, unless you
have feared that you might never see one again....
Life, how I love you! What a wonderful, kindly thing I could make of
you to-night. Strangely the vision has come to me of all that you
mean. Now I could write. So soon you may go from me or be changed into
a form of existence which all my training has taught me to dread. After
death is there only nothingness? I think that for those who have missed
love in this life there must be compensations--the little children whom
they ought to have had, perhaps. To-day, after so many weeks, I have
seen little children again.
And yet, so strange a havoc does this war work that, if I have to "Go
West," I shall go _proudly_ and quietly. I have seen too many men die
bravely to make a fuss if my turn comes. A mixed passenger list old
Father Charon must have each night--Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Huns.
To-morrow I shall have another sight of the greenness and then--the
guns.
I don't know whether I have been able to make any of my emotions clear
to you in my letters. Terror has a terrible fascination. Up to now I
have always been afraid--afraid of small fears. At last I meet fear
itself and it stings my pride into an unpremeditated courage.
I've just had a pile of letters from you all. How ripping it is to be
remembered! Letters keep one civilized.
It's late and I'm very tired. God bless you each and all.
CON.
VI--LIVING WITH DEATH AS YOUR COMRADE
December 20th, 1916.
DEAR MR. A. D.:
I've just come in from an argument with Fritz when your chocolate
formed my meal. You were very kind to think of me and to send it,
and you were extraordinarily understanding in the letter that you
sent me. One's life out here is like a pollarded tree--all the lower
branches are gone--one gazes on great nobilities, on the fascinating
horror of Eternity sometimes--I said horror, but it's often fine in
its spaciousness--one gazes on many inverted splendors of Titans,
but it's giddy work being so high and rarefied, and all the gentle
past seems gone. That's why it is pleasant in this grimy anonymity of
death and courage to get reminders, such as your letter, that one was
once localized and had a familiar history. If I come back, I shall be
like Rip Van Winkle, or a Robinson Crusoe--like any and all of the
creatures of legend and history to whom abnormality has grown to seem
normal. If you can imagine yourself living in a world in which every
day is a demonstration of a Puritan's conception of what happens when
the last trump sounds, then you have some idea of my queer situation.
One has come to a point when death seems very inconsiderable and
only failure to do one's duty is an utter loss. Love and the future,
and all the sweet and tender dreams of bygone days are like a house
in which the blinds are lowered and from which the sight has gone.
Landscapes have lost their beauty, everything God-made and man-made
is destroyed except man's power to endure with a smile the things he
once most dreaded, because he believes that only so may he be righteous
in his own eyes. How one has longed for that sure confidence in the
petty failings of little living--the confidence to believe that he
can stand up and suffer for principle! God has given all men who are
out here that opportunity--the supremest that can be hoped for--so,
in spite of exile, Christmas for most of us will be a happy day. Does
one see more truly life's worth on a battlefield? I often ask myself
that question. Is the contempt that is hourly shown for life the real
standard of life's worth? I shrug my shoulders at my own unanswerable
questions--all I know is that I move daily with men who have
everything to live for who, nevertheless, are urged by an unconscious
magnanimity to die. I don't think any of our dead pity themselves--but
they would have done so if they had faltered in their choice. One lives
only from sunrise to sunrise, but there's a more real happiness in this
brief living than I ever knew before, because it is so exactingly worth
while.
Thank you again for your kindness.
Very sincerely yours,
C. D.
VII--GLORY OF WAR IS IN MEN'S SOULS
February 2d.
The gramophone is playing an air from _La Tosca_ to which the guns beat
out a bass accompaniment. I close my eyes and picture the many times
I have heard the (probably) German orchestras of Broadway Joy Palaces
play that same music. How incongruous that I should be listening to
it here and under these circumstances! It must have been listened to
so often by gay crowds in the beauty places of the world. A romantic
picture grows up in my mind of a blue night, the laughter of youth
in evening dress, lamps twinkling through trees, far off the velvety
shadow of water and mountains, and as a voice to it all, that air
from _La Tosca_. I can believe that the silent people near by raise
themselves up in their snow-beds to listen, each one recalling some
ecstatic moment before the dream of life was shattered.
There's a picture in the Pantheon at Paris, I remember; I believe
it's called _To Glory_. One sees all the armies of the ages charging
out of the middle distance with Death riding at their head. The only
glory that I have discovered in this war is in men's hearts--it's not
external. Were one to paint the spirit of this war he would depict a
mud landscape, blasted trees, an iron sky; wading through the slush and
shell-holes would come a file of bowed figures, more like outcasts from
the Embankment than soldiers. They're loaded down like pack animals,
their shoulders are rounded, they're wearied to death, but they go
on and go on. There's no "To Glory" about what we're doing out here;
there's no flash of swords or splendor of uniforms. There are only
very tired men determined to carry on. The war will be won by tired
men who could never again pass an insurance test, a mob of broken
counter-jumpers, ragged ex-plumbers and quite unheroic persons. We're
civilians in khaki, but because of the ideals for which we fight we've
managed to acquire soldiers' hearts.
My flow of thought was interrupted by a burst of song in which I
was compelled to join. We're all writing letters around one candle;
suddenly the O. C. looked up and began, "God Be with You Till We Meet
Again." We sang it in parts. It was in Southport, when I was about nine
years old, that I first heard that sung. You had gone for your first
trip to America, leaving a very lonely family behind you. We children
were scared to death that you'd be drowned. One evening, coming back
from a walk on the sand-hills, we heard voices singing in a garden,
"God Be with You Till We Meet Again." The words and the soft dusk, and
the vague figures in the English summer garden, seemed to typify the
terror of all partings. We've said good-bye so often since, and God has
been with us. I don't think any parting was more hard than our last
at the prosaic dock-gates with the cold wind of duty blowing, and the
sentry barring your entrance, and your path leading back to America
while mine led on to France. But you three were regular soldiers--just
as much soldiers as we chaps who were embarking. One talks of our
armies in the field, but there are the other armies, millions strong,
of mothers and fathers and sisters, who keep their eyes dry, treasure
muddy letters beneath their pillows, offer up prayers and wait, wait,
wait so eternally for God to open another door.
To-morrow I again go forward, which means rising early and taking a
long plod through the snows; that's one reason for not writing any
more, and another is that our one poor candle is literally on its last
legs.
Your poem, written years ago when the poor were marching in London, is
often in my mind:
"Yesterday and to-day
Have been heavy with labor and sorrow;
I should faint if I did not see
The day that is after to-morrow."
And there's that last verse which prophesied utterly the spirit in
which we men at the Front are fighting to-day:
"And for me, with spirit elate
The mire and the fog I press through,
For Heaven shines under the cloud
Of the day that is after to-morrow."
We civilians who have been taught so long to love our enemies and do
good to them who hate us--much too long ever to make professional
soldiers--are watching with our hearts in our eyes for that day which
comes after to-morrow. Meanwhile we plod on determinedly, hoping for
the hidden glory.
Yours very lovingly,
CON.
VIII--MEN MARCHING TO "CALVARY"
February 4th, 1917.
DEAR MR. B.:
War's a queer game--not at all what one's civilian mind imagined; it's
far more horrible and less exciting. The horrors which the civilian
mind dreads most are mutilation and death. Out here we rarely think
about them; the thing which wears on one most and calls out his gravest
courage is the endless sequence of physical discomfort. Not to be
able to wash, not to be able to sleep, to have to be wet and cold
for long periods at a stretch, to find mud on your person, in your
food, to have to stand in mud, see mud, sleep in mud and to continue
to smile--that's what tests courage. Our chaps are splendid. They're
not the hair-brained idiots that some war-correspondents depict from
day to day. They're perfectly sane people who know to a fraction what
they're up against, but who carry on with a grim good-nature and a
determination to win with a smile. I never before appreciated as I do
to-day the latent capacity for big-hearted endurance that is in the
heart of every man. Here are apparently quite ordinary chaps--chaps who
washed, liked theatres, loved kiddies and sweethearts, had a zest for
life--they're bankrupt of all pleasures except the supreme pleasure of
knowing that they're doing the ordinary and finest thing of which they
are capable. There are millions to whom the mere consciousness of doing
their duty has brought an heretofore unexperienced peace of mind. For
myself I was never happier than I am at present; there's a novel zip
added to life by the daily risks and the knowledge that at last you're
doing something into which no trace of selfishness enters. One can only
die once; the chief concern that matters is _how_ and not _when_ you
die. I don't pity the weary men who have attained eternal leisure in
the corruption of our shell-furrowed battles; they "went West" in their
supreme moment. The men I pity are those who could not hear the call of
duty and whose consciences will grow more flabby every day. With the
brutal roar of the first Prussian gun the cry came to the civilized
world, "Follow thou me," just as truly as it did in Palestine. Men
went to their Calvary singing Tipperary, rubbish, rhymed doggerel,
but their spirit was equal to that of any Christian martyr in a Roman
amphitheatre. "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his
life for his friend." Our chaps are doing that consciously, willingly,
almost without bitterness towards their enemies; for the rest it
doesn't matter whether they sing hymns or ragtime. They've followed
their ideal--freedom--and died for it. A former age expressed itself in
Gregorian chants; ours, no less sincerely, disguises its feelings in
ragtime.
Since September I have been less than a month out of action. The game
doesn't pall as time goes on--it fascinates. We've got to win so that
men may never again be tortured by the ingenious inquisition of modern
warfare. The winning of the war becomes a personal affair to the chaps
who are fighting. The world which sits behind the lines, buys extra
specials of the daily papers and eats three square meals a day, will
never know what this other world has endured for its safety, for no
man of this other world will have the vocabulary in which to tell. But
don't for a moment mistake me--we're grimly happy.
What a serial I'll write for you if I emerge from this turmoil! Thank
God, my outlook is all altered. I don't want to live any longer--only
to live well.
Good-bye and good luck.
Yours,
CONINGSBY DAWSON.
IX--AMERICA MUST SACRIFICE--OR DIE
February 6th, 1917.
MY VERY DEAR M.:
I read in to-day's paper that U. S. A. threatens to come over and
help us. I wish she would. The very thought of the possibility fills
me with joy. I've been lightheaded all day. It would be so ripping
to live among people, when the war is ended, of whom you need not be
ashamed. Somewhere deep down in my heart I've felt a sadness ever
since I've been out here, at America's lack of gallantry--it's so easy
to find excuses for not climbing to Calvary; sacrifice was always
too noble to be sensible. I would like to see the country of our
adoption become splendidly irrational even at this eleventh hour in
the game; it would redeem her in the world's eyes. She doesn't know
what she's losing. From these carcase-strewn fields of khaki there's
a cleansing wind blowing for the nations that have died. Though there
was only one Englishman left to carry on the race when this war is
victoriously ended, I would give more for the future of England than
for the future of America with her ninety millions whose sluggish
blood was not stirred by the call of duty. It's bigness of soul that
makes nations great and not population. Money, comfort, limousines and
ragtime are not the requisites of men when heroes are dying. I hate
the thought of Fifth Avenue, with its pretty faces, its fashions, its
smiling frivolity. America as a great nation will die, as all coward
civilizations have died, unless she accepts the stigmata of sacrifice,
which a divine opportunity again offers her.
If it were but possible to show those ninety millions one battlefield
with its sprawling dead, its pity, its marvellous forgetfulness of
self, I think then--no, they wouldn't be afraid. Fear isn't the emotion
one feels--they would experience the shame of living when so many have
shed their youth freely. This war is a prolonged moment of exultation
for most of us--we are redeeming ourselves in our own eyes. To lay
down one's life for one's friend once seemed impossible. All that is
altered. We lay down our lives that the future generations may be good
and kind, and so we can contemplate oblivion with quiet eyes. Nothing
that is noblest that the Greeks taught is unpractised by the simplest
men out here to-day. They may die childless, but their example will
father the imagination of all the coming ages. These men, in the noble
indignation of a great ideal, face a worse hell than the most ingenious
of fanatics ever planned or plotted. Men die scorched like moths in a
furnace, blown to atoms, gassed, tortured. And again other men step
forward to take their places well knowing what will be their fate.
Bodies may die, but the spirit of England grows greater as each new
soul speeds upon its way. The battened souls of America will die and be
buried. I believe the decision of the next few days will prove to be
the crisis in America's nationhood. If she refuses the pain which will
save her, the cancer of self-despising will rob her of her life.
This feeling is strong with us. It's past midnight, but I could write
of nothing else to-night.
God bless you.
Yours ever,
CON.
FOOTNOTE:
[6] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.
STORIES OF THE WAR PHOTOGRAPHERS IN BELGIUM
_An American at the Battlefront_
_Told by Albert Rhys Williams, War Correspondent_
This narrator tells of his experiences with the spy hunters of
Belgium. He was swept into the war-stricken country where he was
arrested by the Germans, sweating under the German third degree,
spending a fearful night on a prison floor, suffering with his
fellow prisoners the torments of a trial as a spy in a German
military court in Brussels, and finally securing his liberty. He
has collected his experiences in a volume under title "In the Claws
of the German Eagle," thus preserving in book form his remarkable
articles which were first published in The Outlook. A few episodes
from his amazing adventures are here given by permission of the
publishers, _E. P. Dutton and Company_: Copyright 1917.
[7] I--STORY OF AN AMERICAN IN GHENT
In the last days of September, the Belgians moving in and through Ghent
in their rainbow-colored costumes, gave to the city a distinctively
holiday touch. The clatter of cavalry hoofs and the throb of racing
motors rose above the voices of the mobs that surged along the streets.
Service was normal in the cafés. To the accompaniment of music and
clinking glasses the dress-suited waiter served me a five-course lunch
for two francs. It was uncanny to see this blaze of life while the city
sat under the shadow of a grave disaster. At any moment the gray German
tide might break out of Brussels and pour its turbid flood of soldiers
through these very streets. Even now a Taube hovered in the sky, and
from the skirmish-line an occasional ambulance rumbled in with its
crimsoned load.
I chanced into Gambrinus' café and was lost in the babbling sea of
French and Flemish. Above the mêlée of sounds, however, I caught a
gladdening bit of English. Turning about, I espied a little group of
men whose plain clothes stood out in contrast to the colored uniforms
of officers and soldiers crowded into the café. Wearied of my efforts
at conversing in a foreign tongue, I went over and said:
"Do you really speak English?"
"Well, rather!" answered the one who seemed to act as leader of the
group. "We are the only ones now and it will be scarcer still around
here in a few days."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because Ghent will be in German hands."
This brought an emphatic denial from one of his confrères who insisted
that the Germans had already reached the end of their rope. A certain
correspondent, joining in the argument, came in for a deal of banter
for taking the war _de luxe_ in a good hotel far from the front.
"What do you know about the war?" they twitted him. "You've pumped all
your best stories out of the refugees ten miles from the front, after
priming them with a glass of beer."
They were a group of young war-photographers to whom danger was a
magnet. Though none of them had yet reached the age of thirty, they
had seen service in all the stirring events of Europe and even around
the globe. Where the clouds lowered and the seas tossed, there they
flocked. Like stormy petrels they rushed to the center of the swirling
world. That was their element. A freelance, a representative of the
Northcliffe press, and two movie-men comprised this little group and
made an island of English amidst the general babel.
Like most men who have seen much of the world, they had ceased to
be cynics. When I came to them out of the rain, carrying no other
introduction than a dripping overcoat, they welcomed me into their
company and whiled away the evening with tales of the Balkan wars.
They were in high spirits over their exploits of the previous day, when
the Germans, withdrawing from Melle on the outskirts of the city, had
left a long row of cottages still burning. As the enemy troops pulled
out the further end of the street, the movie men came in at the other
and caught the pictures of the still blazing houses. We went down to
view them on the screen. To the gentle throbbing of drums and piano,
the citizens of Ghent viewed the unique spectacle of their own suburbs
going up in smoke.
At the end of the show they invited me to fill out their automobile
on the morrow. Nearly every other motor had been commandeered by the
authorities for the "Service Militaire" and bore on the front the
letters "S. M." Our car was by no means in the blue-ribbon class. It
had a hesitating disposition and the authorities, regarding it as more
of a liability than an asset, passed it over.
But the correspondents counted it a great stroke of fortune to have any
car at all; and, that they might continue to have it, they kept it at
night carefully locked in a room in the hotel. They had their chauffeur
under like supervision. He was one of their kind, and with the cunning
of a diplomat obtained the permit to buy petrol, most precious of all
treasures in the field of war. Indeed, gasoline, along with courage and
discipline, completed the trinity of success in the military mind.
II--STORIES OF THE WAR PHOTOGRAPHERS IN BELGIUM
With the British flag flying at the front, we sped away next morning
on the road to Termonde. At Melle we came upon the blazing cottages
we had seen pictured the night before. Here we encountered a roving
band of Belgian soldiers who were in a free and careless mood and
evinced a ready willingness to put themselves at our disposal. Under
the command of the photographers, they charged across the fields with
fixed bayonets, wriggled up through the grass, or, standing behind the
trenches, blazed away with their guns at an imaginary enemy. They did
some good acting, grim and serious as death. All except one.
This youth couldn't suppress his sense of humor. He could not, or would
not, keep from laughing, even when he was supposed to be blowing the
head off a Boche. He was properly disciplined and put out of the game,
and we went on with our manoeuvers to the accompaniment of the clicking
cameras until the photographers had gathered in a fine lot of realistic
fighting-line pictures.
One of the photographers sat stolidly in the automobile smoking his
cigarette while the others were reaping their harvest.
"Why don't you take these too?" I asked.
"Oh," he replied, "I've been sending in so much of that stuff that I
just got a telegram from my paper saying, 'Pension off that Belgian
regiment which is doing stunts in the trenches.'"
While his little army rested from their manoeuvers the
Director-in-Chief turned to me and said:
"Wouldn't you like to have a photograph of yourself in these
war-surroundings, just to take home as a souvenir?"
That appealed to me. After rejecting some commonplace suggestions, he
exclaimed: "I have it. Shot as a German Spy. There's the wall to stand
up against; and we'll pick a crack firing-squad out of these Belgians.
A little bit of all right, eh?"
I acquiesced in the plan and was led over to the wall while a movie-man
whipped out a handkerchief and tied it over my eyes. The director
then took a firing squad in hand. He had but recently witnessed
the execution of a spy where he had almost burst with a desire to
photograph the scene. It had been excruciating torture to restrain
himself. But the experience had made him feel conversant with the
etiquette of shooting a spy, as it was being done amongst the very best
firing-squads. He made it now stand him in good stead.
"Aim right across the bandage," the director coached them. I could hear
one of the soldiers laughing excitedly as he was warming up to the
rehearsal. It occurred to me that I was reposing a lot of confidence
in a stray band of soldiers. Some one of those Belgians, gifted with a
lively imagination, might get carried away with the suggestion and act
as if I really were a German spy.
"Shoot the blooming blighter in the eye," said one movie man playfully.
"Bally good idea!" exclaimed the other one approvingly, while one eager
actor realistically clicked his rifle-hammer. That was altogether too
much. I tore the bandage from my eyes, exclaiming:
"It would be a bally good idea to take those cartridges out first."
Some fellow might think his cartridge was blank or try to fire wild,
just as a joke in order to see me jump. I wasn't going to take any risk
and flatly refused to play my part until the cartridges were ejected.
Even when the bandage was readjusted "Didn't-know-it-was-loaded"
stories still were haunting me. In a moment, however, it was over and
I was promised my picture within a fortnight.
A week later I picked up the London _Daily Mirror_ from a news-stand.
It had the caption:
BELGIAN SOLDIERS SHOOT A GERMAN SPY CAUGHT AT
TERMONDE ... PICTURE
I opened up the paper and what was my surprise to see a big spread
picture of myself, lined up against that row of Melle cottages and
being shot for the delectation of the British public. There is the same
long raincoat that runs as a _motif_ through all the other pictures.
Underneath it were the words:
"The Belgians have a short, sharp method of dealing with the Kaiser's
rat-hole spies. This one was caught near Termonde and, after being
blindfolded, the firing-squad soon put an end to his inglorious career."
One would not call it fame exactly, even though I played the star-rôle.
But it is a source of some satisfaction to have helped a royal lot
of fellows to a first-class scoop. As the "authentic spy-picture
of the war," it has had a broadcast circulation. I have seen it in
publications ranging all the way from _The Police Gazette to Collier's
Photographic History of the European War_. In a university club I once
chanced upon a group gathered around this identical picture. They were
discussing the psychology of this "poor devil" in the moments before
he was shot. It was a further source of satisfaction to step in and
arbitrarily contradict all their conclusions and, having shown them how
totally mistaken they were, proceed to tell them exactly how the victim
felt. This high-handed manner nettled one fellow terribly:
"Not so arbitrary, my friend!" he said. "You haven't any right to be so
devilish cock-sure."
"Haven't I?" I replied. "Who has any better right? I happen to be that
identical man!"
But that little episode has been of real value to me. It is said that
if one goes through the motions he gets the emotions. I believe that I
have an inkling of how a man feels when he momentarily expects a volley
of cold lead to turn his skull into a sieve.
III--HOW CAMERA MEN RISK THEIR LIVES
Most of the pictures which the public casually gazes on have been
secured at a price--and a large one, too. The names of these men who
go to the front with cameras, rather than with rifles or pens, are
generally unknown. They are rarely found beneath the pictures, yet
where would be our vivid impression of courage in daring and of skill
in doing, of cunning strategy upon the field of battle, of wounded
soldiers sacrificing for their comrades, if we had no pictures? A few
pictures are faked, but behind most pictures there is another tale of
daring and of strategy, and that is the tale concerning the man who
took it. That very day thrice these same men risked their lives.
The apparatus loaded in the car, we were off again. Past a few
barricades of paving-stones and wagons, past the burned houses which
marked the place where the Germans had come within five miles of Ghent,
we encountered some uniformed Belgians who looked quite as dismal and
dispirited as the fog which hung above the fields. They were the famous
Guarde Civique of Belgium. Our Union Jack, flapping in the wind, was
very likely quite the most thrilling spectacle they had seen in a week,
and they hailed it with a cheer and a cry of "_Vive l'Angleterre!_"
(Long live England!) The Guarde Civique had a rather inglorious time
of it. Wearisomely in their wearisome-looking uniform, they stood
for hours on their guns or marched and counter-marched in dreary
patrolling, often doomed not even to scent the battle from afar off.
Whenever we were called to a halt for the examination of our passports,
these men crowded around and begged for newspapers. We held up our
stock, and they would clamor for the ones with pictures. The English
text was unintelligible to most of them, but the pictures they could
understand, and they bore them away to enjoy the sight of other
soldiers fighting, even if they themselves were denied that excitement.
Our question to them was always the same, "Where are the Germans?"
Out of the conflicting reports it was hard to tell whether the Germans
were heading this way or not. That they were expected was shown by the
sign-posts whose directions had just been obliterated by fresh paint--a
rather futile operation, because the Germans had better maps and plans
of the region than the Belgians themselves, maps which showed every
by-path, well and barn. The chauffeur's brother had been shot in his
car by the Germans but a week before, and he didn't relish the idea of
thus flaunting the enemy's flag along a road where some German scouting
party might appear at any moment. The Union Jack had done good service
in getting us easy passage so far, but the driver was not keen for
going further with it.
It was proposed to turn the car around and back it down the road, as
had been done the previous day. Thus the car would be headed in the
home direction, and at sight of the dreaded uniform we could make a
quick leap for safety. At this juncture, however, I produced a small
Stars and Stripes, which the chauffeur hailed with delight, and we
continued our journey now under the ægis of a neutral flag.
It might have secured temporary safety, but only temporary; for if the
Englishmen with only British passports had fallen into the hands of the
Germans, like their unfortunate kinsmen who did venture too far into
the war zone, they, too, would have had a chance to cool their ardor
in some detention-camp of Germany. This cheerful prospect was in the
mind of these men, for, when we espied coming around a distant corner
two gray-looking men on horseback, they turned white as the chauffeur
cried, "Uhlans!"
It is a question whether the car or our hearts came to a dead
standstill first. Our shock was unnecessary. They proved to be
Belgians, and assured us that the road was clear all the way to
Termonde; and, except for an occasional peasant tilling his fields,
the countryside was quite deserted until at Grembergen we came upon
an unending procession of refugees streaming down the road. They were
all coming out of Termonde. Termonde, after being taken and retaken,
bombarded and burned, was for the moment neutral territory. A Belgian
commandant had allowed the refugees that morning to return and gather
what they might from among the ruins.
In the early morning, then, they had gone into the city, and now
at high noon they were pouring out, a great procession of the
dispossessed. They came tracking their way to where--God only knows.
All they knew was that in their hearts was set the fear of Uhlans, and
in the sky the smoke and flames of their burning homesteads. They came
laden with their lares and penates,--mainly dogs, feather beds, and
crayon portraits of their ancestors.
IV--WHEN LENS HAS A HEART
Women came carrying on their heads packs which looked like their entire
household paraphernalia. The men were more unassuming, and, as a rule,
carried a package considerably lighter and comporting more with their
superior masculine dignity. I recall one little woman in particular.
She was bearing a burden heavy enough to send a strong American athlete
staggering down to the ground, while at her side majestically marched
her faithful knight, bearing a birdcage, and there wasn't any bird in
it, either.
Nothing could be more mirth-provoking than that sight; yet, strangely
enough, the most tear-compelling memory of the war is connected with
another birdcage. Two children rummaging through their ruined home dug
it out of the débris. In it was their little pet canary. While fire and
smoke rolled through the house it had beat its wings against the bars
in vain. Its prison had become its tomb. Its feathers were but slightly
singed, yet it was dead with that pathetic finality which attaches
itself to only a dead bird--its silver songs and flutterings, once the
delight of the children, now stilled forever.
The photographers had long looked for what they termed a first-class
sob-picture. Here it was _par excellence_. The larger child stood
stroking the feathers of her pet and murmuring over and over "Poor
Annette," "Poor Annette!" Then the smaller one snuggling the limp
little thing against her neck wept inconsolably.
Instead of seizing their opportunity, the movie man was clearing his
throat while the freelance was busy on what he said was a cinder in
his eye. Yet this very man had brought back from the Balkan War of
1907 a prime collection of horrors; corpses thrown into the death-cart
with arms and legs sticking out like so much stubble; the death-cart
creeping away with its ghastly load; and the dumping together of bodies
of men and beasts into a pit to be eaten by the lime. This man who had
gone through all this with good nerve was now touched to tears by two
children crying over their pet canary. There are some things that are
too much for the heart of even a war-photographer.
To give the whole exodus the right tragic setting, one is tempted to
write that tears were streaming down all the faces of the refugees,
but on the contrary, indeed, most of them carried a smile and a pipe,
and trudged stolidly along, much as though bound for a fair. Some of
our pictures show laughing refugees. That may not be fair, for man is
so constituted that the muscles of his face automatically relax to the
click of the camera. But as I recall that pitiful procession, there was
in it very little outward expression of sorrow.
Undoubtedly there was sadness enough in all their hearts, but people in
Europe have learned to live on short rations; they rarely indulge in
luxuries like weeping, but bear the most unwonted afflictions as though
they were the ordinary fortunes of life. War has set a new standard
for grief. So these victims passed along the road, but not before the
record of their passing was etched for ever on our moving-picture
films. The coming generation will not have to reconstruct the scene
from the colored accounts of the journalist, but with their own eyes
they can see the hegira of the homeless as it really was.
The resignation of the peasant in the face of the great calamity was a
continual source of amazement to us. Zola in "_Le Debacle_" puts into
his picture of the battle of Sedan an old peasant plowing on his farm
in the valley. While shells go screaming overhead he placidly drives
his old white horse through the accustomed furrows. One naturally
presumed that this was a dramatic touch of the great novelist. But
similar incidents we saw in this Great War over and over again.
V--A THOUSAND HORSES STRAIN AT THEIR BRIDLES
We were with Consul van Hee one morning early before the clinging veil
of sleep had lifted from our spirits or the mists from the low-lying
meadows. Without warning our car shot through a bank of fog into a
spectacle of mediæval splendor--a veritable Field of the Cloth of Gold,
spread out on the green plains of Flanders.
A thousand horses strained at their bridles while their thousand
riders in great fur busbies loomed up almost like giants. A thousand
pennons stirred in the morning air while the sun burning through the
mists glinted on the tips of as many lances. The crack Belgian cavalry
divisions had been gathered here just behind the firing-lines in
readiness for a sortie; the Lancers in their cherry and green and the
Guides in their blue and gold making a blaze of color.
It was as if in a trance we had been carried back to a tourney of
ancient chivalry--this was before privations and the new drab uniforms
had taken all glamor out of the war. As we gazed upon the glittering
spectacle the order from the commander came to us:
"Back, back out of danger!"
"Forward!" was the charge to the Lancers.
The field-guns rumbled into line and each rider unslung his carbine.
Putting spurs to the horses, the whole line rode past saluting our
Stars and Stripes with a "_Vive L'Amerique_." Bringing up the rear two
cassocked priests served to give this pageantry a touch of prophetic
grimness.
And yet as the cavalcade swept across the fields thrilling us with its
color and its action, the nearby peasants went on spreading fertilizer
quite as calm and unconcerned as we were exhilarated.
"Stupid," "Clods," "Souls of oxen," we commented, yet a protagonist of
the peasant might point out that it was perhaps as noble and certainly
quite as useful to be held by a passion for the soil as to be caught by
the glamor of men riding out to slaughter. And Zola puts this in the
mind of his peasants.
"Why should I lose a day? Soldiers must fight, but folks must live. It
is for me to keep the corn growing."
Deep down into the soil the peasant strikes his roots. Urban people can
never comprehend when these roots are cut away how hopelessly lost and
adrift this European peasant in particular becomes. Wicked as the Great
War has seemed to us in its bearing down upon these innocent folks, yet
we can never understand the cruelty that they have suffered in being
uprooted from the land and sent forth to become beggars and wanderers
upon the highroads of the world.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.
TALES OF THE FIRST BRITISH EXPEDITIONARY FORCE TO FRANCE
_Impressions of a Subaltern_
_Told by "Casualty" (Name of Soldier Suppressed)_
This is another of the soldiers' tales of the Great War. This
soldier tells thirty-six fascinating experiences in which death is
defied. He describes: "The Advance to Mons"; "Sir John French";
"The Crossing of the Marne"; "The Crossing of the Aisne"; "The Jaws
of Death," among his many adventures. The story here told gives his
impressions on "Leaving England." It is reprinted from his volume
"Contemptible," by permission of his publishers, _J. B. Lippincott
Company_.
[8] I--WHEN THE FIRST BATTALION SWUNG OUT
No cheers, no handkerchiefs, no bands. Nothing that even suggested
the time-honored scene of soldiers leaving home to fight the Empire's
battles. Parade was at midnight. Except for the lighted windows of the
barracks, and the rush of hurrying feet, all was dark and quiet. It was
more like ordinary night operations than the dramatic departure of a
Unit of the First British Expeditionary Force to France.
As the Battalion swung into the road, the Subaltern could not help
thinking that this was indeed a queer send-off. A few sergeants' wives,
standing at the corner of the Parade ground, were saying good-bye to
their friends as they passed. "Good-bye, Bill;" "Good luck, Sam!" Not a
hint of emotion in their voices. One might have thought that husbands
and fathers went away to risk their lives in war every day of the week.
And if the men were at all moved at leaving what had served for their
home, they hid it remarkably well. Songs were soon breaking out from
all parts of the column of route.
* * * * *
In an hour the station was reached. An engine was shunting up and down,
piecing the troop trains together, and in twenty minutes the Battalion
was shuffling down the platform, the empty trains on either side.
Two companies were to go to each train, twelve men to a third-class
compartment, N.C.O.s second class, Officers first. As soon as the men
were in their seats, the Subaltern made his way to the seat he had
"bagged," and prepared to go to sleep. Another fellow pushed his head
through the window and wondered what had become of the regimental
transport. Somebody else said he didn't know or care; his valise was
always lost, he said; they always make a point of it.
Soon after, they were all asleep, and the train pulled slowly out of
the station.
When the Subaltern awoke it was early morning, and they were moving
through Hampshire fields at a rather sober pace. He was assailed with
a poignant feeling of annoyance and resentment that this war should
be forced upon them. England looked so good in the morning sunshine,
and the comforts of English civilization were so hard to leave. The
sinister uncertainty of the Future brooded over them like a thunder
cloud.
Isolated houses thickened into clusters, streets sprang up, and soon
they were in Southampton.
The train pulled up at the Embarkation Station, quite close to the
wharf to which some half-dozen steamers were moored. There was little
or no delay. The Battalion fell straight into "massed formation," and
began immediately to move on to one of the ships. The Colonel stood
by the gangway talking to an Embarkation Officer. Everything was in
perfect readiness, and the Subaltern was soon able to secure a berth.
II--CROSSING THE CHANNEL ON TRANSPORTS
There was plenty of excitement on deck while the horses of the
regimental transport were being shipped into the hold.
To induce "Light Draft," "Heavy Draft" horses and "Officers'
Chargers"--in all some sixty animals--to trust themselves to be lowered
into a dark and evil-smelling cavern, was no easy matter. Some shied
from the gangway, neighing; others walked peaceably onto it, and,
with a "thus far and no farther" expression in every line of their
bodies, took up a firm stand, and had to be pushed into the hold with
the combined weight of many men. Several of the transport section
narrowly escaped death and mutilation at the hands, or rather hoofs,
of the Officers' Chargers. Meanwhile a sentry, with fixed bayonet,
was observed watching some Lascars, who were engaged in getting the
transport on board. It appeared that the wretched fellows, thinking
that they were to be taken to France and forced to fight the Germans,
had deserted to a man on the previous night, and had had to be routed
out of their hiding-places in Southampton.
Not that such a small thing as that could upset for one moment the
steady progress of the Embarkation of the Army. It was like a huge,
slow-moving machine; there was a hint of the inexorable in its
exactitude. Nothing had been forgotten--not even eggs for the Officers'
breakfast in the Captain's cabin.
Meanwhile the other ships were filling up. By midday they began to
slide down the Solent, and guesses were being freely exchanged about
the destination of the little flotilla. Some said Bolougne, others
Calais; but the general opinion was Havre, though nobody knew for
certain, for the Captain of the ship had not yet opened his sealed
orders. The transports crept slowly along the coast of the Isle of
Wight, but it was not until evening that the business of crossing the
Channel was begun in earnest.
The day had been lovely, and Officers and men had spent it mostly in
sleeping and smoking upon the deck. Spirits had risen as the day grew
older. For at dawn the cheeriest optimist is a pessimist, while at
midday pessimists become optimists. In the early morning the German
Army had been invincible. At lunch the Battalion was going to Berlin,
on the biggest holiday of its long life!
The Subaltern, still suffering from the after-effects of inoculation
against enteric, which had been unfortunately augmented by a premature
indulgence in fruit, and by the inability to rest during the rush of
mobilization, did not spend a very happy night. The men fared even
worse, for the smell of hot, cramped horses, steaming up from the lower
deck, was almost unbearable. But their troubles were soon over, for by
seven o'clock the boat was gliding through the crowded docks of Havre.
Naturally most of the Mess had been in France before, but to Tommy it
was a world undiscovered. The first impression made on the men was
created by a huge negro working on the docks. He was greeted with roars
of laughter, and cries of, "Hallo, Jack Johnson!" The red trousers of
the French sentries, too, created a tremendous sensation. At length the
right landing-stage was reached. Equipments were thrown on, and the
Battalion was paraded on the dock.
III--LANDING IN FRANCE--TOMMIES IN HAVRE
The march through the cobbled streets of Havre rapidly developed into
a fiasco. This was one of the first, if not the very first, landing of
British Troops in France, and to the French it was a novelty, calling
for a tremendous display of open-armed welcome. Children rushed from
the houses, and fell upon the men crying for "souvenirs." Ladies
pursued them with basins full of wine and what they were pleased to
call beer. Men were literally carried from the ranks, under the eyes
of their Officers, and borne in triumph into houses and inns. What
with the heat of the day and the heaviness of the equipment and the
after-effects of the noisome deck, the men could scarcely be blamed for
availing themselves of such hospitality, though to drink intoxicants on
the march is suicidal. Men "fell out," first by ones and twos, then by
whole half-dozens and dozens. The Subaltern himself was scarcely strong
enough to stagger up the long hills at the back of the town, let alone
worrying about his men. The Colonel was aghast, and very furious. He
couldn't understand it. (He was riding.)
The camp was prepared for the troops in a wonderfully complete
fashion--not the least thing seemed to have been forgotten. The men,
stripped of their boots, coats and equipments, were resting in the
shade of the tents. A caterer from Havre had come up to supply the
Mess, and the Subaltern was able to procure from him a bottle of rather
heady claret, which, as he was thirsty and exhausted, he consumed too
rapidly, and found himself hopelessly inebriate. Luckily there was
nothing to do, so he slept for many hours.
Waking up in the cool of the evening he heard the voices of another
Second-Lieutenant and a reservist Subaltern talking about some people
he knew near his home. It was good to forget about wars and soldiers,
and everything that filled so amply the present and future, and to lose
himself in pleasant talk of pleasant things at home.... The dinner
provided by the French caterer was very French, and altogether the
last sort of meal that a young gentleman suffering from anti-enteric
inoculation ought to have indulged in. Everything conspired to make him
worse, and what with the heat and the malady, he spent a very miserable
time.
After about two days' stay, the Battalion moved away from the rest
camp, and, setting out before dawn, marched back through those fatal
streets of Havre, this time deserted in the moonlight, to a sort of
shed, called by the French authorities a troop station. Here as usual
the train was waiting, and the men had but to be put in. The carriages
could not be called luxurious; to be frank, they were cattle-trucks.
But it takes more than that to damp the spirits of Mr. Thomas Atkins.
Cries imitating the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep broke
out from the trucks!
The train moved out of the depot, and wended its way in the most
casual manner through the streets of Havre. This so amused Tommy that
he roared with laughter. The people who rushed to give the train
a send-off, with many cries of "_Vive les Anglais_." "_A bas les
Bosches_," were greeted with more bleatings and brayings.
IV--QUARTERED IN A BELGIAN WATER-MILL
The journey through France was quite uneventful. Sleeping or reading
the whole day through, the Subaltern only remembered Rouen, passed at
about midday, and Amiens later in the evening. The train had paused at
numerous villages on its way, and in every case there had been violent
demonstrations of enthusiasm. In one case a young lady of prepossessing
appearance had thrust her face through the window, and talked very
excitedly and quite incomprehensibly, until one of the fellows in the
carriage grasped the situation, leant forward, and did honor to the
occasion. The damsel retired blushing.
At Amiens various rumors were afloat. Somebody had heard the Colonel
say the magic word "Liège." Pictures of battles to be fought that very
night thrilled some of them not a little.
* * * * *
Dawn found the Battalion hungry, shivering and miserable, paraded by
the side of the track, at a little wayside station called Wassigné. The
train shunted away, leaving the Battalion with a positive feeling of
desolation. A Staff Officer, rubbing sleep from his eyes, emerged from
a little "estaminet" and gave the Colonel the necessary orders. During
the march that ensued the Battalion passed through villages where the
three other regiments in the Brigade were billeted. At length a village
called Iron was reached, and their various billets were allotted to
each Company.
The Subaltern's Company settled down in a huge water-mill; its Officers
being quartered in the miller's private house.
A wash, a shave and a meal worked wonders.
And so the journey was finished, and the Battalion found itself at
length in the theater of operations.
* * * * *
I have tried in this chapter to give some idea of the ease and
smoothness with which this delicate operation of transportation was
carried out. The Battalions which composed the First Expeditionary
Force had been spread in small groups over the whole length and breadth
of Britain. They had been mobilized, embarked, piloted across the
Channel in the face of an undefeated enemy fleet, rested, and trained
to their various areas of concentration, to take their place by the
side of their French Allies.
All this was accomplished without a single hitch, and with a speed
that was astonishing. When the time comes for the inner history of
the war to be written, no doubt proper praise for these preliminary
arrangements will be given to those who so eminently deserve it.
V--AT MADAM MERE'S--BEFORE THE STORM
Peace reigned for the next five days, the last taste of careless days
that so many of those poor fellows were to have.
A route march generally occupied the mornings, and a musketry parade
the evenings. Meanwhile, the men were rapidly accustoming themselves to
the new conditions. The Officers occupied themselves with polishing up
their French, and getting a hold upon the reservists who had joined the
Battalion on mobilization.
The French did everything in their power to make the Battalion at home.
Cider was given to the men in buckets. The Officers were treated like
the best friends of the families with whom they were billeted. The
fatted calf was not spared, and this in a land where there were not too
many fatted calves.
The Company "struck a particularly soft spot." The miller had gone
to the war leaving behind him his wife, his mother and two children.
Nothing they could do for the five Officers of the Company was too much
trouble. Madame Mère resigned her bedroom to the Major and his second
in command, while Madame herself slew the fattest of her chickens and
rabbits for the meals of her hungry Officers.
The talk that was indulged in must have been interesting, even though
the French was halting and ungrammatical. Of all the companies' Messes,
this one took the most serious view of the future, and earned for
itself the nickname of "_Les Misérables_." The Senior Subaltern said
openly that this calm preceded a storm. The papers they got--_Le Petit
Parisien_ and such like--talked vaguely of a successful offensive
on the extreme right: Mülhouse, it was said, had been taken. But of
the left, of Belgium, there was silence. Such ideas as the Subaltern
himself had on the strategical situation were but crude. The line of
battle, he fancied, would stretch north and south, from Mülhouse to
Liège. If it were true that Liège had fallen, he thought the left would
rest successfully on Namur. The English Army, he imagined, was acting
as "general reserve," behind the French line, and would not be employed
until the time had arrived to hurl the last reserve into the mêlée, at
the most critical point.
And all the while, never a sound of firing, never a sight of the red
and blue of the French uniforms. The war might have been two hundred
miles away!
Meanwhile Tommy on his marches was discovering things. Wonder of
wonders, this curious people called "baccy" tabac! "And if yer wants a
bit of bread yer awsks for pain, strewth!" He loved to hear the French
gabble to him in their excited way; he never thought that reciprocally
his talk was just as funny. The French matches earned unprintable
names. But on the whole he admired sunny France with its squares of
golden corn and vegetables, and when he passed a painted Crucifix with
its cluster of flowering graves, he would say: "Golly, Bill, ain't it
pretty? We oughter 'ave them at 'ome, yer know." And of course he kept
on saying what he was going to do with "Kayser Bill."
One night after the evening meal, the men of the Company gave a little
concert outside the mill. The flower-scented twilight was fragrantly
beautiful, and the mill stream gurgled a lullaby accompaniment as it
swept past the trailing grass. Nor was there any lack of talent. One
reservist, a miner since he had left the army, roared out several songs
concerning the feminine element at the seaside, or voicing an inquiry
as to a gentleman's companion on the previous night. Then, with an
entire lack of appropriateness, another got up and recited "The Wreck
of the _Titanic_" in a most touching and dramatic manner. Followed a
song with a much appreciated chorus--
"Though your heart may ache awhile,
Never mind!
Though your face may lose its smile,
Never mind!
For there's sunshine after rain,
And then gladness follows pain,
You'll be happy once again,
Never mind!"
The ditty deals with broken vows, and faithless hearts, and blighted
lives; just the sort of song that Tommy loves to warble after a good
meal in the evening. It conjured to the Subaltern's eyes the picture of
the dainty little star who had sung it on the boards of the Coliseum.
And to conclude, Madame's voice, French, and sonorously metallic,
was heard in the dining-room striking up the "_Marseillaise_." Tommy
did not know a word of it, but he yelled "March on" (a very good
translation of "_Marchons_") and sang "lar lar" to the rest of the tune.
Thus passed peacefully enough those five days--the calm before the
storm.
FOOTNOTE:
[8] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.
IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY--EXPERIENCES OF A PRISONER OF WAR
_Told by Benjamin G. O'Rorke, M. A., Chaplain to the Forces_
This narrative reveals the actual scenes and experiences in a
German prison where this British chaplain was incarcerated. He
dedicates it "To my fellow prisoners, who already during twelve
months have borne disappointment with patient resignation and
insults with silent dignity: who have made the name of Britain
respected in the heart of Germany." Nearly the whole of the diary
on which this narrative is based was confiscated by the Germans
when the writer was searched for the last time before his release.
It was restored to him by post a few weeks later, bearing the mark
showing that it had been passed by the censor. The diary has been
published complete by _Longmans, Green and Company_, with whose
permission the following interesting extracts are given.
[9] I--STORY OF THE CONSECRATED SWORDS
On Saturday, August 15, 1914, we entrained, whither we knew not. The
railway officials either did not know or would not tell, but we were
not long before we discovered that our destination was Southampton.
Here we spent a wearisome afternoon and evening at the docks, embarking
horses and wagons on board our transport, a cattle-boat named
_Armenian_, which has since been sunk by the Germans. With us embarked
contingents of the 18th Hussars and 9th Lancers. It was a calm journey,
and there were no signs of sea-sickness. Pipes and cigarettes were
freely smoked, a good sign on the first day of a voyage. Once more our
destination was kept a profound secret, even from the captain, until we
got well out to sea. It being Sunday, we had a service on board, which
gave me a golden opportunity of addressing my flock for the first time.
Speaking on the text, "Whoso feareth the Lord shall not be afraid, and
shall not play the coward," Eccl. xxiv. 14 (R.V.), I reminded them that
we were setting out to take our part in the greatest war in history.
After the service on deck, a number of officers and men, after the
example of the knights of old who consecrated their swords at the
altar, partook of the Holy Communion in the saloon.
In the course of the afternoon we sighted the beautiful harbor of
Boulogne, where we landed. "'Eep, 'eep, 'ooray!" called out the crowds
of French people who lined the pier and landing-stage to give us a
hearty welcome as their allies. From the first moment we were made to
feel at home in France, and careful arrangements had been undertaken
for our comfort. To every regiment a Frenchman was appointed as
interpreter, many of whom were educated men of good standing....
Strolling through the town, I passed the barracks where the Argyll
and Sutherland Highlanders were quartered. True to their national
characteristic that "a Scotsman is never at home unless he is abroad,"
they appeared to have been at Boulogne for years, and already to be on
intimate terms with the townsfolk. On the steps of the Post-Office was
a bareheaded woman in the act of posting a letter to her son at the
front. She spoke to me about him very tenderly, and it was obvious that
all sorts of good wishes and prayers were dropped into the letterbox
with her letter....
Flags were in evidence everywhere. Men wore in their buttonholes the
colors of France, Belgium, and England intertwined, and women pinned
them to their dresses. Little children followed the soldiers about,
crying, "Souvenir, souvenir!" and pointed to their regimental badges.
After a while it was a rare sight to meet a soldier with a badge, or a
French woman or child without one. The sole distinguishing mark between
one regiment and another was the design of the badge on cap and the
initials of the regiment on shoulder-strap drawn in indelible pencil.
The next morning the march through the town to the station was little
short of a triumphal procession. The most popular figure amongst us
was a diminutive soldier boy of the R.A.M.C., Trumpeter Berry. Some of
the French women were with difficulty restrained from rushing out to
kiss him. The crowd around the station as we left, pressing against the
railings beyond which they were not permitted to go, gave us a send-off
as enthusiastic as the welcome had been. Keepsakes, charms, blessings,
and prayers were bestowed upon us generously. "_Vive la France!_" we
shouted from the railway carriage, and we heard, dying away in the
distance, the hearty response, "_Vive l'Angleterre!_"
* * * * *
The Belgians in the villages through which we passed had already begun
to flee into France for protection. A long line of refugees marched
with us, carrying such of their worldly goods as they could snatch up
at the last moment. There were white-haired old men being wheeled along
in barrows, cripples limping as fast as they could go, hatless women
with a heavy bundle in one arm and an infant in the other, and by their
side were two or three little toddlers wondering what it was all about.
Behind were the homes with all their associations of the past and with
the last meal, perhaps, still on the table untouched, so suddenly
had the warning come. When would they see those homes again? If ever,
probably as a heap of ruins. And in front, whither should they go?...
Along the road they would have constant reminders that there was One
above who knew all about it, and would not leave them comfortless. For
at irregular intervals by the roadside in Belgium and France there are
"Calvaries," little sanctuaries containing a figure of the Crucified
One, seeming to whisper to all who pass by, "I have trodden this path
before you."
II--WITH THE DYING SOLDIERS AT LANDRECIES
The sun was well up before we set out on Tuesday, August 25. Southwards
again our direction lay: a strategic retirement, we were told. Early in
the evening we reached Landrecies. Hardly had we passed the outskirts
of the town before a scare arose. Civilians came tearing out of
Landrecies. Motor cars and carts rushed past us at breakneck speed.
The cry went up, "_Les Allemands!_" ("The Germans!") A certain peasant
who for the moment had lost control of himself whipped the horse which
he was driving into a gallop, deaf to the heartrending call of some
children who ran in panic after him begging him to give them a lift.
Out rushed a footsore guardsman from one of the ambulance wagons,
placed a rifle at his head, and compelled him to stop and pick them
up....
At about 8 P.M. we heard the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns and the boom
of field artillery. The men of the Royal Army Medical Corps meanwhile
awaited the summons that did not come. The rain came down in torrents,
and they lay down wherever they could find a sheltered spot. Sleep for
most of us was impossible. The din of battle was terrific....
I went at once in search of the Hon. Rupert Keppel and handed to him
Major Matheson's note. He was in an upstairs room with five or six
wounded men. He was lying on a bed with a bandage round his forehead,
but made light of the wounds which he had received. After a few words
and a short prayer at each bedside, I made inquiries for Lord Hawarden.
I was told that he was already dead, but I found him in a little room
by himself, still breathing although apparently unconscious. He had
lost his left arm, and a portion of his back had been shot away. I
knelt down beside him and commended him to God, saying in the form of
a prayer as from myself the hymn "Abide with Me." As I rose from my
knees he opened his eyes and smiled. He had been asleep merely, and now
began to speak with quite a strong voice. Not a word did he say about
himself, or his sufferings. He talked about the battle, about his old
home near Bordon, which was within a couple of miles of my own home and
formed a happy link between us, and about his mother....
The other poor patients were terribly knocked about. Limbs in some
cases had been entirely blown off by shells. Lyddite had turned many
complexions to a jaundiced yellow. And yet every man was calm and
resigned, and proud to have had a share in the fight.... A kindly
French priest was going from bed to bed saying comforting words in
French. Probably not one of the patients understood his words, but they
all understood and appreciated his meaning.
Meanwhile the Germans began to appear on the canal bridge near the
hospital. Major Collingwood went out to meet them, and they entered
the hospital with him. The officer in charge of them, Herr Ruttner
of Berlin, shook hands with me and said that my work would not be
interfered with, and that I had his permission to go anywhere over the
scene of battle in search of the killed, and that I might bury them
where most convenient. He said he was personally acquainted with Sir
Douglas Haig, who with Sir John French had actually been in Landrecies
the previous afternoon. He seemed disappointed not to find Sir Douglas
there still, and desired to be remembered to him. By his orders the
hospital was examined and all arms and ammunition were removed. A
sentry was then placed at the gate.
* * * * *
In the early morning of the next day, Thursday, August 27, the gallant
young Lord Hawarden died. The medical officer who looked after him said
that he had never met a braver patient. A party of twelve men, under
the command of Lieut. Hattersley, went with me to lay him to rest,
together with the two officers and men whose bodies had been placed in
the compound of the hospital. We selected the best spot in the pretty
little cemetery of Landrecies.
III--ON A PRISON TRAIN--GOING TO GERMANY
We remained in Landrecies until Saturday, August 29, expecting daily
to be returned to our own people in accordance with the terms of the
Geneva Convention. Our destination, however, was fated to be in the
opposite direction. Under an escort of half a dozen German soldiers,
commanded by an under-officer, we marched out of the town, up the hill
where the battle had taken place, to Bavay. It was a tiring journey for
the wounded men lying in ambulance wagons. The Hon. R. Keppel was the
only wounded officer. He traveled in a wagon with certain men of his
regiment, with whom he appeared to be on exceedingly friendly terms.
Two of the occupants of that wagon had lost an arm each, and they were
the cheeriest of our party.
It was dark when we reached Bavay, and everyone was tired out. The
journey seemed to be quite twenty miles. The first thing we did was
to see the wounded safely into the hospital, which was a young men's
college. M. L'Abbé J. Lebrun, the Superior, and his colleague were at
the door to welcome us. I was at once taken into the English ward, and
arrived just in time to commend the soul of a dying man, a private
of the 12th Lancers. His officer--though wounded--had got out of bed
to see the last of him, and besought me as I entered to visit his
dying comrade without delay. His anxiety on his friend's behalf was a
touching sight.
On the morrow, Sunday, August 30, I held a service, at the request of
the patients, in the English ward. I spoke on "Be of good cheer," or,
as we had so often heard it put by our French friends along the road,
"_Bon courage_."...
At the funeral of the 12th Lancer that afternoon we had an imposing
procession. The body was laid on a stretcher covered over with a Union
Jack and the French national flag. I led the way before the coffin,
robed in a cassock and surplice which had been presented to me by a
French priest to replace my own lost robes. After the coffin came the
three R.C. priests of the town and a number of the French Red Cross
nurses; then Major Collingwood and the men of the 4th Field Ambulance.
One of the nurses, noticing that I had no stole, on returning from the
funeral made me one of black material with three white crosses, and
presented it within a couple of hours.
The next day we were marched under escort to Mons. This is a large,
well-built town of about 35,000 inhabitants. We were paraded through
the cobbled streets to the barracks, then (evidently by a mistake) to
the station, and finally back again to the barracks, where, in some
dirty rooms over a filthy stable, we spent the night. Here we met the
Hon. Ivan Hay, of the 5th Lancers, who had narrowly escaped being shot
after his capture by the Germans, but he was not allowed to accompany
our party. The following morning we were marched once more to the
station, and were bundled into the station-master's office, which was
littered with looted papers. The men meanwhile were herded in a shed.
A sentry was posted at the entrance of the station to prevent anyone
going to the town. Just outside the station were the ambulance wagons
and our servants. Whyman, my soldier-servant, was amongst them with my
horse. That was the last I saw of either of them. I parted from them
with a very sad heart.
During the afternoon an ill-mannered under-officer bade us hand over
knives, razors, and sticks. At 6 P.M. we were entrained with about
1,000 wounded, of whom some forty or fifty were ours, the rest being
Germans. The train must have been a quarter of a mile long. In the
middle of the night we passed through Brussels, and in the early
morning through Louvain and Liège. Louvain seemed to be a heap of
ruins; hardly a house visible from the station was intact.... We looked
with great interest upon Liège as we passed through it, and recalled
the gallant defence of the town by the Belgians. A few more miles
brought us over the border into Germany.
At Aachen a hostile demonstration took place at our expense. There
happened to be a German troop train in the station at the time. A
soldier of our escort displayed a specimen of the British soldier's
knife, holding it up with the marline-spike open, and declared that
this was the deadly instrument which British medical officers had
been using to gouge out the eyes of the wounded Germans who had fallen
into their vindictive hands! From the knife he pointed to the medical
officers sitting placidly in the train, as much as to say, "And these
are some of the culprits." This was too much for the German soldiers.
They strained like bloodhounds on the leash. "Out with them!" said
their irate colonel, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to
the carriages in which these bloodthirsty British officers sat. The
colonel, however, did not wait to see his behest carried out, and a
very gentlemanly German subaltern quietly urged his men to get back to
their train and leave us alone. The only daggers that pierced us were
the eyes of a couple of priests, a few women and boys, who appeared to
be shocked beyond words that even a clergyman was amongst such wicked
men. The enormity of the crimes which had necessitated my capture I
could only conjecture from their looks.
At Düsseldorf we crossed the Rhine--a beautiful sight. At Essen I was
permitted to visit one of our wounded men who was dying of tetanus. The
unfortunate patients lay in rows on the floor of luggage vans, with
straw beneath them. When the train stopped at a station the doors of
these vans were sometimes flung open in order that the crowd might have
a look at them....
Even the Red Cross ladies at the stations steeled their hearts against
us, giving us not so much as a cup of coffee or a piece of bread. But
for the haversack rations and chocolate, which most of us carried with
us, we should have fared badly. Now, however, we were to receive our
first meal from our captors. This consisted of a plate of hot soup
and a slice of bread and butter, which we ate ravenously. Two kind
ladies brought us this food, and we were duly grateful. One of them
was standing near me as we ate the meal, and I thanked her cordially
in English. She paid no attention, so I asked her if she understood
English. "I do, but I don't mean to," was her laconic reply, which
seemed highly to amuse my companions....
At length, on Friday morning, the journey came to an end on our
arrival at Torgau. We were ordered out of the train and drawn up on
the platform in fours. Each officer carried what articles of clothing
he possessed. Several of them had preserved their medical panniers,
and, heavy as these were, they had to be carried or left behind. On
either side of us a German guard with fixed bayonets was drawn up,
and then was given the word, "Quick march!" With our bundle on our
shoulder, there was no man could be bolder, yet this same bundle and
the burning sun prevented there being anything "quick" about our march.
The townsfolk evidently had heard that we were coming, and they were at
the station gate in scores to show us how pleased they were to welcome
us to their town. In fact, they told us quite fre
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