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Title: True Stories of the Great War, Volume VI (of 6) - Tales of Adventure—Heroic Deeds—Exploits Told by the Soldiers, Officers, Nurses, Diplomats, Eye Witnesses
Author: Various
Language: English
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VOLUME VI (OF 6)***
available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(https://archive.org/details/americana)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
https://archive.org/details/truestoriesofgre06mill
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 freely what they thought
of us and the nation which we represented. They walked beside us every
inch of the way, keeping up our spirits by telling us the particular
kind of _Schweinhunds_ they believed the _Engländer_ to be. Not until
they had crossed the massive bridge which spans the Elbe and reached
the Brückenkopf fortress did they turn back home, and the doors of the
fortress closed behind us.
IV--STORY OF PRISON LIFE AT TORGAU
Passing over the moat through two iron doors, we enter a courtyard,
about 100 yards long by 40 broad. Facing the gateway is a semi-circular
building two stories high, with an entrance at either end and one in
the centre. A turret with windows and battlements surmounts each
entrance; and from the central turret rises a flag-pole....
The commandant was a Prussian reservist officer with a long heavy
moustache. We were told that he was courteous and considerate in every
respect, and that, provided we took care to salute him whenever we
passed him, we should find him everything we could reasonably wish.
Supper was at 6 P.M. The same plate did duty for both courses, soup and
meat, the more fastidious taking it under the pump in the interval.
When the meal was over the junior members of the messes did the washing
up. After supper we walked a mile, as the old adage recommends. We soon
knew to a nicety how many turns round the court made up this distance,
and some active spirits improved on the advice by walking several
miles. At 8.30 a bugle sounded, and everyone had to retire to his room;
at 9 sounded "lights out."
That first night was memorable for the little occupants which we found
already in possession of our beds. Just when we hoped we had finished
our labours for the day these little bedfellows began theirs. The more
we wanted to sleep, the more wakeful they became. Scratching, tossing,
and--it must be owned--a little mild swearing could be heard, where
snoring would have been much more tolerable....
At 6 A.M. reveillé sounded, and before it was finished Major Yate was
up and out of bed. I followed his example, and then the two of us began
a practice which we kept up while the warm weather lasted, namely, a
cold bath under the pump in the solitude of the courtyard.
Poor Major Yate! He attempted to escape ten days later, and lost his
life in so doing. One of the sentries affirmed that he shot him as he
made his way through the barbed wire, and that the Major fled wounded
into the river, from which he never came forth alive.... He has since
been awarded posthumously the Victoria Cross for his gallantry in the
campaign.
* * * * *
We selected as our chapel the passage over the entrance at one end
of the building. There was an inspiring atmosphere about that first
service. Our altar was a dormitory table, our altar linen a couple of
white handkerchiefs, our chalice a twopenny wine-glass (the best we
could procure), our paten an ordinary dinner-plate. Pews, of course,
there were none, and as for books, we were fortunate enough to have
one, a hymn-book, prayer-book, and Bible bound together in a single
volume, which I was carrying in my haversack at the time we were
captured. The pew difficulty was overcome by each officer bringing his
stool. The lack of books made no difference to the heartiness of the
service, for the hymns and chants were familiar to most of us from
childhood. The mighty volume of sound that went up that morning in
hymns of thankfulness and praise was a never-to-be-forgotten sensation
to those who heard it or joined in it. The place whereon we stood was
holy ground, and it was good for us to be there....
As time went on, our numbers increased to about 230 British officers,
and 800 French officers joined us from Maubeuge, including four
generals. One of the latter had been interned in Torgau before, in the
1870 war, and had made good his escape. The authorities guarded against
the recurrence of such an eventuality on the present occasion, their
most elaborate precaution being the enlistment of dogs to reinforce
the sentries. Their barkings could be heard occasionally by night, but
their presence disturbed neither our repose nor our equanimity....
During the last two months of our stay at Torgau I occupied a small
room in the centre of the building with Major (now Lieut.-Col.) A. G.
Thompson, Major W. H. Long, and Captain P. C. T. Davy, of the R.A.M.C.,
as companions. Like the Hindus, we divided ourselves into exclusive
castes, as far as the necessary duties in connection with the room were
concerned. The Colonel (as we may call him by anticipation) lit the
stove, the Major washed the cups and saucers, the Captain swept the
floor, and I, with the assistance of a member of our mess, brought in
the coal.
We often dreamt and spoke of the day when we should march out of
Torgau. There were two destinations only which came within the range
of our contemplation--one was Berlin, and the other was England.
Meanwhile, however, there was a place of four short letters which was
to be our home for six long months.
(The chaplain continues to relate his experiences in this German prison
with many interesting anecdotes. He tells about the prison occupations,
how they spent their time in work and recreation, and describes his
parole and visits to several internment camps.)
FOOTNOTE:
[9] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.
"AT SUVLA BAY"--THE WAR AGAINST THE TURKS
_Adventures on the Blue Aegean Shores_
_Told by John Hargrave, the Famous Scoutmaster in the Mediterranean
Expeditionary Forces_
John Hargrave is known throughout England as "White Fox," the
famous scoutmaster. On September 8th, 1914, he said farewell to
his little camp in the beechwoods of Buckinghamshire and to his
woodcraft scouts and went off to enlist in the Royal Army Medical
Corps. He was assigned to the 32nd Field Ambulance, X Division,
Mediterranean Expeditionary Forces, and sailed away to Suvla Bay,
where he passed through the tragic scenes of the Dardanelles
Campaign. He soon began sending stories "back home," achieving for
the Gallipoli Campaign what Ian Hay did for the Western Front.
These stories have been collected into a volume entitled: "At
Suvla Bay," which is published in America by _Houghton, Mifflin
and Company_. There are twenty-eight narratives told in the jargon
of the common soldier. He tells about its being "A Long Way to
Tipperary"; "Mediterranean Nights"; "Marooned on Lemnos Island";
"The Adventure of the White Pack Mule"; "The Sniper of Pear-Tree
Gulley"; "The Adventure of the Lost Squads"; "Dug-Out Yarns"; "The
Sharpshooters"; and many other incidents of Army life. One of his
narratives, "Jhill-O! Johnnie!" is here retold by permission of his
publishers.
I--STORY OF THE INDIAN PACK MULE CORPS
One evening the colonel sent me from our dugout near the Salt Lake to
"A" Beach to make a report on the water supply which was pumped ashore
from the tank-boats. I trudged along the sandy shore. At one spot I
remember the carcass of a mule washed up by the tide, the flesh rotted
and sodden, and here and there a yellow rib bursting through the skin.
Its head floated in the water and nodded to and fro with a most uncanny
motion with every ripple of the bay.
The wet season was coming on, and the chill winds went through my
khaki drill uniform. The sky was overcast, and the bay, generally a
kaleidoscope of Eastern blues and greens, was dull and gray.
At "A" Beach I examined the pipes and tanks of the water-supply system
and had a chat with the Australians who were in charge. I drew a small
plan, showing how the water was pumped from the tanks afloat to the
standing tank ashore, and suggested the probable cause of the sand and
dirt of which the C.O. complained.
This done I found our own ambulance water-cart just ready to return to
our camp with its nightly supply. Evening was giving place to darkness,
and soon the misty hills and the bay were enveloped in starless gloom.
The traffic about "A" Beach was always congested. It reminded you of
the Bank and the Mansion House crush far away in London town.
Here were clanking water-carts, dozens of them waiting in their turn,
stamping mules and snorting horses; here were motor-transport wagons
with "W.D." in white on their gray sides; ambulance wagons jolting
slowly back to their respective units, sometimes full of wounded,
sometimes empty. Here all was bustle and noise. Sergeants shouting and
corporals cursing; transport-officers giving directions; a party of New
Zealand sharpshooters in scout hats and leggings laughing and yarning;
a patrol of the R.E.'s Telegraph Section coming in after repairing the
wires along the beach; or a new batch of men, just arrived, falling in
with new-looking kit-bags.
It was through this throng of seething khaki and transport traffic
that our water-cart jostled and pushed.
Often we had to pull up to let the Indian Pack-mule Corps pass, and it
was at one of these halts that I happened to come close to one of these
dusky soldiers waiting calmly by the side of his mules.
I wished I had some knowledge of Hindustani, and began to think over
any words he might recognize.
"You ever hear of Rabindranarth Tagore, Johnnie?" I asked him. The name
of the great writer came to mind.
He shook his head. "No, sergeant," he answered.
"Buddha, Johnnie?" His face gleamed and he showed his great white teeth.
"No, Buddie."
"Mahomet, Johnnie?"
"Yes--me, Mahommedie," he said proudly.
"Gunga, Johnnie?" I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river
Ganges from Kipling's _Kim_.
"No Gunga, sa'b--Mahommedie, me."
"You go Benares, Johnnie?"
"No Benares."
"Mecca?"
"Mokka, yes; afterwards me go Mokka."
"After the war you going to Mokka, Johnnie?"
"Yes; Indee, France--here--Indee back again--then Mokka."
"You been to France, Johnnie?"
"Yes, sa'b."
"You know Kashmir, Johnnie?"
"Kashmir my house," he replied.
"You live in Kashmir?"
"Yes;--you go Indee, sergeant?"
"No, I've never been."
"No go Indee?"
"Not yet."
"Indee very good--English very good--Turk, finish!"
With a sudden jerk and a rattle of chains our water-cart mules pulled
out on the trail again and the ghostly figure with its well-folded
turban and gleaming white teeth was left behind.
II--HEROISM OF THE SILENT HINDUS
A beautifully calm race, the Hindus. They did wonderful work at Suvla
Bay. Up and down, up and down, hour after hour they worked steadily on;
taking up biscuits, bully-beef and ammunition to the firing-line, and
returning for more and still more. Day and night these splendidly built
Easterns kept up the supply.
I remember one man who had had his left leg blown off by shrapnel
sitting on a rock smoking a cigarette and great tears rolling down his
cheeks. But he said no word. Not a groan or a cry of pain.
They ate little, and said little. But they were always extraordinarily
polite and courteous to each other. They never neglected their prayers,
even under heavy shell fire.
Once, when we were moving from the Salt Lake to "C" Beach, Lala Baba,
the Indians moved all our equipment in their little two-wheeled carts.
They were much amused and interested in our sergeant clerk, who stood 6
feet 8 inches. They were joking and pointing to him in a little bunch.
Going up to them, I pointed up to the sky, and then to the Sergeant,
saying: "Himalayas, Johnnie!"
They roared with laughter, and ever afterwards called him "Himalayas."
THE INDIAN TRANSPORT TRAIN
(Across the bed of the Salt Lake every night from the Supply Depot at
Kangaroo Beach to the firing-line beyond Chocolate Hill, September,
1915.)
The Indian whallahs go up to the hills;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"[10]
They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills;
They shiver and huddle--they feel the night chills;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
With creaking and jingle of harness and pack;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
Where the moonlight is white and the shadows are black,
They are climbing the winding and rocky mule-track;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
By the blessing of Allah he's more than one wife;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
He's forbidden the wine which encourages strife,
But you don't like the look of his dangerous knife;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
The picturesque whallah is dusky and spare;
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
A turban he wears with magnificent air,
But he chucks down his pack when it's time for his prayer;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
When his moment arrives he'll be dropped in a hole;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
'Tis Kismet, he says, and beyond his control;
But the dear little houris will comfort his soul;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
The Indian whallahs go up to the hills;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills;
But those who come down carry something that chills;--
"Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!"
FOOTNOTE:
[10] "Jhill-o!"--Hindustani for "Gee-up"; used by the drivers of the
Indian Pack-mule Corps.
SEEING THE WAR THROUGH A WOMAN'S EYES
_Soul-Stirring Description of Scenes Among the Wounded in Paris_
_Told by (Name Suppressed)_
I--"THEY HAVE NOTHING LEFT--NOT EVEN TEARS"
What I have seen--can that be told? When will words be found simple
enough and infinite enough to tell of so much heroism, so much sorrow,
so much beauty, so much terror? All those sublimities: how can they be
explained without losing their soul, without taking away their value,
which is of mystery and miracle? All those hideous things, all those
unnatural crimes; how can they be revealed with cold and ponderous
reasoning, while one is still trembling, keeping back tears, smothering
cries?
It must be done, though, and that French shyness that hates all that
is bluff or bragging, and which fain would wait that our glory and
suffering be understood, it too must be conquered. We must rise above
that too delicate conscience which says: "Speak? What good will it do?
Truth is luminous; it shines before all eyes." Yes, but it must be
helped to shine, and without delay.
That is why, I have decided to address the American nation, to tell it
that which I know, that which is evident, undeniable--to take it to the
frightful and divine Calvary of truth.
For six months I have been living among our soldiers, our wounded.
I live in my Paris. That Paris that every one visits and that no one
knows. I have only left it for some brief excursions to the cathedrals
in agony, to the villages in ashes, to the ambulances at the front, to
the old peasants who have nothing left--not even tears! To the little
orphans with tragic and stupefied eyes.
Sent to distribute woolens to the combatants, I have heard a language,
haughty and superb. I have clasped the rude hands, sometimes deformed,
of more than twenty-two thousand soldiers, some wounded, others well
again, returning to the firing line, a flame in their eyes and in their
hearts. I have bent over more than ten thousand beds of mutilated young
men, many of them with gangrene. I have held hundreds in my arms on the
operating tables--I who could not support the sight of blood, nor of
illness--hundreds of poor things with atrocious wounds, and only felt
during those minutes one care--a superhuman desire to discover in the
surgeon's look or attitude the hope the poor boy would be saved.
II--"IF HE DIED, I SHOULD HAVE FELT GUILTY"
I remember, above all, a youth twenty years old, who had such a
complicated wound in the chest that it is indescribable. I held the
poor, inert body while the surgeon lay wide open the thorax. "Take him
back," said the surgeon, "and be careful." I did so. Then from the
deep, bleeding wound the whole chest emptied itself, as one empties a
bucket of I don't know what unnamable liquid. The surgeon approached
then, and leaning over the now visible palpitating lung murmured:
"What can be done? It will only begin again." However, he did find
out what could be done. He had him put back in his bed--he was still
unconscious. Sitting near him, filled with anxiety I waited his
awakening. I wanted him to be saved, that child! While he was being
chloroformed a few minutes before, while he was holding my hand without
saying a word, there was in his look, before his eyes closed, such a
gentle desire to live, such a prayer for protection--such confidence
in the infinite aid I gave him. If he died I should have felt myself
guilty--I don't know of what.
He awoke--looked at me and smiled. He then murmured: "Why are you so
good to us, madame? We are not near to you."
To this dying child, to give him back his life, it was necessary I
should explain to him his glory. I said: "Not near, my boy? Why,
understand then what I owe you! If the enemy has not entered our
Paris--if Notre Dame is intact--if I, myself, am living--it is because
you gave your blood for us. But that is not all. When you fight for
France you do not only fight for your country, you do not only save
your native land; you save an ideal, an ideal supreme, universal.
In helping all that is pure and beautiful in the world you save the
liberty of peoples, the liberty of the soul. You say to each one of us
'the yoke that weighs you down I shall help you to cast off.'
"You do not understand me well, my boy. But see--you must live. Later
in the eternal books of history you will learn the meaning of the
blood you have given. You must live! _You must live!_ Years from now
your little children will look at you with eyes of love and admiration
because you were a soldier in the great war. They will know the meaning
of the medal shining on your chest, and for generations they will be
proud of the honour of their name. You must live, my dear boy!"
As I spoke something wonderful illuminated the youth's eyes. "Oh, I
shall live, madame. One only has to will it. I shall live."
He is saved!
I do not know why I stopped to recount the agony and resurrection of
that child, because almost all of them are divinely alike--childlike,
confident, smiling.
Another had had a whole leg amputated--a young man of twenty-two, with
a charming face. Doubtless he had already been loved by some pretty
girl. At last the day came when for the first time he was to get out of
bed and try to walk with crutches. I dreaded that moment. I expected
complaints. I already had made up my consoling arguments.
Ah, how little I knew the soul of our children of France. He arose,
poor boy, so thin, on his one leg; and as he was also wounded in one
arm, in spite of the crutches he couldn't balance himself. That made
him laugh; _made him laugh_!
I turned him over to a nurse because tears were choking me. But they
were not tears of sorrow; they were sobs of tenderness, respect,
admiration.
Another had received nine wounds. He didn't want to have them spoken
of. He only wanted to talk about his days of battle--to live them
over again. "Those last days, madame, we were so near the enemy that
they could not get to us to bring us our rations. We had to find our
nourishment ourselves. When evening arrived some of us would steal out
of the trenches and pick carrots--we lived eleven days like that. One
day I brought down a pigeon. When I was able to get it we broiled it
with matches. Ah, that was a royal feast! How glad we were!"
"Content" (glad, happy), that was the word he used most frequently. One
morning when I got to the hospital, believing him still very ill, he
greeted me with, "I go back to my depot in three days; in a fortnight
I shall be under fire! Oh, how 'content' I am!"
Since then he has written me, "I received the tobacco. We had an awful
fight at ----. I have a finger less and am still in the ambulance, but
still 'content.'"
III--STORY OF THE DYING ALGERIAN
Ah, let me still tell of my country's smile in her sorrow--so sweet,
and which is such a comfort to my heart. I have so much to tell that is
horrible.
Another time I conducted a celebrated visitor to a "tirailleur" (a
part of the colonial infantry who leave the ranks in action and fight
individually). This "tirailleur" had had his right arm amputated. I
said, "he is an Algerian." The wounded man looked at me reproachfully
with his great soft eyes, saying: "Don't say Algerian, madame, me
French, me give arm for France."
Another time I was with another Algerian; this one was about to die;
nothing could save him. I was trying to soften his agony. He let me go
on awhile, then suddenly stopped me with the melancholy childish accent
of the Arabs, saying: "Don't bother about me any more, madame. All
over. Me dead in two hours. Me just as happy as if get well. Thee write
my mother that." I wrote his mother. She replied: "He has served France
well. Allah has taken him to his breast."
IV--"WHAT I HAVE SEEN IN PARIS"
What I have seen! I have seen Paris under the Teutonic shadow cast
from the north. Three days, on opening my windows at dawn, I anxiously
listened for the expected rumble of the cannonading. Nothing....
It will be soon, this evening, to-morrow, I said. Everything in my
threatened city became sacred to me. For me to die, that was nothing.
But for Paris to be destroyed; my Paris! the city that cannot be
described; cannot be explained! I couldn't stand that. I burst out
weeping in the deserted streets, leaning perchance against a humble and
old house. This mere relic had feelings, regrets, like the most sublime
monuments.
The gravest day dawned. Those who only stayed in Paris for the pleasure
they receive from it, and those who have children to take care of,
were hastening toward the stations or crowding into automobiles. I
stayed there. My heart wrung with agony, I drifted through my ordinary
occupations. Then the unbelievable happened. As I was crossing the
Place de la Madeleine, in a semi-dazed condition, a little boy, about
five or six years old, ran up to me and gave me a slip of paper. I saw
distractedly that he was decently dressed and had large blue eyes. I
automatically opened the paper. The following unheard of phrase was
typewritten on it: "_France is invincible_."
I turned toward the child: "Who gave you that?"
"Madame," said the little one, raising his head with a look that was
grand, immense, "We wrote them ourselves, all night." Tears filled my
eyes; I had a presentiment they were tears of deliverance. So, while
we knew the Uhlans were in Chantilly, while in the hearts of the
grown-up people horror placed its claws on faith, on hope, there was a
little child with immense blue eyes, who knew nothing, like the good
shepherds, St. Genevieve and Joan of Arc, but who knew that "France was
invincible" and who passed the night writing it.
Yes, the miracle that saved Paris was revealed to us. But there was
another miracle, something imponderable, which was the soul of the
little boy with his eyes of light--which is the soul of Paris.
Paris ... even during those hours did not lose its sweet disposition
of smiling independence. And it was among the children that we
found the most touching proofs. One day--at the hour when the German
aviators were storming Paris with bombs--we called it our _five o'clock
taube_--I went out with a friend near the Park Monceau. All the
passers-by were walking with their noses in the air, as they already
had got the habit of the visits of "the bad pigeons."
One little boy had his bicycle to follow the flight, another a pair
of opera glasses. But look around in the sky as I might, I could see
nothing. Then a little boy, this one about six or seven years old,
pulled my coat. "Straight up, madame; straight up, over my head!"
That's how they frightened our little kiddies!
The next day I was passing through a thickly populated neighbourhood
over which they had been flying for an hour. Suddenly a child bolted
out of a house as fast as it could go. But his mother caught him and
administered two resounding slaps. "I told you to stay in the house."
"Ah," protested the urchin, "ye don't only keep me from seein' de tobe,
but cher lick me in der bargain."
These are trifles, will perhaps be said. Do you think so? Nothing is
small that reveals the immortal soul of a people. And we found it so
everywhere. Don't lose patience with me if I speak without order. My
words resemble the days I am living. They have a unity, however, as
from them always shines forth the trials, the smiles, the bravery of my
country.
V--"THEY ARE ALL DEAD NOW"
What have I seen?... I saw a white glove stained with a gray spot and
a brown spot. Here is its history. When war was declared all the young
students of the Saint Cyr Army School were promoted second lieutenants.
Their average age was about twenty years. How happy they were to fight
for France. But to fight was not enough. They must do it with grace,
with style, carelessly, according to French traditions. They all swore,
those boys, to go to the first battle wearing white gloves. They kept
their word. But the white gloves made them a mark for the ambushed
sharpshooters. They are all dead. The glove I saw belonged to one of
them. The gray spot is of brain--the brown spot is blood. Piously this
relic was brought to the mother of the dead young man. This special one
was only nineteen years old.
And let us not think that it was a useless sacrifice. It is well that
in the beginning of this war of surprises, mud and shadow, some of our
children died in the light, facing the enemy, and facing the sun, for
the good renown of French allegiance.
What I have seen ... Yesterday I received a letter. It came from a
sergeant in the Argonne, an uneducated workman. Here it is, with the
spelling and punctuation corrected:
* * * * *
"Madame, thanks for letting me know that my wife has had a little girl.
But do not think I am worried. We love our families, but our duty is to
love our country first. And if I do, those at home will be taken care
of, I know it, madame.
"I'm going to tell you something you'll be glad to hear, not at the
beginning, but you'll see at the end. A couple of weeks ago we lost a
trench and almost everybody was massacred, including our commander. I
escaped with a few more of my men. From our new trench we could see
the bodies of our comrades and officers down there. The worst of it
was that the Germans would get behind them to shoot at us. Ah, that
all those Frenchmen, dead for their country, were made to protect the
enemy! I couldn't look at that. So here's what I did. I said to my
men, 'I'm going for them, but if I stay there I don't want my body to
be made a rampart. Tie a rope around my body and if you see I'm done
for, pull me back by it.' At first things went all right. I got back
three of our comrades' corpses. But the Germans began to see something
was up. To mix them up I ordered a feint on the right--another on the
left. I kept on.
"I was all right. Never would those people suspect that I would risk
my life to save dead bodies. So I had the joy of getting them all
back--there were sixty-seven. And can you believe it, madame, there
were two men still living. They are in a good way to getting well, and
they can indeed say they came back from pretty far off. We buried the
others. They are now sleeping peacefully. But I couldn't resist letting
those in the opposite trench know. Not a bad trick, was it, madame?"
VI--"THEY WILL PAY FOR THIS MISERY"
What have I seen.... The other morning among the men who came to the
vestiaire (wardrobe), where I am occupied part of the time, and who are
generally very gay and good-humoured, there was a young soldier with a
sober, set, disagreeable face. I shook him up with, "Why, what's the
matter that a French soldier makes such a face? Won't you look me in
the face and make me a nice smile?" But he didn't change expression. I
took him to one side. "What's the matter with you, my child? First of
all, where are you from?"
"I am from the North, madame."
"Oh, then I understand why you are sad. You do not know where your dear
ones are."
He looked at me with a fierce, wild expression and suddenly replied:
"I do know, madame. My elder brother was killed beside me, struck
by the same shell that wounded me. That is war. They have burned my
home, killed my mother and my father. My sister, sixteen years old,
has been violated and abused; my little sister, of nine years, has
disappeared." A black flame burned in the sombre look of the boy and
made it unbearable. I received that look straight in my eyes. "Tell me,
madame, we will get to their country, won't we, won't we?"
"Why, certainly, my boy--nothing surer."
"Oh, madame, they will pay for all this misery. But do not fear, _their
women and children will not be touched_."
"Their women and children will not be touched." That is what this
martyr of barbarism and of the cruelty of the enemy found in his heart
to say--this sombre, uncultivated child of a northern village. I shook
his rough hand--I squeezed it--I kissed the poor cheeks of this orphan
with maternal kisses, and I said: "I thank thee."
VII--"THE CHILDREN WHO ARE MUTILATED"
But they--what are they doing with our little children? Here's a letter
from a lady friend--a great musician. "My son-in-law, Lieutenant ----
has been defending Verdun since August. He's all right. But when will
these barbarians be entirely driven away? Lately my son-in-law had a
German soldier who was very badly wounded picked up. When stripping
him to give him aid they found a child's hand in his pocket. He was
immediately shot."
Don't think it's a single case. The children who are mutilated,
assassinated, burned, are counted by hundreds. At Blamont, in the
presence of the Baroness de V----, the Germans killed a child in its
mother's arms. "Why did you do that?" asked the Baroness. "We are
obliged to, otherwise we are shot," replied the men.
Witnesses who have seen like things are too numerous to be counted.
Everybody in France remembers the sad question of the little girl
who asked her mother, "Will Santa Claus bring me back my hands for
Christmas?"
Some time I shall go into the details of the arrival of the Belgian
children in Paris, with their terrorized looks, their screams of
fear if anyone approached them. I haven't yet the courage to go over
it. The memory I am going to call up is almost as frightful, though.
It was Sunday, August 30. All at once I got a telephone call from a
hospital where I often assisted: "Come, quick; they're bringing a lot
of wounded."
As I arrived they were carrying in a young woman, either dead or
unconscious. Everybody was under the strain of deep emotion. We
undressed her. Her body was horribly mutilated with hideous wounds.
She was the victim of the first "taube," as the Parisiennes called
the German aeroplanes. She was passing along the street, humble and
inoffensive. Her husband was at the front. She had a child at home.
From above death smote her. The French gave men wings, and that is how
the barbarians use them.
I left the young woman dead. I went to see the child. He was playing
at a table, laughing. The contrast was so sad I couldn't stand it. I
took away his toys. "You mustn't play any more just now, baby. You will
not see your mother again to-day." He looked up at me sadly as if he
understood. I took him in my arms and wept over him.
There is a little--so little--of what I have seen and heard.
Just as I finished writing I received a photograph from the painter
Guirand de Scévola, showing an old woman of sixty-five, who had been
attacked--then slaughtered. With it was a part of the Belgium official
report, not yet made public. I shall divulge the paragraph: "September
11th, Josephy Louis Buron, of the Twenty-fourth regiment of the line,
declared that having been made prisoner by the Germans, near Aerschot,
they made him plunge both hands into a kettle of boiling water. Dr.
Thone, of the Twenty-fourth regiment of the line, declared he saw the
wounds of the hero." (Told in the _New York American_.)
LOST ON A SEAPLANE AND SET ADRIFT IN A MINE-FIELD
_Adventures on the North Sea_
_Told by a Seaplane Observer_
The Great War has introduced new perils both on land and sea. Here
is the story of one of them--two men drifting through a mine-field
on a crippled seaplane, fending off mines with their bare hands,
and expecting every moment to be blown to pieces! Daring adventure
told in the _Wide World_.
I--"MY HUNDREDTH FLIGHT OVER THE NORTH SEA"
I completed my "century" of seaplane flights over the North Sea with an
adventure the like of which, I trust, will never occur again.
Many varied experiences have gone to total up that number of
ascents--some far from pleasant, others most interesting, and well
repaying one for occasional hardships.
The sequel to my one-hundredth flight, however, will take a lot of
effacing from my memory.
The atmosphere was a trifle thick when we started off from our base
with the intention of flying an ordinary hundred-and-fifty-mile
circular patrol.
The farther we progressed, the thicker grew the haze, till we at last
were travelling through dense fog.
We left at 7.30 a.m., and climbed to two thousand five hundred feet to
get above the heat-haze and fog over the water.
At eight-twenty-five, almost an hour later, the revolutions of the
eight-foot tractor began slackening perceptibly, and presently, to our
dismay, the engine stopped dead.
We were compelled to descend so quickly that there was no time to send
a wireless signal; in fact, I just barely managed to cut the trailing
aerial wire free before we struck the sea.
That I did so was a slice of luck, as, otherwise, the fuselage would
probably have been ripped up, and the machine capsized.
When the floats smacked the water we got quite a bump, and a decided
jar in the nape of our necks.
Fortunately, however, the under-carriage struts retained their rigidity
and did not buckle, and the seaplane rode the water right way up.
I will not worry the reader with a technical explanation of the trouble
which had befallen our engine. Sufficient to state that it was of so
serious a nature as to preclude us from any attempt at "patching her
up."
"Do you know where we are?" inquired the pilot, after we had heartily
chorused a round of expletives appropriate to such an eventuality. I
shook my head.
It must be remembered we had been travelling through fog most of the
journey, and therefore could not spot the regular aids to maritime
aerial pilotage, such as light-vessels, sandbanks, buoys, and coast
contours. In addition to this there are always air currents about, to
counteract a dead compass-reckoning alone.
By taking the mean of our calculations, however, we were eventually
able to place a finger on the approximate area where we believed
ourselves to be on the chart.
The result was anything but encouraging. We were at least fifty miles
from the shores of England, and in a neighbourhood devoid of all
shipping, even in times of peace. What was worse, it was gradually
borne in upon us that we were perilously near, if not actually in, a
most extensive mine-field!
Personally, I was feeling anything but buoyant, and the reason is not
far to seek. I had had the middle watch (12-4 a.m.) in the wireless
cabin ashore the previous night. A report then came through that
there was "something buzzing"--hostile submarines scudding round, or
Zeppelins or other aircraft--and I had the wireless of half-a-dozen
machines to overhaul, and superintend their going off. Then my own turn
came, and, minus breakfast or a bite of anything, off I went, having
had no food since the previous afternoon at five. Worse still, I had
not so much as a bite of "grub" about me, or even a smoke.
The pilot went through his pockets, and discovered one solitary
cigarette resting in state in his case. Being a sportsman, as well as
a companion in misfortune, he offered it to me, and, on my emphatic
refusal, halved it. So we both lit up whilst we reviewed the situation.
I don't believe I ever treated a smoke with greater care than I did
that half-cigarette. For aught I knew it might be my last.
When we had finished our cogitations the joint result of our thinking
was by no means hopeful.
II--"S. O. S." MESSAGE ON MACHINE GUN
A strong sun was beginning to shine through the intense heat-haze, and
the glare of the water was very trying.
At regular intervals I fired off a Very's light, with the idea of
attracting attention. As the coloured projectiles curved high into the
air and plunged downwards, so did our hopes seem to rise and fall.
When my Very's cartridges were exhausted, I commenced a series of
"S.O.S." messages in the Morse code on the machine-gun. The nickel
bullets of two trays of Mark VII. ammunition had winged through the
heavy air before we realized the practical futility of it all.
We therefore kept the remainder of our gun magazines intact, as also a
brace of heavy service revolvers, 455 calibre, fully loaded.
We were not to know what might crop up at any moment. A Taube might
find us and swoop down for bombing practice, or to make an easy prey.
We could not in any event be taken prisoners by hostile aircraft, as
there would be no space for us in a machine already full.
At any moment, too, a U-boat might pop up and either make a target of
us for their quick-firer or take us in tow for the Belgian coast, which
was uncomfortably near at hand.
However, come what might, we were in a mood to fight to a finish.
Unfortunately, my wireless transmitter was worked from the engine
direct, otherwise I might have rigged up an extempore aerial from the
spare reel carried, and sent a "S.O.S." from accumulators.
It is doubtful if such a scheme would have proved effective, but it
would have been worth trying. But in the circumstances I was helpless.
The heat was now simply awful, the sea dead calm. We had taken off our
leather coats long since, and now rigged them up across the fuselage
overhead, for shelter from the sun's rays.
Presently it became so hot and stuffy on the seats that both the pilot
and myself took our boots and trousers off, climbed down on the floats,
and stretched ourselves along them in the comparative shelter of the
wings and fuselage body.
The stern part of the floats was, of course, submerged, so we lay with
our lower limbs under water, and felt cooler. This we did for about
three hours, each of which seemed an age.
What with the heat and the want of food, which caused a dull throbbing
in my temples, by noon I was in such a state that I did not care what
happened to us.
The pilot (poor chap) had only recently been married, and he rattled
along continually about his young wife.
I have no wish to be in like straits again, but if such a misfortune
_should_ happen, I earnestly trust I shall not have the misfortune to
be beside a young fellow newly wedded! In the long weary time we spent
together I had the whole of his history, from childhood to courtship,
and I suppose he had mine!
What surprised us was the great number of logs floating about.
Apparently a timber boat had foundered somewhere close by.
Every log that hove in sight through the haze we thought was a ship. It
was a terrible time.
At intervals we either heard--or imagined we did--the engines of
aircraft. Sometimes they seemed all around us; sometimes a long way off.
"Our only chance is a relief seaplane being sent after us," said the
pilot. "Otherwise we are done for!"
There was precious little chance of us ever being spotted, we reckoned,
owing to the extremely low visibility.
At least a dozen times, as the day wore on, we heard the unmistakable
roar of aircraft, and it was torture to listen to them.
"It's coming nearer. They will see us!" the pilot would cry, hopefully.
Then the sound would recede into the distance, and we would become
despondent again.
III--"WE WERE FLOATING OVER DYNAMITE"
It was extremely irritating, whilst anxiously following these sounds
with straining ears, to hear the swish, swish of the water across the
floats, the ripple as it rejoined the ocean again, and the creak, creak
of the great wings as we rose and fell with a squelch on the gentle
undulations of a swell.
These sounds eventually developed into a perfect nightmare. Every swish
and creak seemed to pierce our brains.
Eventually we climbed up into the seats again for a while and stared
our eyes out scanning the horizon with our powerful glasses. Every
piece of flotsam seen we dubbed a boat, till it drifted near enough to
make out detail.
The wind got up a little and died down again, but it shifted the haze
somewhat.
In the afternoon we saw a sight which gladdened our hearts.
High up to the nor'-west, and dropping towards us, was a bird-like
machine. Nearer and nearer it came, till we could hear the engines
clearly. Soon we identified her marks, which set our fears at rest. It
was a British 'plane.
We sprang up, gesticulated wildly, and fired a few pistol-shots just to
relieve our excitement.
She was a rescue seaplane from our own base, it appeared, and presently
she dropped on the water beside us and "taxied" as close as she might.
Her pilot steered within twenty yards or so of us, and the observer
heaved overboard in our direction a huge vacuum flask.
Then, without stopping their engine, and waving cheerily, they droned
along the surface and tilted into the air again. We watched her until
the machine became a mere speck and finally faded into the blue.
Then, and not till then, we remembered the flask. We were fated never
to taste its contents, however, for it floated past out of reach, in
the midst of a great school of giant jellyfish.
I have never been stung by one of these loathsome-looking creatures,
and I had no desire to be on this occasion. Neither had the pilot, so
the bottle floated out of sight without giving us anything but moral
support.
After this interlude our long impatient wait recommenced. The episode
had instilled hope into us, but the hours seemed to drag more heavily
than ever. There was nothing but sea on every hand--a great circular
expanse of glaring, shimmering water.
Presently schools of porpoises began to put in an appearance, sporting
about in their own unmistakable style. There must have been hundreds of
them. One group frolicked close around us, and several times a glossy
black tail caught one or other of the floats a resounding smack.
The fabric of these floats is exceedingly frail, and we were rather
concerned about them. It seemed a pity to shoot the playful creatures,
particularly as their antics created a diversion, but we trembled for
the safety of the floats every time they were struck.
As the tide went down, several dark, spheroidal objects commenced
bobbing up by twos to the surface--on our starboard beam, as we were
floating at that time.
Through our glasses we could spot scores more of them in the distance.
No need to tell one another what they were. We _knew_--deadly contact
mines!
The nearest pair were only a matter of half a cable's length away, and
presently our worst ordeal commenced.
We were drifting towards them with the ebbing tide, and were now on the
fringe of the great mine-field, perhaps the most extensive ever laid.
Once in among those floating engines of death we should have a lively
time.
It was with no very pleasant thoughts that we considered this new
danger. I might have turned the machine gun on the mines, but there
was the risk of exploding instead of sinking them, and if one went off
it was fairly safe to assume that its mate, a couple of fathoms away,
would detonate in sympathy. I presume that this is the underlying idea
of distributing mines in this fashion.
During the next four hours these horrid death-traps gave us a terribly
anxious time. We had some very narrow shaves, for at low-water hundreds
were in sight, and as the seaplane drifted along we were powerless to
avoid them.
The pilot got on one float and I got on the other, and once or twice
we actually had to ward the mines off with our bare hands in order to
keep them from knocking against the machine. Had one of them done so
this story would never have been written. Fending off the mines was a
ticklish operation, as you may suppose. Great care had to be observed
in exerting our strength, and we had to place our hands on parts of the
casing of the mine that were devoid of horns, or between two horns,
if it was not floating high enough. While engaged in this delightful
occupation I went overboard twice, but managed to scramble back safely
without getting into trouble with the mines.
Once a mine went off. It was too far away, however, for us to see what
caused the explosion. It is not improbable that a luckless porpoise
might have bent a horn in one of its leaps.
At length, to our heartfelt relief, the tide turned, and the mines
began to disappear under the water again.
By that time we were drifting nearly the opposite way again, carried
along by the flood-tide.
IV--"AN AEROPLANE COMES TO RESCUE"
Six o'clock came, by our chronometer--seven p.m. summer time--and we
were still intact, having for about ten hours been dependent on our
frail seaplane floats for buoyancy. Had the sea risen at all, even to a
decent cat's paw, we should have been below the surface long ere this.
It was shortly after six o'clock, when--burnt almost black by the sun,
with parched throats and swollen tongues--we heard the sound of a
propeller chugging away at no great distance. The haze had thickened
again as the sun moved west, and at first we could see nothing. In
fact, we both thought we were dreaming.
But there was no mistake. The chugging and throbbing grew louder
and louder, and I fired three single pistol-shots into the air at
intervals. Thereupon the sound intensified, and out of the haze
ploughed a trim little armed motor-launch--officially known as an "M.L."
She crept alongside very gingerly, lowered her dinghy, and took us off.
Then she made fast a line to the seaplane, and took her in tow at a
good seven or eight knots.
We were heartily welcomed by the bluff sailormen aboard.
Curiously enough, I did not feel thirst so badly as hunger. I am not of
a thirsty nature at any time, and perhaps that accounted for it.
The first mouthful of food was torture; it seemed to rasp the skin off
my throat. After that I ate ravenously. It was the first touch of real
hunger I had known, and after the experience, I vowed that if it lay in
my power I would never again see a poor beggar go hungry.
When our bodily wants had been attended to we settled down to a
comfortable smoke in the ward-room. The skipper, a Lieutenant R.N.R.,
told us he had just made up his mind he was not going to venture
another fathom farther when he heard our shots. Owing to the proximity
of the mine-field he had been very anxious.
After our smoke we turned in for a sleep which only terminated when the
"M.L." reached the shores of Old England and her Diesel oil-engines
ceased throbbing! This was long after midnight.
They say our little experience has left its mark on us, but personally
I feel as fit as ever.
HOW I HELPED TO TAKE THE TURKISH TRENCHES AT GALLIPOLI
_An American Boy's War Adventures_
_Told by Wilfred Raymond Doyle, on His Majesty's Ship "The Queen
Elizabeth"_
This is the first-hand narrative of an American boy's extraordinary
yet characteristic exploits, told from his own viewpoint and in
his own language. Young Doyle's noticeable aptitude at telling
his story may be accounted for by the fact that he is a born
journalist. His parents, who reside in Yonkers, are people of
education and refinement. The father is a blind poet of some local
repute, and at one time published a little newspaper in the Harlem
district of New York City. The special causes which led to the
enterprising lad's departure from home, and how he came to enlist
in the British Navy, are best detailed by himself in the _New York
World_.
I--STORY OF AN AMERICAN RUN-AWAY
At the age of nineteen I was employed in the shipping department of a
large publishing house at a salary of six dollars a week, with small
prospect of advancement. My family were in need of all the help I could
give. I grew restless, and one day February (1916) suddenly decided to
make a change. Instead of taking a car for home I boarded a steamer for
Boston, expecting to do better in that city, and then to surprise my
parents with my success. I could get nothing better than a place as a
"bus boy" in a lunch room. After working there for three days I saw a
chance of getting a better position, but unfortunately was too late.
I was delayed two hours and that cost me my first job.
I could find nothing else to do, and the next day I signed on an ocean
steamer, _Etonin_, bound for Liverpool with a cargo of horses. My job
was working the donkey engine for getting the feed up out of the hold;
it was an easy job--two hours a day. The rest of the time we played
cards, and when we reached Liverpool I had one penny in my pocket. The
ship was not to return to Boston before fourteen days, and I had either
to secure some work or starve. There was many a job I might have gotten
but for the fact that I was an American. At least that was the excuse
given for refusing me employment.
I had no choice but to go to the Naval Recruiting Office. I said I was
born in Dublin and was at once accepted. I received a half crown, which
was one shilling from the King, another from the Queen, and six pence
from the Prince of Wales. I signed for the period of hostilities only,
and that night had a good supper at the Government's expense.
II--"HOW I REACHED THE DARDANELLES"
The next day I was sent to the training depot at Portsmouth, where
I received my uniform and kit. I was two weeks training with the
rifle and bayonet and one week at target practice. On April 16, after
physical examination, I was declared fit for service on His Majesty's
ships. That afternoon I was drafted to the torpedo boat destroyer
_Lynx_, which reached the Dardanelles in safety at noon of April 19.
There I was assigned for service on the _Queen Elizabeth_, which I
boarded two days later when she came out from the firing line for
ammunition.
In the distance the _Queen Elizabeth_ appeared like a huge island,
with four trees in the centre, but on a closer view was seen to be an
immense floating fortress with huge guns, ready for action.
The complement of the _Queen Elizabeth_ is twelve hundred men,
including all ratings. I was assigned to No. 4 boiler room, which
to my surprise, was not a grimy place but scrupulously clean, and
everything in it polished as bright as a mirror. The ship uses oil fuel
exclusively. My duties were: To keep the oil sprayers and steel combs
clean, to take the density of the water every four hours, to regulate
the supply of water and the fan engine for supplying the air pressure
to the fires, and lastly to test the different safety valves. All
orders are given by means of two telegraphs, an engine room telegraph
and an oil supply telegraph.
The _Queen Elizabeth_ went into action from midnight April 21 to
midnight April 24. I was on duty without relief. During that time I had
four times a day biscuits and water, with a half pint of rum. At noon
I was allowed two hours' rest, but could not sleep on account of the
noise. Our ship was hit every few minutes.
During action the fire pumps are pounding tons of water over the deck
to prevent fire in case of a shell exploding on the wooden deck. It
was our duty to keep the pipes and connections clear, for the water
sucked up from the sea often contains foreign substances. One occasion
we were subjected to a heavy rapid-fire gun bombardment. The structure
shielding us was punctured like a piece of Swiss cheese and the deck
about us was splintered before the guns on our ship found the range and
destroyed the enemy's battery of guns that were turned upon us. It was
a miracle that the seven of us escaped.
Once I was sent to the store room for tools. I had to pass the six-inch
guns and neglected to get a piece of India rubber to place between my
teeth; the result was a dislocated jaw from the shock of the firing. I
hastened to the doctor and pointed to my jaw. He put his left hand on
my head, and with his right gave me a couple of "Jim Jeffries" punches,
and, while I saw stars, reset my jaw.
On April 26 the _Queen Elizabeth_ was ordered out from the firing line
to bring up troops to the Gallipoli Peninsula. The Royal Scots were
taken aboard from a transport in the Aegean Sea. We returned at once
and landed the Royal Scots safely under heavy fire.
We withdrew at once about ten miles from the enemy's range, and,
borrowing a telescope, I watched the Royal Scots, 1,100 strong, make
their heroic charge, which began at 2 P. M.
They advanced on the double and took the three rows of Turkish trenches
at the point of the bayonet without firing a shot. Then, without
waiting for reinforcements, they advanced two and a half miles into
the enemy's country. Their lines were gradually getting thinner, and
realizing that they were in a tight place, they began to retreat. That
is all that I saw. Corporal Joseph Nicolson was the only survivor of
that ill-fated regiment.
On May 8 the news of the sinking of the _Lusitania_ reached us by
wireless, and the bombardment by the _Queen Elizabeth_ became doubly
terrific. I think more damage was done to the enemy that day than
ordinarily in a week.
The next day there was a call for 1,000 men, 200 from each of the five
largest ships, to support the soldiers on land on May 9. I was one
of the number from the _Queen Elizabeth_, told off to go as landing
parties at 6 A. M. Every man received a rifle, bayonet, two hundred
rounds of ammunition, and two days' supply of food.
III--"TAKE THOSE TRENCHES OR DON'T COME BACK!"
On leaving the ship the commander's order was: "My boys, take those
trenches or don't come back." Six hours later we landed on the
Gallipoli Peninsula, and reached the trenches safely though under
heavy firing of the enemy. I was for twelve hours in the third line
of trenches, knee deep in mud and water. Our time there was spent in
sharpening our bayonets like razors.
At midnight we advanced to the first line trenches. All around us were
the dead and wounded of both sides. Four unsuccessful attempts were
made by the Turks to take our trenches, but each time they were beaten
back, with a heavy loss. Our side also suffered heavily. Before we
landed the British troops had lost 3,000 men in six attempts to take
the Turkish trenches. The enemy's fire had been so severe that the
transports could not land reinforcements without being sunk.
We navy men were told that the Turkish trenches must be taken at all
costs. They were only fifty yards in front of ours. At 10.15 A. M. our
rifles were loaded with fifteen rounds, the magazine safety catch was
put on and the respirators were adjusted over our faces. Not a shot was
to be fired in our charge.
Meanwhile our ships were firing on the enemy's trenches. At 10.25 the
order rang out, "Cold steel!" We fixed our bayonets. At 10.30 the
bugles sounded the charge. Fifty men fell while getting out; but in ten
minutes we took the Turkish trenches. Our losses were 250 killed and
200 wounded.
It is almost impossible to describe a bayonet charge. On the instant of
the order you spring out, jump or crawl from the trenches, with bayonet
fixed, and charge on the double. Sometimes you have to creep to make
an attack. You become like a raving maniac; your senses seem to leave
you. All around comrades are dropping, but you do not think of them.
Reaching the enemy's trench, a terrific hand-to-hand struggle takes
place. Strategy is the main point. Our bayonets were eighteen inches in
length, while those of the Turks were all lengths from 12 to 15 inches.
We wore the gas respirators in our charge, as our commander thought
that our appearance would frighten the enemy. It did. We looked like
black devils.
At 10.45 the Turkish trench was taken. After the victory our captain
made a brief address. Facing the dead and wounded with the tears
streaming from his eyes, he said:
"I am proud of my boys who fought so splendidly and did what seven
thousand soldiers failed to do in six attempts, losing three thousand.
You, a mere handful, one thousand strong, succeeded in the first
attempt. The army has much to thank the navy for."
The last was uttered loud enough to be heard by the soldiers in the
neighboring trenches. They were so sore about it that they would not
speak to us navy men for several days.
IV--THE TURKISH GIRL BEFORE THE FIRING SQUAD
One day we were allowed a few hours' leave to go where we pleased.
In our wanderings we came to a farm where women were working in the
fields. In one field was a huge haystack. Approaching it, one of my
comrades said that he would show how he killed six Turks. He fixed his
bayonet to his rifle and made a charge at the haystack. There was blood
on his bayonet when he withdrew it. We ripped open the haystack and in
the hollow found a young Turkish girl trying to bandage her arm where
my chum's bayonet had wounded her. There were a cot, table and chair
in the stack, and the girl had a rifle with a telescopic sight, and
a box of cartridges. We were about to let her go, when she dropped a
package which broke, and thirty-one identification disks, such as are
worn by every soldier and sailor in the British Army and Navy, fell on
the ground!
She was a sniper. We had to turn her over to our superior officer. She
was court martialed and ordered to be shot in a half hour. We could not
bear to see a woman face the firing squad, so we left the place and
went back to our trench. We stayed there until the troops were landed
and relieved us.
While in the trenches we went through many an ordeal, the chief of
which was the vermin that, combined with the heat and filthy water,
made life almost unbearable. When we returned to our ship all our
clothing was taken from us and burned. We were then subjected to a bath
of hot water containing some powerful disinfectant which took away a
part of our skin. New uniforms were given us and we put them on our raw
hides with a sense of unspeakable delight.
While on land we saw something of the Turkish sniper. He is a
sharpshooter, painted green from head to foot, as he is usually hidden
among the leaves of the trees. His cartridges are in a box fastened
to a branch above his head, and on his rifle is the famous telescopic
sight, an Austrian invention by means of which a child could hardly
miss the mark. When their hiding place was discovered and they were
shot, we let them hang from the branches as a warning to others. If the
sniper sees that he cannot escape, he destroys his telescopic sight. No
more than six of these wonderful inventions had been found up to that
date. I picked up one in the Turkish trench and had it in my hand for
a few minutes, but was obliged to turn it over to my superior officer
of the division to be sent to the Government arsenal for examination.
... Shortly after our arrival in the Dardanelles one of the mine
sweepers was sunk and the body of a boy seaman floated by our ship.
One of the survivors of the sunken _Irresistible_ jumped overboard and
found the boy was not dead, though unconscious. We threw a rope and
hauled them in. A marine stepped forward and took the boy from the arms
of his rescuer. As he was carrying him to shelter a small shell from
the enemy's gun blew off the marine's head. A sailor snatched the boy
away from him. For half a minute the headless man, having his lungs
still full of air, threw up his arms, and dashed madly about the deck.
This was the only casualty on our ship during my service.
V--CAPTURED ON BELGIAN COAST
On May 23 we left the Dardanelles to have our guns refitted. May 27
we were fifteen miles off the Belgian coast and there we heard heavy
bombardment. The following day H.M.S. _Drake_ asked for a loan of fifty
men from our ship. I was one of the fifty.
The _Drake_ was trying to locate a heavy German battery, and a lucky
shot killed the gun crew but did not damage the guns. We fifty from
the _Queen Elizabeth_ were sent ashore to destroy the guns by blowing
them up. We reached them under the heavy fire of the enemy, took off
the breeches and destroyed the mechanism. As we were setting the
dynamite to blow up these guns, a party of about three hundred Germans
surrounded us. Our rifles were stacked up about thirty feet away and in
running to reach them several of us were wounded. I received slight
flesh wounds in the arm and leg. After being searched and relieved of
all weapons, we were marched to a barbed wire stockade, about a mile
and a half inland, and were told that we were to be sent to Germany the
next day. There was another stockade with British, French and Belgian
prisoners near by, and over the barbed wire they threw us a football to
amuse ourselves. We played football until dusk.
A German soldier was sent with a spade to dig a hole for another post
in support of the barbed wire gate. We played football all around the
field and managed to get the German soldier in our midst. We bound and
gagged him, seized his weapons and took his spade. It was getting dark
and no one suspected but that we were still playing football.
We took turns in digging under the barbed wire fence a tunnel for
escape. While we were at work we had a genuine surprise. A German
sentry on his rounds, trod on a weak spot over our tunnel and fell in,
face downward. He could make no outcry as his mouth was filled with
grass and dirt. We immediately bound and gagged him, took his weapons
and left him there.
We all escaped through this tunnel and beat it for the coast as fast
as our legs could carry us. The searchlights of our ship were in
action and were playing all over the coast looking for us. One of our
number was a signal man. He ripped off his jumper and, tearing it in
two pieces, waved them over his head. The signal was seen--we knew it
because the guns of the ship were brought to bear over us, to protect
us from an attack in the rear, and recapture. We received a flash light
signal to lie down, and soon we heard the sound of two engines. It was
the ship's picket boats, mounted with machine guns on stern and bow. We
were conveyed in short order to the _Drake_.
All ships have a master of arms and a ship's corporal; they are the
ship's police, and they are always looking for trouble. As soon as
we were on the deck we were placed under arrest and taken before the
captain. The charges against us were: over-staying shore leave fourteen
hours, disobeying orders and general untidiness. We did, in fact, look
like a bunch of Hooligans. Several of us had no caps and the faces of
all of us were covered with blood and muck. Our new uniforms were so
torn that a rag man would not have given us two cents for the lot.
The following are some of the captain's questions, and our answers:
"Where were you men?"
"Ashore, sir."
"Why were you not back in time?"
"The Germans would not let us come back, sir."
"Where are your rifles? And did you destroy the enemy's guns? What
happened to your uniforms?"
"We destroyed the guns, sir, but were captured. We tried to escape, but
were caught between liquid fire and poisonous gas. We lost part of our
uniforms trying to climb over the barbed wire fence, sir."
"You pack of fools!"
"Yes, sir."
Then the captain, smiling, congratulated us and ordered the steward to
supply us with new uniforms and send us back to our ship as soon as
possible. We went back next day, June 2.
VI--BACK TO TURKEY--THEN TO AMERICA
The _Queen Elizabeth_ was ordered back to the Dardanelles and remained
there until July 26. Through the telescope we saw many demolished
Turkish forts and big black holes where clusters of houses and groves
had been.
On July 26 we sailed for Gibraltar. We left there on August 1 and
sailed for the North Sea and went in harbor to give the ship a thorough
overhauling. From August 10 to Sept. 5 we were cruising around the
North Sea and North Atlantic Ocean in search of the German fleet. This
sort of life, after the excitement of battle grew wearisome to every
one on board. Thoughts of home and family came to me. There had been
no chance to write or to have our letters mailed. The only mail boat
leaving the _Queen Elizabeth_ was sunk. I told the officer in charge
that I was an American.
After hearing my story he sent a message to the Admiralty and they
ordered my discharge. I was sent to Portsmouth Naval Branch to receive
my final papers. On obtaining these I thought I was free; but I was
arrested for having failed to register as an alien when I first landed
in Liverpool.
I was brought before a magistrate and remanded for a week. Acting on
advice I wrote to the American Consul at London. The Consul replied
that he had been looking for me since June, and he requested the
magistrate to release me so that I could be sent back to the United
States. The letter to the magistrate took fifteen minutes to read in
court. It stated that the whole army had been looking for me, at the
instigation of my parents, through the Secretary of State at Washington.
The magistrate discharged me at once, regretting my imprisonment for a
week and stating that it was no disgrace. I left Portsmouth the next
day, Sept. 25, for Liverpool but had to stop over in London for several
hours, awaiting the fast mail train. It was shortly after the last
Zeppelin raid and, being in uniform, I was allowed to pass the lines,
to look at the effects of the bombs. Many houses were wrecked, streets
torn up and soldiers were searching the ruins for the missing. Now and
then they recovered a body, usually that of a woman or a child. The
official death list reported 150 killed. I saw a cartoon reprinted from
a German paper, picturing the people of London kneeling in prayer in
their cellars during and after a Zeppelin raid. But the fact is that
the London police had their hands full keeping the people from rushing
out of their houses to get a glimpse of the raider.
I reached Liverpool that night and the day following I signed for my
passage on the steamship _Minian_, sailing for Boston Oct. 9. While
in Liverpool I was offered a position in a munition factory as a gun
tester at a salary of four pounds per week, but I refused the offer
because I had secured my discharge from the British Navy for the
purpose of going home.
"BIG-BANG"--STORY OF AN AMERICAN ADVENTURER
_A Tale of the Great Trench Mortars_
_Told by C. P. Thompson_
"Big-Bang" was Tommy's name for one of our pioneer trench mortars,
invented and operated by a man named X----. The author met X---- in
a café not far from the front, and heard from him the details of
the story that is here set down. "So far as I am aware," he writes,
"the tale is perfectly true. I had it confirmed by the men of the
R. E. company to which X---- was attached." Recorded in the _Wide
World_.
I--THE SOLDIERS IN THE CAFE SALOME
It was at Noeux-les-Mines, in the Café Salome, at the bottom of the
old slag-heap by the station. After tea, there being no further parade
until the working party assembled at ten o'clock that night, I had
repaired thither to drink wine and smoke until closing time. As always,
the _café_ was crowded with the men of half-a-dozen London regiments,
with Scotsmen in stained and muddy kilts, and French artillerymen
from the South. Later in the evening they would begin to sing in
unison--great roaring choruses swung and tossed from _café_ to _café_
and taken up by the crowded-out groups in the street.
I had managed to secure a chair at a little table in the corner, and
for companion saw before me a small, grizzled man, about fifty, whose
blue eyes, despite the dark rings underneath them, were yet singularly
intelligent, keen, and clear. We exchanged a few remarks whilst
taking each other's measure, and then, apropos of my description
of a terrible bombardment by the German _minenwerfers_ which we had
recently endured, he began to talk, and gave me a rambling impression
of his strange and original career, and especially of his adventures in
connection with his masterpiece, "Big-Bang"--a device now extinct.
I will call him X----. Before his connection with the British Army I
gathered he had wandered widely in an up-and-down, rolling-stone sort
of fashion. The Klondike had known his store during the gold rush.
He was one of those men who did undefined but profitable things in
the Western States before the days of their organized exploitation;
made thousands of dollars and spent every cent of them, roving here
and there, never staying anywhere for long, as is the way with these
pioneers of the human race.
II--THE AMERICAN ADVENTURER TELLS HIS TALE
When the war broke out he was in the West, the manager of an opera
company touring the coast towns, and immediately he determined to
take a hand. At first he experienced considerable perplexity as to
how he was to get "mixed up" in the war. Apart from his nationality,
his small stature, a finger missing from his right hand, and a
pronounced limp--both legacies from the Spanish-American war in the
Philippines--seemed destined to preclude him from serving in the
army of any country in any capacity. He was even refused by a party
of Americans forming a Red Cross contingent for duty with any of the
belligerents willing to accept their service.
However, he remembered an old friend, a major of Engineers in charge
of a company at a China station, and he immediately hurried from San
Francisco across the Pacific to Hong-Kong, where he found the --th
Siege Company, R.E., under orders to move, and cursing destiny, in the
shape of the British War Office, which refused to allow them to be
in at the fall of Tsing-tau. Forthwith he attached himself to them.
His sole qualification consisted of an erratic but handy knowledge
of mechanics, picked up here and there--as chauffeur to a Vancouver
millionaire, as a greaser, ganger, and a stoker, but principally
during eighteen months of desultory employment in the machine-shops of
Pittsburg. After much argument concerning the King's Regulations with
regard to recruits and the position of a man in the ranks, the major
had taken him on the strength as mechanic for the three motor-cycles
owned by his command. In September, 1914, he left the Western theatre
of war--quietly exultant, as I imagine.
He was curiously frank as to his attitude towards the war.
"I have always liked big things, and I had to get into this somehow,"
he said, finishing a large _cassis_. "This war is the biggest thing
that ever happened to this old world, and if I were left out of it I
should go mad--I should, or commit suicide. That's how I feel about
it. Looking on is no good to me; I have to be right in it. But I've
illusions. Neither your cause nor the Germans' nor the newspaper gas
of both parties interest me. If the Allies hadn't adopted me I should
have squeezed somehow into one of the armies of the Central Powers. Of
course, the party I joined, that party I stick to; you can count on me
to the last drop of my blood. But you take me--I've no patriotism, as
you understand these things."
They landed in France early in October, and within forty-eight hours
were with a corps at a point where the British forces lay resting after
the Marne and the Aisne. With those battles the operations passed
the mobile phase and began to settle down to the stagnation of the
trenches.
The novel conditions of warfare in the earth demanded new methods
and ingenious adaptations, and soon the Engineers found themselves
overwhelmed with orders from corps headquarters and harassed by
perplexed divisions and brigades. Bombs and explosive missiles of all
sorts were in great demand, but materials other than Tickler's jam-pots
were not to be procured. And pumps were wanted; emplacements, redoubts,
trenches, field works of all descriptions required overseers from the
Engineers to superintend the working-parties, composed of uninitiated
infantry.
III--CATAPULT THAT HURLS BOMBS
One day while he was busy upon a patent catapult the major came
to X---- and showed him a message from the corps, who, introduced
suddenly and unexpectedly to that formidable engine of destruction,
the _minenwerfer_, desired urgently some improvised machine or gun
wherewith to retaliate until supplies of the new weapon arrived from
home arsenals. Nor were the elaborate specifications peculiar to all
staff instructions lacking. The proposed machine must be capable of
hurling a heavy bomb a distance of not less than two hundred yards; but
at the same time, if a gun, it must not require a powerful propelling
charge. It must be portable and sufficiently compact to allow of its
introduction into a front-line trench; its working must not demand
intricate mechanical knowledge, nor must more than four men be needed
for its crew, and so on and so forth. X----, if I recollect his
narrative aright, remarked, "Jehoshaphat!" and went away to a nearby
_café_ to ponder out this problem in mechanics. By the next morning he
had planned and partly constructed the first of his famous simplified
mortars.
It was, so far as I remember the constructional details, merely a large
tube, about three feet long and with a diameter of six inches, made
of very thick sheet-iron and closed at one end by a block of wrought
iron, pinned and welded on. The barrel mounted on a cradle, the bed
weighed under half a hundredweight, and was secured to the ground by
long iron pins like glorified tent-pegs. The ammunition consisted of
huge canisters packed with gun-cotton and exploded by a time fuse or a
simple percussion detonator. And if one did not look what he was doing,
the bomb might easily be slipped into the mortar detonator first--to
the dire confusion of the gun-crew. Gunpowder, rammed and wadded and
ignited through a touch-hole, discharged the canister upon its travel.
This creation was dispatched with precise instructions as to its use
and probable eccentricities, and all hoped it would "make good."
Two days later came the report that at the first discharge the mortar
had burst. It was requested that a stronger one be made, and, further,
that the engineer-constructor should accompany his engine into the
trenches, there to superintend its working. Thus one day X----
descended upon the lines with a new and larger mortar of more solid
construction, one dubious artilleryman as assistant gunner, canister,
a bag of powder, and a ramrod.
I can imagine the breathless interest with which the garrison in the
trenches observed the loading of the mortar, the swift retirement from
its vicinity, and the stunned confusion following the first shot.
It went off with a stupendous roar, belching forth smoke and flame.
The canister, turning over and over in the air, was seen to describe
a mighty arc and fall upon a ruined house behind the German lines
and there explode mightily, demolishing the place as completely and
spectacularly as if a mine had been sprung beneath it. A great cheer
burst forth. The delighted soldiers promptly poured in "fifteen rounds
rapid," and a machine-gun rattled through a belt in honour of the
occasion and to follow up the bomb. The new weapon was voted a huge
success.
It was fired five times in all, two bombs failing to explode, one
excavating a ton or so of earth from the centre of No Man's Land,
whilst the fifth fell plump into the German fire-trench, levelling it
for half-a-dozen yards in either direction and sending high into the
air a vast shower of earth, rent sandbags, timber, and human fragments.
Then, just as a sixth projectile was being loaded, the German artillery
got to work. A storm of "whizz-bang" shells hurtled over, exploding
everywhere--in the air, on the ground, and sometimes against the high
parapet, which was sent flying. Two batteries of heavy howitzers
concentrated a slow, deliberate fire, dropping 5.2 and 9-inch shells in
the zone of the mortar, which was buried under tons of earth. At length
the bombardment ceased, and rescue parties came to dig out those men
whose dug-outs had fallen in upon them or who had been buried in the
ruins of the trench. X---- had remained by his mortar and was rescued
unconscious.
Yet, with the tenaciousness of his breed, he came back again--having
spent a week at the field ambulance's barn hospital and a few days at
his company's quarters--armed with a third and more powerful mortar.
This time he had taken the precaution to provide himself with smokeless
powder. The German artillery observers, however, were on the look-out
for him, and although there was no longer a mountain of smoke to serve
as a target, the position of the mortar was disclosed by the enormous
roar of its discharge, which could be heard four miles away. Not five
minutes elapsed before half-a-dozen batteries, informed by telephone,
opened a tremendous fire and speedily rendered the vicinity untenable.
Casualties were high, and X---- and his weapon lost favour with the
neighbouring infantry.
IV--"BIG-BANG" HIS ONLY FRIEND
Then this intrepid man mounted "Big-Bang" upon a base to which were
affixed four small wheels with broad treads. Having fired the mortar,
he would trundle it away down the trench as fast as he could go,
invariably getting clear of the fatal area before the shells began to
fall. Then he would stop and fire another shot and again make off,
dragging his mortar at the end of a rope. His ammunition he placed in
recess here and there along the line. The enraged infantry took to
heaving the canisters over the parapet until one so thrown exploded,
blowing in the trench, upon which they left them severely alone. But
whenever the maker of those canisters appeared with his mortar round
the corner of the traverse they cursed him heartily.
In this way X---- became the best-hated man from Richebourg to the
sea. Refused admittance to dug-outs, he was obliged to sleep on
firing-platforms, on the floors of side trenches, or in saps where
night working-parties trod on him. No one spoke to him except to utter
oaths. Men said upon seeing him:--
"Here comes the Kaiser's best friend!"
Sarcastic remarks were also passed on his mortar; and, strangely
enough, these hurt him more than personal abuse. He had come almost
to love his creation. Hatred of it he could tolerate, but anything
savouring of contempt; anything derogatory uttered against its power as
a destroyer, touched him to the quick; and I fancy singularly biting
language was heard in those winter trenches of 1914 and 1915.
So he dragged on his solitary existence--desolate, hated, yet feared
because of his power of avenging himself by firing his weapon from any
spot he pleased, and thus dooming it to a tremendous "strafing" by the
enemy. He wanted someone to own him, and tried to attach himself to
the artillery, but they refused to have anything to do with him. The
thing his peculiar nature found it hardest to endure was the knowledge,
gradually forced upon him, that he was "out of it," a mere independent
unit belonging actually to neither side, a man whose decease many of
the British, equally with the Huns, would have hailed with much glee.
This must have weighed upon him. Possibly he brooded. And all the time,
with an invincible obstinacy that was almost heroic, he fired and
fled and fled and fired, retreating sometimes up, sometimes down the
trenches, dodging the shells all day and sometimes at night. And then
he broke down.
"It was one of those illnesses your Army doesn't recognize officially,"
he told me. "It began with a sort of tired, discouraged feeling, and I
used to have queer dreams. The noise of 'Big-Bang' going off made me
jump like a marionette. I'd sweat and grow dizzy and my knees trembled
and my stomach rose. I fell down one day and they came and took me away
to the field ambulance, and after a bit they sent me down to Boulogne.
I don't quite know what happened there during the first weeks. But when
I got better they gave me a pretty good time--made quite a fuss of me,
in fact. The colonel wanted to send me to England, but I told him how
great I am on seeing this war through, and he grunted and said he'd see
what he could do. When I came out I found this staff job waiting for
me. It's not what I'd like exactly, but I suppose I'm getting old now.
Still, we're close to the guns and I have a pretty free hand here, and
can make trips to the trenches to say 'How-do' to the boys and see how
things are getting along. Oh, yes; it's not so bad. But I was sorry to
leave old 'Big-Bang.' I made her and I worked her, and I guess she did
her bit."
For a space he meditated, puffing clouds of smoke from a ten-sou cigar.
Then with a start he returned to life.
"Will you have a _vin blanc_, old chap? Hi, papa, _deux vins blancs_!"
As he pushed back his soft cap I saw that "Big-Bang" had set its mark
upon him. The hair about his temples was white as snow.
"WITH OUR ARMY IN FLANDERS"--FIGHTING WITH TOMMY ATKINS
_Where Men Hold Rendezvous with Death_
_Told by G. Valentine Williams, with the British Army_
Written in the field and under the eye of the censor, G. Valentine
Williams presents in "With Our Army in Flanders" (Edward Arnold,
London) a series of vivid war chapters differing in many respects
from the current conventional accounts from the battle fronts. Mr.
Williams is the _London Daily Mail_ correspondent. He tells about
the babel of tongues where men gather in khaki, strange meetings at
the front of long separated friends and brothers, the hunger of the
big guns.
I--WHERE ALL DIALECTS MEET AT BATTLE
One of the most fascinating things to me about our army in France
are the variations of speech. I have sometimes closed my eyes when a
battalion has been marching past me on the road and tried to guess,
often with some measure of success, at the recruiting area of the
regiment from the men's accents or from their tricks of speech.
Take the Scottish regiments, for instance. I have little acquaintance
with the dialects of Scotland, but my ear has told me that the speech
of almost every Scottish regiment, save such regiments as the Gordons
and the Black Watch, that attract men from all over the United Kingdom,
differs.
I spent a most fascinating half hour one morning with a handful of
Glasgow newsboys serving in a famous Scottish regiment that wears the
trews. Their speech was unmistakably the speech of the Glasgow streets,
and their wits were as sharp as their bayonets. I told them they were
newsboys and newsboys they were, or of the same class, vanboys and the
like.
I visited the Cameron Highlanders--what was left of their Territorial
battalion--after the second battle of Ypres and heard, in the speech of
Inverness-shire, their story of the battle. Many of them speak Gaelic.
One of their officers confided to me that during the battle, requiring
two men to go down to the rear, the wires being cut, to ascertain the
whereabouts of the brigade headquarters, he selected two notorious deer
poachers as likely to have their wits about them.
It is a gratifying task, this identification of dialects. I have heard
two sappers "fra' Wigan" engaged in a lively argument with two privates
(from Cork) of the Leinster Regiment, in whose trench the two gentlemen
"fra' Wigan" were operating. A London cockney, say, from one of the
innumerable battalions of the Royal Fusiliers, would have understood
less of that conversation if it had been carried on in German, but only
a little less.
During the Battle of Ypres two privates of the Monmouthshire Regiment,
who were talking Welsh, were pounced upon by two prowling Southerners
from one of the home counties and carried off to brigade headquarters
as German spies. What with Welsh miners talking Welsh and Cameron
Highlanders Gaelic, the broad speech of the Yorkshire Geordines, the
homely burr of the Third Hussars and other regiments recruited in the
West Country, the familiar twang of the cockneys, the rich brogue of
the Irish regiments, the strong American intonation of the Canadians,
a man out here begins to realize of what composite layers our race is
formed.
II--OLD FRIENDS AT THE FRONT
Everybody who is anything is at the front. Never was there such a place
for meeting as at Flanders. The Strand is not in it. My own experience
is that of everybody else. One finds at the front men one has lost
sight of for years, old friends who have dropped away in the hurry of
existence, chance acquaintances of a Riviera train de luxe, men one has
met in business, men who have measured one for clothes.
Often I have heard my name sung out from the center of a column of
marching troops, and a figure has stepped out to the roadside who,
after my mind has shredded it of the unfamiliar uniform, the deep brown
sunburn, the set expression, has revealed itself as old Tubby Somebody
whom one had known at school, or Brown with whom one had played golf on
those little links behind the Casino at Monte Carlo, or the manager of
Messrs. Blank in the city.
I wanted to find a relation of mine, a sergeant in a famous London
regiment, and wrote to his people to get the number of his battalion
and his company. When the reply came I discovered that the man I wanted
was billetted not a hundred yards from me in the village, in which the
War Correspondents' Headquarters were situated, where he had come with
the shattered remnant of his battalion to rest, after the terrible
"gruelling" they sustained in the second battle of Ypres.
At the front one constantly witnesses joyous reunions, brother meeting
brother in the happy, hazardous encounter of two battalions on the road
or in the trenches. The very first man I met on coming out to the front
was a motor-car driver, whose father had particularly asked me to look
out for his boy. I discovered that he was the man appointed to drive
me!
Humor is probably the largest component part of the spirit of the
British soldier, a paradoxical, phlegmatic sense of humor that comes
out strongest when the danger is the most threatening. A Jack Johnson
bursts close beside a British soldier who is lighting his pipe with
one of those odious French sulphur matches. The shell blows a foul
whiff of chemicals right across the man's face. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
he exclaimed with a perfectly genuine sigh, "these 'ere French matches
will be the death o' me!"
A reply which is equally characteristic of the state of mind of the
British soldier who goes forth to war is that given by the irate driver
of a staff car to a sentry in the early days of the war. The sentry
in the dead of night had levelled his rifle at the chauffeur because
the car had not stopped instantly on challenge. The driver backed his
car toward where the sentry was standing. "I'll 'ave a word with you,
young feller," he said. "Allow me to inform you that this car can't
be stopped in less than twenty yards. If you go shoving that rifle of
yours in people's faces some one will get shot before this war's over!"
There is a great strain of tenderness in the British soldier, a great
readiness to serve. Hear him on a wet night in the trenches, begrimed,
red-eyed with fatigue, chilled to the bone, just about to lie down for
a rest, offer to make his officer, tired as he is, "a drop of 'ot tea!"
Watch him with German prisoners! His attitude is paternal, patronizing,
rather that of a friendly London policeman guiding homeward the errant
footsteps of a drunkard.
III--DEEP IN A SOLDIER'S HEART
Under influence of nameless German atrocities of all descriptions,
the attitude of the British soldier in the fighting line is becoming
fierce and embittered. Nothing will induce him, however, to vent his
spite on prisoners, though few Germans understand anything else but
force as the expression of power. They look upon our men as miserable
mercenaries whose friendliness is simply an attempt to curry favor with
the noble German krieger; our men regard them as misguided individuals
who don't know any better....
The German phrase, "_Stellungskrieg_," is a very accurate description
of the great stalemate on the western front which we, more vaguely,
term "trench warfare." It is, indeed, a constant manoeuvering for
positions, a kind of great game of chess, in which the Germans,
generally speaking, are seeking to gain the advantage for the purposes
of their defensive, whilst the Allies' aim is to obtain the best
positions for an offensive when the moment for this is ripe.
The ground is under ceaseless survey. A move by the enemy calls for
a counter-move on our part. A new trench dug by him may be found
to enfilade our trenches from a certain angle, and while by the
construction of new traverses or the heightening of parapet and parados
the trench may be rendered immune from sniping, a fresh trench will be
dug at a new angle or a machine gun brought up to make life sour for
the occupants of the new German position, and force them in their turn
to counter-measures.
Any one who saw the trenches at Mons or even, much later, the trenches
on the Aisne, would scarcely recognize them in the deep, elaborate
earthworks of Flanders, with the construction of which our army is now
so familiar.
High explosive shells in unlimited quantities are necessary to keep
the hammer pounding away at one given spot. To break a path for our
infantry through the weakly held German trenches around Neuve Chapelle
we had many scores of guns pouring in a concentrated fire on a front
of 1,400 yards for a period of thirty-five minutes. In the operations
around Arras the French are said to have fired nearly 800,000 shells in
one day.
Even this colossal figure was surpassed by the expenditure of
high-explosive shells by the German and Austrian armies in their
successful thrust against Przemysl. Our bombardment of Neuve Chapelle
was, in the main, effective, though barbed-wire entanglements in front
of part of the German trenches were not cut, and heavy casualties were
thus caused to the infantry when they advanced.
For the most part, however, we found the German trenches obliterated,
the little village a smoking heap of ruins, and those Germans who
survived, dazed and frightened, amid piles of torn corpses. If this
enormous concentration of guns was required to blast a path of
1,400 yards with a thirty-five-minute bombardment, what a gigantic
concentration of artillery, what a colossal expenditure of ammunition,
will be required to drive a wedge several miles deep through positions
which the Germans have spent three seasons in strengthening and
consolidating!
IV--IN THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH
I went down one of our mines one night. I was spending the night in our
trenches and the captain in command of this particular section asked
me if I would care to see "our mine." Considerations of the censorship
impel me to abridge what follows up to the moment when I found myself
in a square, greasy gallery, with clay walls propped up by timber balks
leading straight out in the direction of the German trenches. Guttering
candles stuck on the balks at intervals faintly lit up as strange a
scene as I have witnessed in this war.
Deep in the bowels of the earth a thick, square-set man in khaki
trousers and trench boots, a ragged vest displaying a tremendous torso
all glistening with sweat, was tipping clay out of a trolley and gently
chaffing in a quite unprintable English of the region of Lancashire a
hoarse but invisible person somewhere down the shaft.
I crawled round the quizzer, slipping on the greasy planks awash with
muddy water on the floor of the gallery, and found myself confronted
by another of the troglodytes, a man who was so coated with clay that
he appeared to be dyed khaki (like the horses of the Scots Greys) from
top to toe. I asked him whence he came, so different was he, in speech
and appearance, from the black-haired, low-browed Irishmen watching at
the parapet of the trench far above us. "A coom fra' Wigan!" he said,
wiping the sweat from his forehead with a grimy hand, and, thus saying,
he turned round and made off swiftly, bent double as he was, down the
low gallery.
I followed, the water swishing ankle-deep round my field boots. The air
was dank and foul; the stooping position became almost unbearable after
a few paces; one slipped and slithered at every step.
At intervals side-galleries ran out from the main gap, unlit, dark
and forbidding--listening posts. After a hundred paces or so a
trolley blocked the way. Behind it two men were working, my taciturn
acquaintance and another. The latter was hacking at the virgin earth
with a pick; the former was shoveling the clay into the trolley.
I had not been out of that mine for more than a minute when an electric
lamp flashed in my eyes, and an excitable young man, who held an
automatic pistol uncomfortably near my person, accosted me thus: "I beg
your pardon, sir"--it occurred to me that the pistol accorded ill with
this polite form of address--"but may I ask what you were doing down my
mine?" My friend, the Captain, rushed forward with an explanation and
an introduction, the pistol was put away, and the sapper subaltern was
easily persuaded to come along to the dugout and have a drop of grog
before turning in.
One story of the mines which made everybody laugh was that of the
subaltern fresh out from home, a keen young officer, who came one night
to the dug-out of the sapper officer supervising the digging of a mine.
"You must go up at once," he whispered in his ear in a voice hoarse
with excitement, "it is very important. Lose no time." The sapper had
gone to his dug-out worn out after several sleepless nights, and was
very loath to sally forth into the cold and frosty air. "It is a mine,
a German mine," said the subaltern fresh out from home; "you can see
them working through the glasses." The sapper was out in a brace of
shakes, and hurriedly followed the subaltern along the interminable
windings of the trenches.
In great excitement the subaltern led him to where a telescope rested
on the parapet. "Look!" he said dramatically. The sapper applied his
eye to the glass. There was a bright moon, and by its rays he saw, sure
enough, figures working feverishly about a shaft. There was something
familiar about it, though; then he realized that he was looking down
his own mine. The wretched youth who had dragged him from his slumbers
had forgotten the windings of the trench.
V--INVENTIVE GENIUS OF THE SOLDIERS
"Bombing" is one form of trench warfare particularly annoying to the
enemy. The revival of bombing began when a British soldier, to while
away an idle moment, put some high explosive and a lighted fuse in
a discarded bully-beef tin, and pitched it into the German trench
opposite him.
In his way the British soldier is as handy as the bluejacket, and the
long days of the winter monotony produced all kinds of inventions in
the way of mortars and bombs, which led to the scientific development
of this mode of warfare. A Territorial officer was discovered making
all manner of ingenious bombs and trench appliances in his spare time.
He was taken out of the trenches and installed in an empty school, and
when last I heard of him had a regular factory turning out bombs for
the firing line.
Bombing is very tricky work. Your bomb must be safe as long as it is in
your possession. Nor must it be liable to explosion if dropped after
the safety-catch has been removed. That is why bombs are provided with
time fuses. Some nicety of judgment is required to hurl them so that
they will explode on impact or immediately afterward.
If the time fuse has still a second or so to burn when the bomb falls
in the enemy trench, a resolute man will pick it up and fling it back,
with disastrous consequences to the bomber. Therefore bombers must be
trained. The training is extremely simple, but it is essential, and I
look forward to the time when every soldier who comes out to France
from home will have gone through a course of bombing just as he has
gone through a course of musketry.
Just as the Austro-Prussian War of 1866 introduced the needle-gun, and
the Franco-Prussian War the chassepot rifle, and the South African War
was the war of the magazine rifle, so the present war will be known
as the war of the automatic gun. When the German General Staff sits
down to write its official history of the great war it will be able
to attribute the greater part of the success that German arms may
have achieved to its foresight in accumulating an immense stock of
machine-guns, and in studying the whole theory and tactics of this
comparatively new weapon before any other army in the world became
alive to its paramount importance.
The only factor that furnishes anything like a certain basis for
calculation as to the date of the conclusion of the war is the number
of fighting men available for each of the different belligerents. Of
all the supplies required for making war, the supply of men is limited.
The Germans recognized this sooner than any of their opponents. In the
machine-gun they had a machine that does the work of many men.
The machine-gun is the multiplication of the rifle. The Vickers gun
fires up to 500 shots a minute. This is also the average performance of
the German gun. To silence this multiplication of fire you must outbid
it, you must beat it down with an even greater multiplication. This is
where the difficulty comes in for an attacking force.
The machine-gun, with its mounting and ammunition and spare parts, is
neither light in weight nor inconspicuous to carry. When the infantry
has rushed a trench after the preliminary bombardment the machine-guns
have to be carried bodily forward over a shell and bullet swept area,
where the machine-gun detachment is a familiar and unexpected target
for the German marksmen. This is where the automatic rifle is destined
to play a part--a part so decisive, in my opinion, as may win the war
for us.
The automatic rifle is a light machine-gun. In appearance it
resembles an ordinary service rifle, with rather a complicated and
swollen-looking magazine. It is not water-cooled like the machine-gun,
but air-cooled, and is therefore not absolutely reliable for long
usage, as it inevitably becomes heated after much firing. It will fire,
however, up to 300-odd shots a minute, and can be regarded as the
ideal weapon for beating down German machine-gun fire and checking the
advance of bombers while the heavier but more reliable machine-guns are
coming up.
COMEDIES OF THE GREAT WAR
_Tales of Humor on the Fighting Lines_
_Told by W. F. Martindale_
In the Great War, as in everything else, comedy treads hard on
the heels of tragedy, and all sorts of quaint and comical things
happen. Here are some little stories, from a variety of reliable
sources, which will serve to show that our fighting-men, both
ashore and afloat, are still able to preserve a sense of humor.
Narrated in the _Wide World_.
I--STORIES TOLD "ON THE SOLDIERS"
Human nature is whetted to a keep edge under the stress of warfare;
that is why every war is rich in anecdote.
Character is the basis of all comedy, and the conditions of military
life, whether on active service or not, are such that "character will
out." In barracks, in camp, or in the field, soldiering applies a test
which no man can evade. Ranker, non-com., or officer, he is bound soon
or late (generally soon) to be "found out."
There is a pretty little comedy of character which concerns a young
subaltern, fresh from an English public school, who found himself
attached, through one of the unexpected chances of war, to a battalion
of Colonial infantry. The subaltern was youthful--and looked it.
His cheek was smooth and innocent of hair, the accents of his voice
cultured and refined, his manner languid to the point of seeming
boredom. He was slight of stature, and he wore a monocle permanently
fixed in one eye. In short, he was a complete antithesis to the brawny
brood of Anak which constituted his platoon, amongst whom his advent
aroused no enthusiasm whatever. He was not popular.
There is little risk of offence at this time of day in observing that
some of the Overseas troops are not remarkable for the strictness of
their discipline. It is a little idiosyncrasy at which no one, with
memories of Ypres and Anzac still fresh, will be disposed to cavil.
This is not to say that they cannot be handled; on the contrary,
there is ample evidence of their instant response to leadership of
the sort which they understand. But one would hardly look for that
particular sort from a beardless youth with an eye permanently glazed,
and a refined taste in language and clothes. A manner which might be
acceptable to the Guards is as little suited to Colonials as Colonial
methods to the Household Brigade. There is a custom and usage in these
matters.
So it came to pass that the platoon took counsel with itself and
darkly determined to take its young subaltern down a peg or two. Is it
necessary to observe that the prime offences of the latter, in the eyes
of these critics, were his monocle and his accent--those traditional
marks and insignia of the "dude"? It is strange that so often the dandy
(whom history has shown to be invariably a man of spirit and courage)
should be mistaken for the dude.
II--THE OFFICER WITH THE MONOCLE
On a certain morning, therefore, behold the platoon drawn up on
parade, accoutred with meticulous care, aligned in the most precise
formation--each man wearing his "identity disc" in his eye! For the
benefit of any reader who has never seen an identity disc, it may be
mentioned that the latter is the small plate of metal on which is
stamped certain information concerning the wearer which enable his
body, if necessary, to be identified. Being of the same shape, and
about the same size, as an eyeglass, and, moreover, suspended from a
cord worn round the neck, it can be made to form an admirable travesty
of a monocle.
Not a twitch of a single muscle in the face of the young subaltern, not
a flicker of his unmonocled eye, betrayed that he was aware of anything
unusual in the appearance of his men. He took the situation in coolly,
and when, in answer to routine questions, the sergeants answered
smartly and respectfully but with a pointed imitation of his own
"haw-haw" accent, he ignored the studied insult with equal nonchalance.
It was a good start, for an attempt at sarcasm when quietly ignored
falls flatter even than when it is wholly unperceived. In the present
case there was no possibility of an insult having been missed, and the
platoon began to feel that things were not going quite as had been
anticipated. Each man kept his identity disc firmly screwed in one eye,
however, and stared fixedly out of the other in expectation of the
officer's present discomfort. The latter could never afford to dismiss
the parade without taking cognizance of what had occurred, and the
platoon awaited the crux with interest.
But the moment of dismissal arrived and nothing had been said. Some of
the men were covertly smiling.
As he gave the order, the subaltern let the monocle drop from his
eye, and while the command was being obeyed, swung the glass round
and round, with the cord between finger and thumb, in a rapid circle.
Scanning the line narrowly and noting every glance upon him, he jerked
the twirling glass suddenly into the air and with the neatness of
a juggler caught it in his eye as it fell. Then he glared fiercely
through it.
"See if you can do _that_!" he observed. "Dis-MISS!"
Thereafter no officer ever had men under him more ready to do whatever
he asked them. And it was by a sure instinct that the latter "gave him
best." As one of them remarked, "I've seen men take risks in my time,
but that beat everything. _Suppose he'd missed catchin' that glass?_"
If wit is a Gallic prerogative, humor belongs to the British, and not
a few comedies of the war pivot on that uniquely humorous character
Thomas Atkins. Humor is an elusive and baffling quantity, as the
wit discovered who mixed up all the boots in an hotel corridor one
evening and learned the next morning that his friend (a humorist) had
sorted them out again as soon as his back was turned. The humorist can
sometimes understand the wit, but the compliment is seldom, if ever,
returned; which is the reason why Mr. Atkins and his idiosyncrasies
remain an inscrutable enigma to our French allies.
And if the British soldier appears incomprehensible to the
nimble-minded French, one can readily perceive that to the slow and
methodically-thinking German he must seem merely mad. The French marvel
that he is never "serious"; the Boche is perplexed to find that Hymns
of Hate and other laborious insults afford him the keenest possible
enjoyment. The secret lies in Mr. Atkins's sense of humor, which is
another way of saying his sense of proportion. He may be guilty of
little aberrations such as dribbling a football in front of him as he
advances with cold steel to the charge, but _au fond_ he has a pretty
just sense of values.
III--THE GERMANS WHO SANG "RULE BRITTANIA"
At all events, his humor has the dry quality which connotes an even
mind and temper, as the following incident will show. In the earlier
days of the war, before the opposing armies in the West had burrowed
into the soil and some freedom of movement was still possible, a patrol
of three British soldiers under a sergeant were prowling abroad one
night. Within disputed territory they espied a lighted window in a
lonely farmhouse which they knew had been deserted by its owners. They
approached it stealthily. The house was surrounded without challenge,
and having posted his men at points which commanded the exits the
sergeant crept forward to reconnoitre. Music and sounds of revelry were
audible within, and the sergeant had no difficulty in discovering the
presence of four German soldiers in the farmer's best sitting-room.
The cellar had been looted, the piano commandeered, and four Teutonic
voices were upraised in melody.
The sergeant beckoned to the waiting figures outside, and four large
but softly-treading men tiptoed delicately to the scene of the
carousal. At a given signal the door was flung open and four rifles
were levelled.
"Hands up!"
A chorus of "_Deutschland, Deutschland, über Alles_" was interrupted a
shade abruptly, and four pairs of arms shot up into the air. The Boche
does not shine in an emergency.
With a gesture the sergeant marshalled the captives against the wall,
where they stood in a row, blinking and crestfallen. Their weapons
having been collected and removed, they were allowed to put their hands
down, and their captors regarded them quizzically.
"Any of you blokes speak English?" queried the sergeant, genially.
A smile of modest pride momentarily illumined one of the four wooden
faces.
"_Ja_, I spik leedle English," ventured its owner.
"In-_deed_!" was the rejoinder; "and where did _you_ learn it--in the
Tottenham Court Road?"
The linguist simpered deprecatingly, with evident gratification over
the good impression which he appeared to be making. It takes a lot to
upset the complacence of the Boche.
"Been havin' a sing-song?" continued the sergeant, encouragingly.
The other nodded. "Der Shermans vas always der beoble of singing," he
observed, in faintly patronizing tones.
"Ho, _are_ they?" said the sergeant. "Then suppose you start in and
sing us 'Rule Britannia' for a bit. Give us a tune, Bill."
Bill propped his rifle against the wall, and sat himself solemnly at
the open piano. He was not a great performer, but rose to the occasion
and produced a rendering of the familiar tune which was at least
recognizable.
"Now, then," said the sergeant, warming to his work, "not bein' a
blinkin' German I don't 'appen to be no singer, but just you listen,
and if you don't know the words, say 'em after me. '_When Brit-ain
fir-ir-ir-ir-irst at----_'"
The musical evening was a great success, said the member of the party
from whom the present writer had the story. "We kept 'em there for four
hours, and by the time we'd finished with 'em they could sing it a fair
treat. And we didn't spare 'em the encores neither. Course, they wasn't
singin' _all_ the time, 'cos we spent some of it in moppin' up the
liquor and the food and the cigars they hadn't finished. But I reckon
they did all the singin' they wanted. Then we fell 'em into line and
drove 'em home as prisoners. They _asked_ for it, you see!"
IV--STORY OF A FISHERMAN AND A MINE
The chief officer of a steamer under charter to the Admiralty tells
a very amusing story concerning an encounter with a mine, though he
candidly admits that he didn't see the humor of it until some time
after the incident occurred.
His ship was lying alongside the quay at X----, taking in some hundreds
of tons of explosives. He himself, having nothing particular to do at
the moment, was leaning over the bridge-rails looking thoughtfully out
to sea. All of a sudden he noticed an aged waterman rowing towards the
ship, with some odd-looking object towing astern of his bluff-bowed
craft. The old man seemed to have difficulty in getting along, and the
officer watched him curiously, speculating as to what he was hauling.
At first sight it looked like a mooring-buoy, but as the boat came
nearer the watcher got the shock of his life. The fisherman was towing
a German mine of the very largest type!
There flashed through the officer's mind the thought of the latent
power stored away in that wicked-looking sphere, only needing a slight
shock to set it free; he thought, too, of the vast store of explosives
under his feet and on the quay. If that mine exploded against the
steamer's side there would not be one stone of X---- left upon another!
"Hi, you!" he shouted to the oncoming rower. "Sheer off with that
thing! We've got explosive aboard!"
By way of answer the old man--now scarce a dozen yards away--cupped his
hand behind his ear.
"What d'yer say, sir?" he called back, mildly. "I found this 'ere in
the tideway, an' I knew there was a bit of a reward offered, an' so----"
The big mine was now bobbing dangerously close to the steamer's side,
and the officer, frantic with anxiety, literally bellowed orders
for the man to remove himself and his prize. In his excitement he
suggested regions where it is possible the temperature might have had
a disastrous effect.
The fisherman looked up at him with a smile. "That's all right, sir,"
he replied. "He 'on't do no harm. I knocked the horns off he with a
boat-hook."
And so it proved. The old man, in his ignorance, had taken a million to
one chance, and it had come off. They say there is a special Providence
that looks after fools, but it must be peculiarly irritating to the
apostle of "frightfulness" to know that an aged waterman, encountering
a drifting mine, can lightheartedly knock off the detonator-equipped
"horns" or projections and live to bring his prize into port and
receive a reward. The chief officer aforesaid, however is not anxious
for another experience of the kind; he says they are too trying to the
nerves.
V--THE COCKNEY AND HIS "SOOVENEER"
Comedy, it has been observed, turns upon character, and many little
comedies of the war hinge upon the mere personality of Thomas Atkins
himself, and the somewhat difficult adjustment of that uniquely
stubborn thing to a new environment. The resulting incidents derive
a great part of their humor from Mr. Atkins's manner of narrating
them--especially if he chance to be from London. There is no wittier or
more tersely vivid _raconteur_ than the Cockney, and though one often
hears the humor of the British soldier described as unconscious, it
is really nothing of the kind. Spontaneous and unpremeditated it may
be, but such penetrating acumen as his racy idiom reveals was never
unconscious.
Half-a-dozen soldiers home from the Front on short leave found
themselves in a railway carriage bound for Victoria. They were of
different battalions, and fell naturally to the swapping of yarns.
Soon the conversation drifted to "souvenirs," a topic of surpassing
interest. Trophies were produced by each in turn, with the exception
of one taciturn member of the party who sat in a corner seat morosely
sucking at a short clay pipe.
"_I_ ain't brought nothin' 'ome wiv me," was the curt response to a
suggestion that the silent one should produce his little lot. There
ensued a dialogue.
"Wot, nothin' at all?"
"No!"
"Well, I'm blowed! Fancy a bloke comin' 'ome on leave and not bringin'
nothin' wiv 'im! Ain't you got no sooverneer?"
"Sooveneer! No, I ain't got no sooveneer--not unless you call this 'ere
a sooverneer."
The morose one fumbled in his haversack and pulled forth a brass
door-knob, which he displayed upon an extended palm. Its appearance
excited derision.
"That's a perishin' fine sooveneer, I _don't_ think! Why, it's only a
ornery door-knob!"
"Well, wot abaht it? S'posin' it is only an ornery door-knob! Maybe you
dunno 'ow I come by it!"
Pressed for the story, the owner of the unexpected article proceeded:--
"It was like this 'ere. I'd been two weeks on a stretch in the
trenches, and never a drink--wot you might _call_ a drink--the 'ole
blinkin' time. Goin' back through the billets after we was relieved I
seed a place where they had liquor for sale, and I goes up to the door
to get a drink. Well, I 'adn't no more than took 'old o' the knob when
a blinkin' Jack Johnson come over and blew the 'ole blinkin' 'ouse out
of my 'and!"
And with an evident sense of personal grievance not yet allayed the
speaker pouched his "sooveneer" and relapsed into gloomy taciturnity.
VI--THE COOK AND THE BOMB IN GREECE
Of comedies arising out of Mr. Atkins's imperturbable phlegm there is
no end. One will suffice here--a little incident which occurred at
Salonica. At the Greek port some of our troops, it seems, are encamped
upon the hills above the town. One morning a covey of six enemy
aeroplanes flew overhead and dropped three bombs in passing. The first
exploded harmlessly, but the second fell plumb on a cook's tent, and
blew it sky-high. Shirts, coats, and trousers went hurtling up into
the air with a grim resemblance to mutilated bodies. Fortunately no
one was inside the tent. The cook was only five yards away, however,
busily marshalling an array of "dixies" (military camp-kettles) which
had been newly filled at the distant water-supply below. The force of
the explosion blew him off his feet, and likewise overturned the row of
dixies.
Those near at hand feared their comrade had been hit by a fragment
of the bomb and ran to his assistance. But as they approached a
dishevelled figure rose from amidst the _débris_ and wrathfully
surveyed the wreckage of his "kitchen." At the spot where his tent
had been two minutes previously he hardly glanced. "And now," was his
indignant comment, "I serpose I'll 'ave to go down the ---- 'ill and
fill up the ---- dixies again!"
VII--A SEA-TALE--THE LIEUTENANT'S STANCHIONS
By way of conclusion here is a little naval comedy. A minor unit of
His Majesty's Navy was undergoing the process known as "fitting
out." Her commander, one of the many good sportsmen who have placed
their personal services and such seamanship as they have acquired as
amateur yachtsmen and sailors at the disposal of the Admiralty, arrived
one morning to find a score or two of dockyard workmen on board, all
busy (in theory) with the multifarious tasks awaiting completion. In
practice, something like half the number were, if not idle, at least
less occupied than the immediate requirements of the vessel seemed to
warrant.
The commander, being in private life a business man of considerable
energy, with a habit of getting things done, regarded the scene with
considerable disfavour, and set himself at once to remedy the state
of affairs. But the dockyard workman is an individual with very
definite ideas of his own as to how a job should be done, and a fixed
determination to do it that way unless thwarted by an authority which
he dare not evade.
Finding orders, though respectfully received, were inadequate to the
occasion, the commander tried reason and persuasion. But though the
latter was carried to the point of cajolery the result was the same.
Baffled in the exercise of his own authority and a trifle nettled in
consequence, the energetic lieutenant determined upon a desperate
expedient. In his best sarcastic vein he wrote out a signal and
requested its transmission to the flag-captain. The officer in whose
discretion it lay to forward or suppress the message being likewise an
amateur, not yet too deeply imbued with a respect for conventions, the
signal was duly made. It was to the following effect:--
"SUBMITTED: That as there are at present forty workmen on No. 001, of
which number half are seated permanently on the ship's rail, a further
working party be at once sent down to strengthen the stanchions, which
will otherwise collapse under the strain."
Within half an hour a party of workmen reported themselves at No. 001
and gravely proceeded to strengthen the stanchions! Protests were
unavailing: the men had their orders, and with bolts, rivets, rods, and
who shall say what other contraptions, they proceeded to carry them out
with a thoroughness almost menacing.
The commanding officer of No. 001 delights to tell this story to his
friends as a shining example of the crass ineptitude of which the
official mind, even in the Navy, is sometimes capable. It may be so;
but his friends, observing those admirably buttressed stanchions, and
noting the considerable inconvenience to which their immovable presence
permanently condemns the maker of that rash signal, sometimes wonder
whether the laugh is altogether on the latter's side.
Lieutenant X---- looks forward to some future day when he may meet
the flag-captain in person, and there is no doubt he already has a
very good notion of what he then intends to say. But suppose he should
be greeted, before ever he can introduce the topic himself, with the
genial inquiry, "And how are your stanchions lasting?"
They have a way of their own in the Navy.
LITTLE STORIES OF THE BIG WAR
_Unusual Anecdotes at First Hand_
_Told by Karl K. Kitchen in Germany_
The four war stories which follow--stories of adventure, suffering
and daring--were heard by Karl K. Kitchen of the _New York World_
during his sojourn in Germany. Two of the stories he had at
first hand, and can vouch for. A third was related to him by His
Excellency Baron von Bissing, the Military Governor of Belgium. The
fourth--recounting the exploits of Capt. Peifer, perhaps the most
remarkable story of the war--was related to the writer by a naval
officer. Copyright, 1916, Press Publishing Company.
I--STORY OF A MOTHER'S TRAGEDY
One of my best friends in Vienna was Ernst Karczag. Shortly after the
outbreak of the war I received a postal from him stating that he was
about to rejoin his regiment--he was a lieutenant in a crack hussar
regiment--and proceed to the Galician front. At Christmas I received a
long letter from him and a photograph of himself in his hussar uniform.
Then one morning in March I received a cablegram from a mutual friend
in London, stating that Ernst had died of cholera in Poland.
Ernst was in his twenty-fifth year and was tenderly attached to his
mother. Until the war broke out he had never been away from home except
on a brief holiday, and his long absence at the front last winter
brought his mother to the verge of a nervous collapse. It came to a
point where it was absolutely necessary for her to see her son. Mr.
Karczag, although a millionaire and a man of considerable influence,
was unable to get a pass for his wife to visit the line near Lodz in
Poland, where the son's regiment was stationed. She set out for Lodz
alone.
After nearly a week of the hardest kind of travelling, much of it in
troop trains, she reached Lodz, where she found every hotel occupied by
German and Austrian officers. In desperation she decided to appeal to
Gen. Mackensen, the famous German General, who was in supreme command.
"You shall see your son to-morrow morning," he told her when he learned
that her boy was a lieutenant of a certain hussar regiment. "I am
reviewing the Austrian troops at 6 o'clock to-morrow morning. If you
will come to my headquarters at that time I shall permit you to witness
the review."
The review of the Austrian troops lasted nearly five hours, and it was
witnessed by Gen. Mackensen, his staff and the mother of my friend.
Regiment after regiment passed by, but there was no sign of the young
hussar officer. The anxious mother was almost ready to break down, when
at the very end of the last regiment in the review she caught sight of
her son. Forgetting her peculiar position she called to her boy. But he
did not hear her, and a few moments later he galloped out of sight.
"I must have a few words with my boy," she pleaded with Gen. Mackensen;
"I must talk with him."
Evidently she struck a sympathetic chord in his nature, for he told
her he would send a motor car to the hotel to take her to her son's
regiment. For two days she waited for the car, but as it did not arrive
she again went to Gen. Mackensen's headquarters, only to learn that he
had been called away to another position on the front. Apparently he
had forgotten all about his promise. There was no one to help her, so
she started out alone to reach the little Polish village where her
son's regiment was stationed. No conveyance was obtainable for any sum,
so for three days and three nights the poor mother walked the frozen
roads to her son's side.
It was a wonderful meeting between mother and son, and when the Colonel
of the regiment heard what she had gone through he placed his own
quarters at her disposal. When the time came for her return he sent
her back to Lodz in a military wagon. Three days later she was back in
Vienna, rejoicing with her husband that their son was alive and well.
Imagine their great shock when two days after her return they received
a telegram from the Colonel of the regiment stating that Ernst had died
suddenly of cholera.
It is difficult to convey any idea of the grief of the parents of this
young officer. The father has lost all interest in life--money means
nothing to him. The mother is inconsolable and her mental condition is
becoming critical.
II--HOW CAPT. PEIFER WON HIS "POUR LE MERITE"
Shortly after the outbreak of the war, Capt. Peifer, a German naval
officer in command of the cruiser _Yorke_, ran his ship on a mine and
the cruiser sank with nearly all on board, but Capt. Peifer was saved.
He was court-martialled and sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment.
The Captain being an expert in high explosives, influential friends
pleaded his cause with the Kaiser, who suspended the sentence. Capt.
Peifer accordingly was released and offered his services to the
commander of the German forces in Turkey. He was assigned to duties
connected with the production of munitions when the Gallipoli campaign
began. According to the story, the British forces might have succeeded
in reaching Constantinople if it had not been for Major Peifer.
With characteristic energy and ingenuity he started several munition
factories for the production of high explosive shells within a few
miles of Constantinople. His knowledge, combined with German efficiency
and tireless Turk labor, gave the defenders of the Dardanelles
sufficient high explosive shells to check the invaders until munitions
arrived from Germany.
Of course the Turkish and the German commanders-in-chief were highly
pleased with Capt. Peifer's service, and the latter sent in his name to
the Kaiser as an officer deserving the order of "Pour le Merite"--one
of the most coveted honors of all Germany.
For once German thoroughness and efficiency were inoperative. Neither
the Kaiser nor his closest advisers recognized in Major Peifer the
former naval captain who had sent his ship on a mine in violation of
proper warnings. The order of "Pour le Merite" was conferred on the new
military officer, who naturally thought that his previous blunder had
been forgiven.
Accordingly he applied to the naval ministry for permission to rejoin
his old branch of the service. This let the cat out of the bag, and
the entire matter was laid before the Kaiser. With true magnanimity he
commuted the twenty years' sentence, but ordered the Major to remain in
the army, promising him promotion in the very near future.
III--STORY OF AUTOMOBILE THAT CAPTURED AN AEROPLANE
The day Germany declared war on France, Gunther Hensel, the
twenty-two-year-old son of Ernest Johannes Hensel, a wealthy real
estate operator in Berlin, offered his services to his Fatherland.
As he had been engaged in the automobile business in Berlin he was
enlisted in a motor car battalion, where he became what is known in
Germany as a "benzine lieutenant," with no immediate prospects of ever
becoming anything else.
However, last October, after driving military motors at the front for
more than a year, an opportunity presented itself which won Gunther
Hensel his coveted promotion.
While driving behind the lines near Arras he caught sight of a French
aeroplane which had landed because of motor trouble. Young Hensel's
only companion at the time was an orderly, so it was a question of
acting without orders.
Without hesitation he drove at full speed toward the aeroplane. The
Frenchmen opened fire with their revolvers, but their shots went wild,
and before they could prevent it the heavy motor car crossed the field
and crashed into the flying machine, wrecking it beyond all hope of
immediate repair.
Both Frenchmen were caught in the wreckage, and the orderly, who of
course had a rifle, forced them to surrender. Thus in one fell swoop
the young benzine lieutenant captured a valuable French aeroplane and
two enemy soldiers. In all probability this was the first aeroplane
ever captured by an automobile.
As a reward for this exploit he received an Iron Cross and was
transferred to the officers' college, where he is now getting
instruction in the duties of a full-fledged infantry officer.
IV--STORY OF THE "UNDERGROUND RAILROAD"
Ever since the Germans have been in Brussels there has existed an
"underground railroad" to aid escaped French and Belgian prisoners
of war in reaching the Holland border and thus regaining their lines.
The German secret service tried in vain to discover how the prisoners
got away, but without success--until last September. Then one of the
"operatives," as Detective Burns would say, conceived the idea of
donning part of a French uniform and appealing to Belgian farmers on
the outskirts of Brussels to help him to get over the frontier.
When a train load of French prisoners was moved from Lille to Aix la
Chapelle, this secret service man jumped from the train just before it
reached Brussels, and, taking refuge in a barn until dusk, appealed to
the farmer to let him remain there until he could obtain other clothes
to effect his escape.
Impressed by the spy's French language and uniform, the unsuspecting
farmer provided him with the desired garments. The spy then asked him
for the name of some one in Brussels who would help him. The farmer
directed him to a wealthy flour and feed dealer in the Belgian capital.
This man in turn passed him on to another Belgian who was connected
with the "underground railroad," and in less than two weeks the German
spy found himself in Rotterdam.
Of course he had learned the identity of every Belgian who had
befriended him, and on his return to Brussels he uncovered the entire
"underground" system. The trail led right to the chief surgical
hospital in the capital--the hospital in which Miss Edith Cavell was
the head nurse.
POGROM--THE TRAGEDY OF THE JEWS AND THE ARMENIANS
_A Masterful Tale of the Eastern Front_
_Told by M. C. della Grazie of Vienna_
No result of the war has been more pitiable than the suffering
inflicted on the subject races caught in its grip. These submerged
peoples have had to submit helplessly to the brutalities of both
sets of combatants. The Poles, the Ruthenians, the Ukranians, the
Slavs of Bohemia and Moravia, have fought with little heart for
Russia, Austria or Prussia, as the case might be. But the Jews
of the Polish Pale and of Galicia have had an even harder fate;
for while the men of military age have followed the flags of
their masters, the women, the children and the old men have been
obliged to face at home all the evils which travel in the wake of
war--disorder, violence, disease, spoliation and semi-starvation.
The following story is by M. C. della Grazie, a well known Viennese
writer. It makes a masterly use of a single, simple incident to
bring home the meaning of one of the war's most hopeless and
poignant tragedies. It was written at the time when the Russians
still occupied the greater part of the Austrian province of
Galicia. This translation, with editorial comment, is by William L.
McPherson in the _New York Tribune_.
I--STORY OF GABRIEL GABRILOVITCH
The colonel sat on the edge of his rumpled-up peasant's bed and with
an impatient movement knocked the ashes from his cigar. On the dirty
table before him lay the last number of a Russian weekly, which had
just arrived by field post in Galicia--a little crumpled, but otherwise
fresh looking, and with pictures which made one's mouth water.
The devil! Was it still going so comfortably back in Petersburg (he
stopped suddenly and substituted Petrograd) with those rascals of
civilians and war cripples? Did such attractive girls still come in
and sing and dance as those whose pictures stared at him out of the
pages of the last number of the _Nida_? They must be damnably well off,
those dogs, able to frequent the Varieties, where people sit in cozy
warmth about the tables and worry about nothing more serious than the
genuineness of the labels on the wine bottles.
And he, Gabriel Gabrilovitch! He had lain with his regiment for
nearly two weeks in this miserable Galician hole and was forced to
congratulate himself that a single windproof hut remained in which to
stop for breath after all those futile attacks--that he was able at
night to throw himself on a bundle of straw under this foul roof and
drink punch brewed from whiskey stolen from the Jews.
For this time no headway was to be made against the devils opposite.
Not even once as far as their barbed wire defences! So well was their
artillery posted. To such a raking fire was every moving object exposed
which came in sight within an area several hundred meters wide!
A tiresome game that--an accursedly tiresome game--and if Gabriel
Gabrilovitch himself should be one of the victims! He sprang up and
began to pace with heavy steps the uneven clay floor. He knew of better
things than that!
Those Petrogradians--look, look!
The slender, willowy, singing girl there in the _Nida_, with that
smile which was in itself a seduction! She evoked another image in his
excited fancy. It was his last evening of pleasure in golden Petrograd.
In a variety cabaret, too.
The stage is already empty, the programme finished. But in a room off
the stage reserved for the performers and their guests he sees just
such a piquant little creature take form in the thin smoke clouds of
his cigarette. Exactly the same smile--acquired in Paris, and then
carried triumphantly from stage to stage, from banquet to banquet.
The imitation diamonds glitter in the deep corsage of her dress. The
coquettish curls hang like golden orchids over her ears. The atrophied
stare of the wide pupils has the fascination of a serpent's eye. Before
her stands a tall, narrow glass vase, out of which nod the blood-red,
long-stemmed pinks which he had brought her. He, Gabriel Gabrilovitch!
It is a picture imprinted so vividly on his senses by the warm rush of
recollection that he thinks he really sees it--not least of all the
purplish red of the vase of flowers.
They take it easy, those Nevsky Prospekt loungers--they take it easy!
He reaches for the glass--already cold, curse it! Not very long now and
it will be day again and a new assault, as vain as the others, will
bring them face to face with death.
A cold draft strikes his neck. He turns around, half angry, to see who
has entered.
II--THE COSSACK LIEUTENANT'S HATRED
"Ah, so!"
It is the sotnik (lieutenant) of a Cossack detachment which has
received the order to drive the last Jews out of the surrounding
villages, so that the army can have a free field. The snow, which has
frozen finger thick on his green overcoat, begins to melt in the close,
hot air of the room. The small, hard Asiatic eyes shine. The red,
frosted fists are still clenched, as if they had just beaten somebody.
"One can't be really angry with these fellows," says the colonel to
himself, with a feeling of soldierly satisfaction.
"They are such splendid beasts."
But he asks aloud:
"Finished?"
The Cossack's laugh is quick and harsh.
"All herded together, Colonel. Nothing is lacking but the Red Sea."
"How many?"
"Several hundred."
"And where are you going to drive them?"
The young lieutenant raises his shoulders slowly, so that the snow on
them touches and cools his red cheeks.
"I'll have to get an order from you as to that!"
"An order!" cries the colonel. "An order! Now, by all three
metropolitans! The devil take me if I know!"
The sotnik raises his shoulder again.
"While they're here they will be in our way."
"The vermin," growls the colonel, "always pestering us like----"
"Like others we are on intimate terms with," laughs the Cossack.
"Look there, if you please!" And half jokingly, half disgustedly, he
points to a black swarm of roaches hurrying like a wagon train from
behind the stove and making for a crack in the floor near the open door.
"They are emigrating, the vermin," exclaims the colonel; "upon my soul,
they are."
"Because they are hungry," says the Cossack, with a grin.
"But the Jews. The Jews, those----" curses the colonel.
"Just as black and just as hungry--but good patriots."
The colonel lifts his head, gazes thoughtfully for a while into the
flickering flame of the slowly melting candle. Then he begins to laugh.
"Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't I think of it before? Ah,
Little Brother, what asses we have been!"
The Cossack's eyes snap. He, too, has a plan which in all this orgy of
bloodthirstiness appeals to him with an even bloodier zest.
"Do you know what we shall do with them--with all these patriots?"
"Drive them together somewhere and sabre them," suggests the sotnik.
"So that they can fill the newspapers again with their tale of
martyrdom," laughs Gabriel Gabrilovitch, scornfully. "Beware, Little
Brother, beware! We shall leave that to their countrymen this time."
The blank eyes of the Cossack follow the colonel questioningly--like
the eyes of a hunting dog.
"So," laughs the latter, softly stroking his cheek. "We'll drive these
patriots to the Austrian wire entanglements. What do you think? Will
those people over there shoot down their own subjects?"
"But they are non-combatants, Gabriel Gabrilovitch----"
The young man suppressed the thought before he had put it into words.
There was something in the voice of his superior which cowered him.
And, like a hunting dog, he merely listened.
"Don't you see, Little Brother?" continues Gabriel Gabrilovitch,
rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "And just because in that
case they will not fire, we shall rush in on the enemy. We shall have
cover and can excuse ourselves for using it."
"It would take the devil himself to think of that!" exclaims the
sotnik, full of submissiveness and admiration.
"I am a good Christian," declares Gabriel Gabrilovitch with bitter
humor. "And now I must have an intermediary; for, naturally, I must
inform the enemy so that they will not shoot down so many patriots."
The young Cossack rocked his body as if already in the saddle.
"Won't you permit me to go?"
"Muttonhead! Shall I send one on whose face are the imprints of all
the Devil's ten fingers? Pick out the youngest, the handsomest and
the stupidist of the sotnia and send him over. The kind that believes
anything anybody tells him. Then they over there will believe him. And
what we are going to do nobody but you and I will know. Well, have you
any such 'steed of God?'"
The sotnik strikes his body with both hands, smiles and nods. "There is
a Raskolnik here."
"Is that so, Little Brother?"
Both burst into violent peals of laughter as if overcome by the humor
of the situation.
III--THE PLOT THAT FAILED
They would send the Raskolnik--the sectarian who was prepared to die
at any moment rather than sin in any particular against the teachings
of Jesus, who even in war abhorred attacking the enemy and wanted only
to defend himself--one of these religious enthusiasts who had to be
driven into military service with a whip. What a joke for these two
orthodox Slavs to load upon this "steed of God" the bloodguilt of their
stratagem!
They laugh--laugh till their eyes fill with water.
Half an hour later a young cavalryman trots away into the murky dawn.
The fresh wind of the steppe whistles about his ears. Over his head
flutters the little white flag, which they have fastened to the top of
his lance.
"How is it that he has found so much favor in the eyes of his commander
as to be sent as a parlamentaire to the enemy?"
But he puzzles little about that. He is glad that the poor creatures of
God who have been driven like mice out of their holes will be allowed
to go to-morrow over into the camp of their friends. He must be a real
man, the colonel, even if so far the soldiers have found little good in
him.
In the east it is getting lighter. Already a silvery wave spreads over
the plain from the edge of the horizon. By the time he arrives at the
first entrenchment it will be so light that the enemy can easily see
the flag on his lance.
"It is cold," he muses. "But yet it is already spring, and where my
horse steps the snow gives way. Soon the steppe will be green again,
just as it will be back in Russia."
And in the midst of the deep silence which surrounds him, in sight of
all the horrible traces which war and death have left upon his pathway,
there blossoms out of his innocent soul a pure, sweet memory--of home.
He recalls the straw-covered hut, the calm and mighty waves of the
distant Don, the peace of the steppe purling like a breath from heaven
through the tall grasses.
He was only a pious peasant's son--not a Cossack. But now they have put
him as a supernumerary in a Cossack regiment, and he must go along,
through all the blood, through all the horror.
With a slight shudder he puts his hand upon the crucifix beneath his
soldier's coat and crosses himself.
"God grant me His grace!"
On the other side they had caught sight of him. A sentinel advanced to
meet him. Soon he stands before the Austrian officer.
The latter is a handsome, sturdy man. Everything neat about him,
although he has lain so long with his men in the trenches. Close up to
him the soldier stands, so that he can feel the other's breath--but it
doesn't smell of brandy. The gray eyes hold him fast while he speaks.
Not a muscle moves. But suddenly he laughs in the messenger's face.
"Good. Now ride back. And say to your colonel that he has miscalculated
if he believes that I shall not open fire if you try to sneak in behind
those unfortunates. I know my duty, and should innocent blood be shed
the blame will rest on you."
He speaks and turns upon his heel. The sentinel leads the dejected
messenger back to his horse and calls scornfully after him: "Are you
really so stupid or did you think that we were so stupid?"
The latter makes no answer. But a few steps further on he strips the
white flag from his lance and throws it in the muck. Then that was the
colonel's idea. And he will stick to it. At his command they are to
hide like cowards behind the victims who are to be pushed--as a living
wall--up to the enemy's trenches!
"They are, of course, only Jews," he says to himself. "But yet--but
yet----"
Why does he feel that way about it?
Suddenly he realizes.
Like a picture it stands before him.
The sputtering fire about which the half-frozen Jews are huddled
together--women, children, grizzled old men. Here and there a sentinel
to guard them. He, too, one of the guards.
IV--IN HIS BREAST HIS OWN BULLET
Like shadows they crouch about the fire, rub the freezing hands of the
children between their own, weep, groan, pray softly. One has prayer
boxes bound on his brow and on his arms and nods and bows unceasingly,
so that his shadow dances like a curious grotesque against the light
of the fire. The Cossacks laugh. He, too, has laughed, carelessly,
unconcerned.
Laughed until he has suddenly noticed the woman at the side of the
bearded Jew--with the slumbering child at her breast. Something in that
sight appealed to him strangely. But then they had summoned him before
the sotnik. And he had thought of it no more.
How sharply that whole picture stands before him now--and among the
other details especially these three: The man in prayer, the shivering
mother bent toward the fire, her head cloth like a veil drawn deep over
the unconscious, slumbering child.
"Bethlehem," he murmurs reverently, and crosses himself.
And he is going to take part to-day in this infamy--he, a Christian!
Then it must be true what they believe back home. That the Pravoslavine
is Anti-Christ. And he fights with him--for him--is part of his army.
Have they then altered the text of the Holy Books? So that some day
God's word of love will no longer be found in it--the Holy Word spoken
by Him who lay in the womb of a daughter of the House of David?
It must be so! It must be so! And if till to-day he has doubted it, now
all is clear. Only Anti-Christ can give such orders.
Shall he return to the camp? Stain his hands, too, with the blood of
these innocents?
"When the master speaks the servant must hearken," they say back home.
He must obey.
Something flashes in front of him like the flash of a gun.
"A bullet," he thinks.
"Would it were one!" he exclaims in the torment of his soul.
It is only a sun ray which suddenly shoots through the mist. But it has
shown a poor mortal the right way.
They found the Raskolnik just outside the village--in his breast his
own bullet, in his right hand the cross. On his lips the smile of peace
that passeth understanding.
TALE OF THE SAVING OF PARIS
_How a Woman's Wit Averted a Great Disaster_
Little by little the "inner history" of the Great War is coming to
light. This remarkable story shows how the presence of mind of a
humble woodman's widow, in the early days of hostilities, led to
the preservation of the Western Railway of France, on which at that
time Paris depended for its supplies and the transport of troops.
Told in the _Wide World_.
I--IN NORMANDY--STORY OF OCTAVIE DELACOURT
In a clearing of the Forêt de Lyons, near Martagny, in Normandy,
and by the side of a barely distinguishable road, stands the rustic
half-timbered cottage of Octavie Delacourt. A solitary habitation
indeed, but one well fitted to the mental outlook of a lonely woman--no
fair young heroine of romance, as some readers may hastily conclude,
but a widow of over fifty with hair turning a silvery grey. Her
husband--a forester, and the builder of the little home--had died from
a fever a year before the war. Childless, she had elected to live on
there alone, partly through necessity, partly because of the memories
which the surroundings stirred in her mind whenever she went forth
to collect sticks for her fire, or when, lying in bed at night, she
heard the wind in the trees. Twenty years with "her man," twenty years
of labour in common, had made her a fervent lover of the forest. It
had become, as it were, her domain. Certainly no one knew better its
confusing tangle of roads and pathways.
The outbreak of the war naturally had an effect on the mind and habits
of Octavie Delacourt, but, alone in the world as she was, it affected
her much less than it had done her friends and acquaintances in the
neighbouring villages. In her case the war fever took the form of
restlessness--an eager, insatiable desire to learn the truth about the
danger which was threatening her dear France.
As the cloud darkened over the country her anxiety for news grew keener
and keener. It seemed as though her sub-conscious self was aware that
the tide of invasion was drawing nearer and nearer to the fair fields
and orchards of Normandy, and that one morning she would wake up to
find Martagny, Gournay, and Les Andelys in the hands of the Boches. So
every day, in those early weeks of the war, she was up betimes and,
having carefully done up her grey tresses and put on a newly-ironed
blue apron, set forth to one or other of the neighbouring villages,
where she would be able to read the latest "communiqué" and pick up any
stray item of news that might filter through from Paris.
About eight o'clock on the morning of September 16th, 1914, Octavie
Delacourt set out in this way, her destination on this occasion
being Gournay and the house of an old friend of her husband, a small
landowner named Rismude. It is a good distance by road from Martagny
to Gournay, so she decided to take a short cut through the Forêt de
Lyons. Setting her best foot foremost, she struck off through the trees
with the swinging stride of a hardy countrywoman, and soon picked up
a little pathway amidst the undergrowth which she knew would lead
her in the right direction. After walking for some ten minutes at
full speed, she came to a part of the forest known as "La Molière,"
the site of a disused chalk quarry, the gasping white mouth of which
is partly hidden by dense foliage. It was here that her eye--long
experienced in woodcraft--noticed something unusual near the path she
was following: a number of green branches, freshly cut from the trees,
which someone--apparently in vain--had been trying to make into a fire.
Stopping in front of the charred remains, she could not suppress the
utterance of the reflection which sprang to her mind:--
"How stupid to cut green branches for a fire!"
Hardly had the words passed her lips than Octavie felt a heavy hand
descended on her shoulder. With thumping heart and suddenly blanched
face she spun half round and beheld her aggressor--a heavy-featured man
in a strange dress who, with a cynical smile on his thick lips and a
hard look in his little grey eyes, had noiselessly appeared from behind
a tree.
"How you frightened me!" exclaimed Octavie, retaining her
self-possession, in spite of her fright, and endeavouring to shake off
the leaden fingers which weighed on her slender frame.
But not a word in reply came from the mysterious man, who might have
been made of cast-iron, so motionless did he stand. Gradually, as
Octavie Delacourt fell to examining him, the hideous truth began to
dawn upon her, and her heart almost stopped beating. She had never set
eyes before on a German soldier; she had never even seen a picture of
one. But she had heard tell of their uniform, in a vague sort of way,
and suddenly, one might say instinctively, she recognized the ash-grey
dress and the round cap of the same colour. How came the wearer of
these tell-tale clothes to be in her forest, not fifteen miles from Les
Andelys, and within rifle-shot of her native village of Martagny?
II--WAS HE GOING TO BAYONET HER?
The mystery terrified her. However, no trace of fear or the tumult in
her breast appeared on her face. Her simple peasant logic told her
that would have been fatal. In the presence of the hidden and perhaps
imminent danger into which she divined she had stumbled, she told
herself, with feminine shrewdness, that at all costs she must preserve
a brave countenance and combat the enemy by craft.
"What do you want with me? Can I be of any service to you? If you have
lost your way I can set you right. No one knows the forest better than
I."
She paused and smiled.
The German soldier's only reply was a sort of grunt and a slightly
relaxed hold on her shoulder. At the same time he led her in the
direction of a deep excavation, formerly used as a wolf-trap. What was
he going to do to her? She now noticed that he carried in his right
hand a bayonet, with which he swished, as they walked along, at the
tall grass and weeds. Was he going to kill her? She would have turned
and fled like a hare but for the grip in which she was held. Perhaps,
after all, she thought, there was greater safety in non-resistance than
in attempted flight. So she allowed herself to be led to the very edge
of the excavation before saying to her captor, in a pleading voice:--
"You are not going to do me any harm, are you? I'm only a poor,
inoffensive woman."
Whilst making this appeal, standing on the edge of what she imagined
might be her grave, she noticed that the greater part of the hole was
skilfully hidden by a roof of branches. The next moment she heard the
man with the bayonet whistle, whereupon the head of a blond, blue-eyed
giant, also dressed in grey, but with the rank marks of an officer,
suddenly appeared through the aperture. Words in a gutteral tongue
passed between the two soldiers. Then the fair-complexioned Boche,
eyeing her critically, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, uttered an
order, and disappeared.
The leaden hand immediately fell from Octavie Delacourt's shoulder and
she was once more free. Now, however, all her strength seemed to have
gone from her. The feeling that she had just escaped a very real danger
robbed her of her desire to flee. Slowly, timidly, like a frightened
animal, she moved away, with her head slightly turned towards her
captor, who stood watching her, as a cat will a mouse, his bayonet
still in his hand and a look of mingled cruelty and regret on his
coarse, heavy features. A few steps more and he called to her to halt.
"Has he changed his mind?" thought Octavie, seeing him walk towards
her. No; he intended to do her no harm; all he wanted to do was to take
her by the hand and lead her in an entirely opposite direction to the
one she was heading in. This done, he released her.
Once through the trees, and hidden from view, Octavie Delacourt made a
_détour_ and ran as fast as her legs would carry her to Neuf-Marché.
At first she thought of returning to Martagny, but the fear of being
recaptured restrained her. Moreover, she felt that she had now an
urgent duty to perform--to inform the nearest authorities of her
discovery. That it foreboded something extremely serious for the
country she could now no longer doubt for a moment. In her flight she
had caught sight through an opening in the trees, of a third grey-clad
soldier, lying flat on his stomach at the edge of the forest and, with
his rifle close to hand, watching the movements of a peasant guiding
his plough.
Dupont, the _aubergiste_ of Neuf-Marché, listened to her story with a
puzzled face. But, though his scepticism was great, he did not allow it
to get the better of his judgment. "Nothing would astonish him in these
times," he declared; so off he went in search of the _garde champêtre_,
one of the keepers of the forest. He was lucky in catching him before
he went for his leisurely morning round, and brought him to the inn,
ready to explode with hilarity.
"My poor woman, you must be suffering from illusions," he exclaimed,
bursting into a roar of laughter. "Prussians in the Forêt de Lyons? No
more than there are cockchafers on a switch!"
Whilst he hastened to turn to his wine and touch glasses with the
innkeeper, Octavie, seeing that it would be useless to discuss
the matter, slipped out without a word and hurried off to the
_gendarmerie_. Here Quartermaster Crosnier was almost as difficult to
convince as the _garde champêtre_.
"Prussians at Martagny?" he said, with wrinkled brow and a look of
doubt in his eyes, as he twisted his moustache. "Are you quite sure?
You astonish me."
"Yes, I'm quite sure," affirmed Octavie, in an almost supplicating
voice. "Quite, _quite_ sure. And if you go after them, take care you
go in force, otherwise they will kill you. There is one Boche, as I've
told you, at the edge of the wood, ready to fire, and I've no doubt
there are others also lying in waiting."
"Certainly we shall go and see if there's anything in what you say, my
good woman," replied the Quartermaster, in a condescending tone, which
proved to her that he was still undecided whether to accept her story
for gospel.
However, there was no knowing. So he promised he would see to the
matter at once. Fraets and Lebas, his _gendarmes_, should accompany him
into the wood. They would look into the mystery as a matter of duty.
III--"BUT FOR A CURSED COUNTRY WOMAN!"
On leaving the constabulary Octavie Delacourt, not wholly satisfied
that she had set the administrative machinery sufficiently in motion,
asked herself what more she could do. All at once she thought of the
post-mistress she knew at Mainneville, a village some three miles off.
Excellent idea! A post-mistress had both the telegraph and telephone
at her disposal, and she knew that this official, at any rate, would
not laugh at her. Pulling herself together once more, she set off at a
brisk walk--almost a run--in the direction of Mainneville.
There, as she had foreseen, she met with the most sympathetic of
receptions. Mme. B----, the post-mistress, lost not a moment in
telephoning to M. Armand Bernard, the Prefect of the Eure, who
immediately passed on the news to his colleagues of the adjoining
departments. Within half an hour not a prefect, not a commissary
of police, not a _gendarme_ with a radius of a hundred miles was
uninformed. The Germans in the Forêt de Lyons and their accomplices
were entrapped, as it were, within the meshes of a net.
Octavie Delacourt went to sleep that night content indeed. But she
little knew what a service she had rendered to France--nothing less,
in fact, than the saving of the Western Railway line, on which Paris
depended at that time for its supplies and the transport of troops.
The facts relating to the capture of the Huns in the Forêt de Lyons,
and those working in conjunction with them, were briefly recorded at
the time, but, overshadowed by the greater events of those early days
of the war, their true significance was lost sight of. A Prussian
captain, a non-commissioned officer, and eleven engineers were
arrested at Oissel, thanks to the good marksmanship of Sergeant Leroy,
of the G.V.C. Service, who punctured with rifle-bullets the tyres
of the motor-cars in which they were fleeing. One of the cars bore
the plate and number of the prefect of police of Aix-la-Chapelle.
In a motor-lorry which formed part of the convoy was half a ton of
explosives.
In the course of his examination the German officer declared that he
had crossed the departments of the Somme and the Oise without being
troubled, and that he had come into the Eure with the intention of
blowing up the Oissel bridge, or, failing this, that of Manoir. He
added that "but for a cursed countrywoman" whom one of his men had
caught in the forest, and whom he ought to have "suppressed," he would
certainly have succeeded.
This happened about three o'clock in the afternoon. Less than an hour
later it was discovered that the capture had not been made without
bloodshed. Between the "Molière" quarry and the excavation where the
blond Hun had appeared to Octavie Delacourt three bodies were found
stretched on the ground--those of the luckless Quartermaster Crosnier
and his _gendarmes_, who had been shot almost point-blank when calling
on the automobilists to surrender.
Octavie Delacourt's presence of mind, bravery, and persistence were
recognized by the French Government. But the service she rendered was
infinitely greater than either the praise or the monetary reward--one
hundred francs!--which she received for having been instrumental in
preventing the perpetration of an act which might have resulted in
grave disaster to the capital of France.
HOW IT FEELS TO A CLERGYMAN TO BE TORPEDOED ON A MAN-OF-WAR
_Told by the Rev. G. H. Collier, Chaplain on Board the British Cruiser
"Cressy"_
I--"MY LIFE SPARED IN MIRACULOUS WAY"
As you know, I was on the cruiser _Cressy_ on September 22, 1914, when
in company with the cruisers _Aboukir_ and _Hogue_ she was torpedoed by
a German submarine. My life has been spared in a most miraculous way.
About 6:15 a.m. I was awakened by some marines waking their comrades.
"Get up quick, the _Aboukir_ is sinking."
I tumbled out of my bunk, put on my shoes and slipping my big coat
over my pajamas I hastened up to the sheltered deck. I should tell you
that we were proceeding in line formation, the _Hogue_ leading, our
ship, the _Cressy_, bringing up the rear. We were steaming between six
to nine knots, and at a distance of about a mile or so apart. When
I got on deck the _Hogue_ had fallen back on the starboard side of
the _Aboukir_, while we stood by on the port side, both of us a good
distance off.
The _Aboukir_ had signalled asking for boats, which, of course, were
sent off to them. Their ship gradually began to turn turtle, and it was
an inspiring sight to see the ship's company lined up on the side of
the ship awaiting the order, "Every man for himself." After a while I
went down to the quarter deck and began with the others to throw planks
of wood, etc., overboard.
While doing this the Hogue was hit by a torpedo from a German submarine
and very quickly settled down. Indeed, no sooner was she hit than her
quarter deck was below water. She then listed, turned turtle, and in
about ten minutes had disappeared.
Our captain sent me word to take photographs, and I had taken five when
I saw the white line of a torpedo approaching us in the starboard side,
in line with the aft-bridge.
A few shouts heralded her approach, but nothing could be done, as our
engines were not going, and she bored her hole in our side.
The impact was not so great or so terrible as I should have thought,
indeed it was a dull thud, and did not even throw me off my feet.
Previous to this the order to close watertight doors had been given, an
order which prevented this torpedo doing so much serious damage.
We listed to starboard about 40 degrees, and after a time the ship
righted herself to about 30 degrees. Everyone was on the look-out for
submarines, and guns were fired at every suspicious-looking object that
looked like like a periscope. I am not going to make any assertions,
as I am much too inexperienced. I was standing by when three guns were
fired.
The first was fired at what I thought to be a man's head. At any rate
the shell hit something, for it exploded.
Unfortunately, I was called down from the boat deck then, so did not
see what ensued, but the gunner says he saw two men pop up from the
spot after he fired a second shot, and the torpedo lieutenant supports
his assertion of having hit the submarine.
The second shot I saw (of course, other guns were fired) was at what I
feel sure was a submarine. She came up, and it was a plucky thing to
do, amid a mass of struggling men. I do not know if she was hit, but
I admit I felt a spasm of horror at the damage to our own men in the
water.
The third shot went right home, and did its work, and I cheered
heartily with the rest. The Germans evidently attacked us under cover
of a sailing trawler carrying the Dutch flag. This trawler, after we
had all been hit, made no attempt at rescue work, a heartless act that
roused our anger, and the captain of the after 9.2 gun trained his gun
on her and fired. The shell hit her in the stern and she at once took
fire.
II--"I SAW THE TORPEDO APPROACH"
While this was going on the Germans had fired another torpedo at
us, but it missed and went astern. Meanwhile several men had swum
alongside, and we helped them aboard, rubbed them down, pumped water
out of them, and wrapping them in blankets gave them hot tea. One of
those rescued was a midshipman. He was taken to the sick bay and after
drinking his tea, he turned to his commander and said:
"Why shouldn't we get into these cots, sir?"
"Quite right, sonny, jump in." He hadn't been there long when we were
struck again. The plucky boy jumped out and said, "Look here, sir, I'm
off," and away he went and jumped over the ship's side, and was picked
up by a boat some half-an-hour later.
It was this torpedo that settled our fate.
I saw her approaching about 400 yards distant, and she entered the
ship's side just abaft of the fore-bridge and entered No. 5 boiler
room. No doubt many poor fellows were killed outright. The ship seemed
to rise out of the water, settled back and at once listed badly and
began to turn turtle.
There was no panic whatever. The officers supervised the collecting
of all woodwork, etc., and the order was then given, "Every man for
himself."
Our middies were awfully brave and busily set to work to construct a
small raft with chairs and a boxing dummy. Staff-Surgeon Sawdy came up
to me, after Dr. Martin had procured me a lifebuoy, and said, "Shall I
come with you, Padre?" He is a west-country man and you may guess how
readily I said "Yes."
After a time we had to kneel on the deck and hang on to the side. It
was just before this that I slipped off my coat and shoes. When the
ship was at an angle of 75 to 80 degrees, we stepped over the port side
on to a ledge, and hung on to the chains. A wave caught us and knocked
us against the side a bit, but not enough to injure us, but with the
next the ship turned over.
I retained my hold of the chain and the lifebuoy, and when I felt the
ship steady I let go the chain, and after what seemed a very long
time came to the surface. Dr. Sawdy had also retained his hold of the
lifebuoy and we appeared together in the water.
You may not realize how we could do it, but we actually laughed. He
complained of the length of time below water (I had been keeping him
down), and to suddenly pop up together, was really funny. We at once
struck out with our feet (as I can't swim) and succeeded in getting
away from the ship.
We were soon joined by others, and six of us stuck to our lifebuoys and
a plank of wood which came floating by. After about ten minutes I began
to shake badly and my teeth were chattering.
It was a horrible feeling, and I told the doctor I couldn't hang on
much longer, but he told me--good fellow that he is--to hang on, and
after a while the shivering passed off, but a sort of numbness set
in and occasionally we had cramps. To keep the circulation going we
rubbed each other's legs, or kicked about a bit.
III--THE WAY MEN MEET DEATH
The scenes in the water were not so terrible as you may think. Here and
there men were singing, "It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary," "We All
Go the Same Way Home," indeed, one man who joined us actually began
joking.
The way men met their death was wonderful. They would give a smile to
their comrades, wish them luck, and slide away quite peacefully without
a struggle.
Floating spars, etc., occasionally put us in difficulties and several
of us were badly bruised. It was a strange sight to see one's comrades,
some fully dressed, even to their caps, others naked, while others like
myself were clothed only in their pajamas.
Before going into the water I happened to look at my watch and it was
7:50. It speaks well for an English watch, doesn't it? when I tell you
it didn't stop till 9:15. This watch and my crucifix I still have.
Well, there we were floating about until 9:45, when we sighted some
trawlers approaching. It seemed as if they would never come to the
doctor, a marine, and myself--for we were but three then.
At 10:20 I turned and saw a steam trawler near us and I suppose the
relief was too much for me, as I became unconscious, so from then till
1 p.m. I must give information supplied me by the doctor. Becoming
unconscious, he tells me I released my hold of the plank, but still
kept my arm around the lifebuoy.
The steam trawler did not see us and headed away in another direction,
but from behind her came a small cutter. The doctor shouted "If you
come now you can save the Padre," and come they did, and, thank God,
saved our lives. They hauled me into the boat and pumped away at me. I
just remember being conscious for a moment and hearing voices.
We were then put on the Lowestoft trawler, S. S. _Coriandar_, and put
in the stokehold. It was not until 1 p.m. that I became conscious, a
most painful awakening and I was very sick. The fishermen had put an
under flannel over me and given me hot tea. They were indeed good to us.
Our commander was picked up by the same boat and was superintending
the boats which were in company with the Lowestoft trawler and others
transferring us to H. M. S. _Lennox_. (They had their reward off the
Dutch coast, eh?)
We buried one poor fellow there and then, but brought home another.
After being massaged, I was put to bed, where I remained till 5 p.m.
until the worst of the soreness had passed off. We were landed at
Harwich at 8:30. The passage home, I'm told, was not without interest!
An order was given to "clear for action." Those who could, rushed
on deck to see what was happening, and in the far distance saw an
aeroplane and a waterplane approaching, but as they put it, "There was
nothing doing," as they turned out to be British.
On landing we were received at the Great Eastern Hotel, equipped as a
hospital, by the matron and her staff of Red Cross nurses. After being
examined by the doctor, and found to have no bones broken, I had my
first meal since 7 p.m. the previous day, and it was good!
LEON BARBESSE, SLACKER, SOLDIER, HERO
_Told by Fred B. Pitney, War Correspondent_
I--"I MET HIM IN THE TRENCHES ON THE SOMME"
This is the story of Léon Barbèsse, a volunteer of France. I met him
first in the trenches on the Somme. He stood in a first line post,
where we were halted because the Germans had begun a fierce rain of
shells on the French lines. They were nervous that day, the Germans.
All the day and night before there had been a succession of sallies
from the French trenches. They were really only reconnoitering
expeditions, but the Germans had come to think each the precursor of an
attack in force, and every time there was the least sign of activity
in the French lines the German artillery burst into furious action,
shelling the French trenches to prevent a sortie. We arrive as one of
these _rafales_ began, and we were halted to seek shelter.
The best trench is not proof against a real bombardment of heavy
shells. Parapets crumble in like walls of sand. There is nothing
reassuring about coming suddenly upon a great gaping hole in what has
been considered a moment before a solid rampart, a hole still steaming
from the impact of a white hot shell weighing half a ton. It does not
add to one's confidence to find that instead of walking quietly along a
well ordered corridor with a decent, dry plank floor one is crossing a
miniature mountain chain, sinking suddenly into narrow valleys, waist
deep in water, rising as suddenly to heights that leave half one's
body exposed to the full view of the enemy. And to know that those
valleys and those heights have been caused by the explosion in the
trench of the shells that are constantly screaming overhead--that is
the most disconcerting of all.
Such was the position we were in when I first saw Léon Barbèsse. We
had come to a comparatively quiet spot. The shells whined above us
or exploded in the barbed wire in front, but they had not found the
trench. We stopped to take stock, to look about us, to get our breath,
to straighten our backs and get a new thought in our minds, something
except where the next shell would land. And standing in front of us
in the trench, some ten feet away, I saw a bearded soldier with the
stripes of a sergeant and the ribbon of the _Medaille Militaire_--the
highest honor any French soldier, from ranking general down, can
win--and the _Croix de Guerre_ with two palms, meaning that he had been
mentioned twice for conspicuous bravery in the general orders of the
army. Despite his beard he was a young man, well under thirty, and he
stood with a quiet air of confidence and looked at us with a certain
amusement.
Five minutes later we were all distributed at the bottoms of various
deep shelters. The shells had begun to fall on the section of trench
where we were, and we had been ordered underground. I had descended
eighteen steep steps, a matter of twenty feet, and found myself in a
little, low celled, earth walled, square chamber, with six bunks in
double tiers taking up three sides and the narrow door in the fourth
side. The bearded soldier was in our party. He had preceded me and lent
me a helping hand down the ladder-like stairs. When we were safe in the
cave he lighted a candle and pulled up an empty shell box for me to sit
on.
"You are safe here," he said.
"That is all right," I replied. "I want to know why you smiled at us
when we came up. We had come across pretty dangerous ground."
"I know you had," he said. "That was why I smiled. You know now
something more of what it means to be a soldier. You don't know very
much. You can go back and tell of the narrow escape you had, and you
need never come again. But for a few minutes, when you were under that
rain of shells, you knew the glory of war. You prayed. That was why I
smiled."
II--THE CONFESSION OF A SLACKER
It was not exactly what one expects from a man wearing the _Medaille
Militaire_ and the _Croix de Guerre_ with two palms. There was a
certain implication in it. It sounded as though he meant that any man
not in military uniform was a curiosity seeker or a sensation monger.
I said something to that effect.
"No," he said hastily. "Not at all. Not at all. I only meant you could
understand now, perhaps what it is that moves men in this, what makes
them take part in it."
"Most of the men are conscripts," I said. "You are, I suppose."
"No," he answered. "I am a volunteer. I might be at the rear; I might
even be writing for some paper."
It was a fine answer to my brutality.
"I beg your pardon," I said. "You are a volunteer. Tell me why you are
here."
"I will tell you my name first," he said. "It is Léon Barbèsse. I was
a schoolteacher in the centre of France, married, and with a boy four
years old. The war came and I was called to the colors, as every one
was called. But I was sent home. My lungs, you know. They are all
right now, though. A few months of this life and your lungs kill you or
they get all right. Mine are all right."
He struck himself a heavy blow on the chest and grinned.
"I could not have done that in 1914," he said. "I would have coughed
for half an hour."
"So I was sent back," he continued, "and I was glad of it. I can't tell
you how glad. I did not want to go to war. I was afraid. That is the
truth. I was afraid. And when the doctor said I would not do, I could
have cheered. The doctor was sorry for me, and I pretended to be sorry,
also, but not too sorry, for he might have passed me.
"I went home. I was safe. I did not have to fight. I did not have to
be killed. I did not have to be ashamed, for the doctors had turned me
back. Well, I was ashamed. My country was in danger. The Germans were
in France. And I was at home. But I was afraid. There you have it, I
was ashamed because I would not fight for my country, my country that
needed me, and I was afraid to fight. I was afraid to be hurt. I was
afraid to die.
"Do you remember when they called the 1917 class a year ahead of time?
I went then. I volunteered. God, what a struggle that was! I walked
the road to the _caserne_ with the sweat running off me. For a year I
had dreamed nightly of the shells. I had heard them. They had fallen
around me. I had been wounded. I had felt the impact of the steel on my
yielding flesh. For a year I had spent my days trying to hide my terror
from my wife, my friends and my neighbors. And all the time my country
had called. Fear and shame! Fear and shame! My country called and I was
afraid to go!
"For a man who loves his country, there is nothing harder than to be
a coward and know it. I went at last because I could not stand the
torture of failing to do my duty. No one else knew. I had been sent
back by the doctors. I was blameless before the community. But I knew
it was because I was afraid to be hurt, afraid to die. So when they
called the class 1917 I went.
"They sent me to Verdun. Can you imagine what that meant to me? It was
in the very midst of the German attack on the left bank of the Meuse. I
had been drafted into a veteran regiment with a lot of others to help
fill up the gaps, and I joined just in time to go into the front line.
"You know how the papers were filled at that time with the terrors of
the Verdun fighting. It was not of the bravery of our troops that I
read, but of the terrors. I don't know how I ever got into line on the
day we marched from the rear to go to the front. Everything I did was
mechanical. We were called before daylight; we had a cup of coffee; we
were marching along the road.
"I had managed it up to then without giving myself away. True, I talked
little to my comrades, and probably that saved me. But the morning we
marched to the front, what saved me then I don't know, except possibly
because I said nothing. I was unable to speak. I was numb with fear.
I was sick. My stomach turned. I walked with my head down and my feet
dragged like great weights.
"You know, at that time you could always hear at Verdun the pounding
of the big guns. I had heard it for days, while my regiment was in
repose. I used to go out in the woods by myself and listen to it and
terrify myself by thinking what it would be like to be under that rain
of shells. A foolish thing to do, but for more than a year, nearly two
years, I had been under the obsession of my fear. I could no longer
control it."
III--"WE WERE MARCHING TO INFERNO"
"And then we were on the road, marching toward that inferno. By
imperceptible degrees the pounding grew louder. I moved mechanically
because I was in the ranks, with a man on each side of me and one
in front and one behind. I had to go on. My will could not control
my movements. I was part of a machine. The machine went toward the
pounding and I went with it. That was all, except that once I vomited.
"Mind you, I had never really heard a shell, only the distant sound of
the explosions. We had been marching nearly two hours, when I heard my
first shell. There was a long, thin whine some place in the air. It was
a new sound, and it was so strange to me that I raised my head for the
first time since we started on the march. The man next to me laughed.
"'A shell,' he said.
"I looked all around me. I tried to stop to see the path of that queer
whine, but the man behind me prodded me on. Several of them laughed.
"'You will hear plenty more,' they said.
"They thought I was eager for them.
"The shells began to come at regular intervals, all following the same
path with the same peculiar whine. I tried every time to see them.
"'The Boches are hunting for a battery over on our left,' the veterans
said. There was no change in the pace. I was saying to myself, 'I have
really heard a shell, and I did not run.'
"It was very queer to me; I tried to think it out. I was afraid. I knew
I was afraid. But I had not run. I began to wonder just how afraid I
was, and I wanted to know. I had heard the shell and my curiosity was
aroused. I wanted to go on and see how far I would go before my fear
overcame me. With every one of their long whines I studied myself to
see if I would run, then when I continued marching with the regiment I
would say:
"'Not yet; perhaps the next time. Certainly, there is a limit beyond
which I will not go.'
"It was as though I were studying some other man. There was the me who
was afraid and knew it, and the me who watched to see how afraid I was.
"Eleven o'clock came and we stopped for luncheon. We stacked our
arms beside the road and eased off our equipment. I felt wonderfully
relieved that I had got that far. I was not really hungry, because I
was afraid, but I was enough master of myself to know that I must eat,
and to force myself to do so.
"While we waited there shells began to fall close to us--close enough
so that we could hear the explosion after the whine. Before we had only
heard the whine. The first one made me jump. The whine was loud and
strong and the explosion came quick and sharp. With the second I was
strong enough to turn and look at the cloud of earth, smoke and rocks.
I was doing pretty well. A shell fell short of us. Some of the men
looked up and saw an aeroplane sailing around over our heads.
"'Better get out of here,' they said. 'That is a Boche. He is giving
our range to his battery.' A shell dropped up near the head of the
line, almost in the road. I heard no orders, but we all gathered up our
rifles and equipment and marched off at quick step.
"I had looked straight in the face of the shell that fell in the
field beside us. It was another triumph for me. I had looked at it,
shivering, to be sure, wondering if I would run. But I had not run.
There was still a little further to go to pursue my investigation and
find out how much I could stand before I ran."
My curiosity got the better of me.
"Have you found out yet?" I asked.
"I am coming to that," he replied. "We went on up that road at the
quick step until we came to the entrance of a _boyau_ leading to the
supporting trenches. Shells fell around us all the time. The Boche
aeroplane was still trying to regulate the fire of its battery, and
there was a maddening wait at the mouth of the _boyau_ until it came
time for us to go in. We had been marching in the road four abreast,
but we had to go into the _boyau_ single file. My platoon was well
toward the rear, and that made us wait. We had nothing to do but stand
in the road and watch the shells and wait our turn."
IV--"HOW I CONQUERED MY FEAR"
"I tried to follow the course of every shell. My head was continually
twisting. I jumped at every explosion. I could not control the muscles
of my back and shoulders. But I stepped out of the line and walked a
little way into the field, toward the shells. I wanted to see if I
could do it. I got close enough so that I could hear a piece of shell
whiz past my ear. Then I waited for another piece. It was a hard job,
but I waited, leaning on my rifle and looking at the ground a little
way in front of me, where the last shell had exploded. If I had moved
my eyes from that spot I could not have stayed. Not until the third one
came did I hear another piece of shell. The others had struck too far
to one side.
"'Now I can go back,' I said to myself. But I walked very fast going
back.
"In the _boyau_ it was not so bad. A French _avion_ had come up and
chased away the Boche.
"I thought of the things I had done and hoped that having done them
once I could do them again. But I was not sure. I was afraid. I knew
that. I have always been afraid, and there has always been the question
in my mind if my fear would conquer or if I would conquer my fear.
"There was the time when it became necessary to take a message from
our support trenches to our advanced lines in the _Bois des Corbeaux_.
There was a _tir de barrage_ to be crossed and volunteers were called
for. I was chosen.
"By that time I had formed the theory that a man can do anything if
his duty demands it of him and he will keep that in his mind. It was a
part of the thought that came to me that first day in the _boyau_ and
I developed it later in the long nights. The first day I had no really
coherent thoughts, only a great fear of my own fear. Afterward I found
that I could control it, if there was a reason. And then I found that
the reason was France.
"Of course, you may say that it was France that made me volunteer, but
I do not think so. I think it was shame--shame that I feared to go when
others went. With all the good reasons that I had for not going, with
the doctor's word, I knew, nevertheless, it was fear that kept me back.
It was because I could not tell the truth to my wife and friends and
neighbours that I went.
"Only afterward did I find out that a great duty will take a man any
place with a calm mind. I stood against German attacks. I was in
counter attacks. I lay out in shell holes, helping to hold a line
where there were no trenches. I never forgot my fear, but I thought of
France, my country, my duty; and though I shivered and the cold sweat
rolled off me, I held steady.
"Have you ever seen a _tir de barrage_? You can walk up to it and draw
a line with a surveyor's chain on the ground, marking exactly the
limit where the shells fall, and all beyond that line will be a mass of
boiling earth, like waves in a storm dashing on a rocky coast. There
is no interval between the explosions. They are constant, unremitting,
one following so closely on another that their detonations mingle in a
steady roar."
V--"I DASHED FORWARD INTO EXPLODING SHELLS"
"I came within fifty yards of the _tir de barrage_ and stopped to watch
it and try to mark out a path. But no path was possible. No sooner was
one chosen than it was wiped out, all the little landmarks gone, the
whole face of the ground changed by a new rain of shells. My heart
sank. My stomach went suddenly empty. I knew that I had reached the
limit beyond which I could not go. I had found the point where my fear
was greater than my duty. I lay flat down on the earth. I do not know
how long I lay. I thought of nothing. There was only a horrible blank
fear.
"And then I found that unconsciously, not knowing it, I was digging
my fingers into the ground, clutching the roots of grass and dragging
myself into the _tir de barrage_. I might as well have been dragging
myself the other way, but I had lain down with my face toward my duty.
"When I made that discovery I got to my feet and stood upright for a
second, not more, only time to say, 'I must not give myself time to
think,' and dashed forward into the exploding shells. Such a race as
that is like the last steps of a dying horse, one that has broken a
blood vessel, straining for the wire, and plunges on his face in the
midst of his stride. I floundered blindly into the raw earth and fell
again on my face. But this time my mind was working. There was only
one thing for me to do, and I knew it. That was to go on. I crawled
forward on my hands and knees. I could not stand. It would be certain
death. Twenty times I was knocked flat, my wind gone, by the explosion
of a shell almost beside me. But I crawled on. I did not know if I had
been hit. I thought I had. Two hundred yards I crawled through the _tir
de barrage_ and then I got to our lines. They gave me the _Medaille
Militaire_ for that.
"You asked me why I smiled when you came up to us in the trench. I was
wondering what you had to take you through the shells. I thought of
my own struggles. I wondered if you had any of the thoughts that have
crowded in on me under fire. And I smiled."
The next time I saw him was in a hospital back of the Somme, one of
the hospitals where wounded soldiers stay only a few hours, unless
they are too badly hurt to be moved on. He was one of those who could
not be moved. He lay with closed eyes, asleep or exhausted--more
likely exhausted--propped up a little with pillows behind his head and
shoulders. His tunic hung beside his cot, and on it there was a new
ribbon, the _Legion d'Honneur_. I stopped before him.
"There is little chance for him," the doctor said.
"What did he do?" I asked.
"Led his company into the Park of Deniécourt, when all the officers
were gone," replied the doctor. "They got a footing in the park and
stuck there for two days, because he would not give up, until we made
a new attack and got the park, the château and the village. He had
been wounded the first day, but he would not give up. He has received
the _Legion d'Honneur_ and been made a sous-lieutenant, but he will
probably never know it."
I saw him once more. This time was on the boulevards of Paris. His
left sleeve was pinned across his breast and above it were his three
medals, from left to right the _Croix de Guerre_, now with three palms;
the _Medaille Militaire_ and the _Legion d'Honneur_. He was having a
look at Paris, he told me, while he waited for the train to take him
home to the centre of France, to his wife and boy.
"I can tell them now that I was afraid," he said. (Told in the _New
York Tribune_.)
THE DESERTER--A BELGIAN INCIDENT
_Told by Edward Eyre Hunt, formerly Antwerp Delegate of the American
Commission for Relief in Belgium_
I--STORY OF AN AMERICAN AT THE BARONIAL CASTLE
It was five o'clock in the morning. A riotous sunrise deluged the
Campine as I slipped into my clothes and ran down the narrow, twisting
tower-stair to keep a secret tryst with the _Baas_, or overseer. Little
slits in the tower wall, cut for mediæval archers, let in the arrows
of the sun; and as I ran through the gloomy armory and the high-roofed
Flemish dining hall--stripped of their treasure of old pikes, swords,
crossbars, and blunderbusses by the diligent Germans--out to the
causeway, and over the creaking drawbridge on my way to the stables and
the dismantled brewery, I imagined myself an escaped prisoner from the
donjons of Château Drie Toren. In truth, I was running away from Baron
van Steen's week-end house-party for a breath of rustic air while the
others slept.
The stables, tool sheds, hostlers' barracks, bake-oven, and brewery
were thatch roofed and walled with brick, toned to a claret-red,
pierced with small windows and heavy oaken doors. The doors were banded
with the baronial colors--blue stripes, alternating with yellow, like
the stripes on a barber pole--and in the centre of the hollow square of
farm buildings fumed a mammoth brown manure pile. A smell of fresh cut
hay and the warm smell of animals clung about the stables, and I heard
the watch-dog rattle his chain and sniff at the door as I passed.
I found the Baas standing before his door, his face wrinkled with
pleasure, his cap in his hand. Behind him his wife peered out at us,
wiping her fat hands on her skirts, and two half-grown children stared
from the nearest window. The Baas and his wife were the parents of
sixteen children!
"Good day, mynheer!" every one shouted in chorus.
"Good day, madame; good day, Baas." (I used the Flemish title for
overseer--the word from which has come our much-abused word "Boss.")
"I'm a deserter this morning: the rest of the Baron's party sleeps."
"Ah, so," laughed the wife. "Mynheer is like the German soldiers who
desert by dozens nowadays. And would your Honor hide in the forest like
them--like the Germans?"
"To be sure. The Baas is to show me the deepest coverts, where mynheer
the Baron will never find me more."
We laughed and passed on. A girl with a neckyoke and full milk pails
came by from the dairy; nodding faces appeared at the windows of the
farm buildings as we walked toward the woods; bees sped in the air from
conical straw hives close to our path; and in a few minutes we were
threading our way through a nursery of young pines, tilled like corn
rows in Kansas, and all of equal age.
"Monsieur, there is a soul in trees," said the Baas, affectionately
patting an ancient linden on the border of the old forest. The Baas was
a man from the Province of Liège, and he preferred to speak French with
me rather than Flemish. He had, too, a Walloon lightness of wit which
went sometimes incongruously with his heavy frame, as when he said to
me once when we were debating the joys of youth versus age, "To be old
has its advantages, monsieur. One can then be virtuous, and it is not
hard."
"There is a soul in trees," he repeated. "All together the trees have
a soul. A forest is one spirit. These trees are old men and old women,
very patient and kindly and sluggish of blood. They nod their heads in
the wind like peasants over a stove. And they talk. Sometimes I think
I can understand their talk--very wise and patient and slow. Men hurry
apart, monsieur, but the trees remain together like old married people
and watch their children grow up around them.
"Here,"--we had turned down a path and were in the fringes of another
forest of small pines--"here the Germans have taken trees for their
fortifications, slashed and cut, and those trees that are left are like
wounded soldiers: they have arms too long or too short, heads smashed;
feet uprooted, and yet they wish to live, because they are one spirit."
"What is this?" I demanded abruptly; for at my feet yawned a little
pit, with lumpy clay still fresh about it and a fallen cross lying half
hidden in the weeds.
"Ho, that? It is the grave of a German," said the Baas heartily.
He spat into the raw pit. "The German has been taken away, but the
children of Drie Toren are still afraid. They will not come by this
path, on account of the dead _Deutscher_."
His foot crushed the rude cross as he talked, and we walked on. But
I was vaguely troubled. That vile pit and the thought of what it had
contained had spoiled my promenade. As I had found on a thousand other
occasions, my freedom in Belgium was only a fiction. The war could not
be forgotten, even for an hour.
A partridge thundered up at our feet and rocketed to earth again beyond
the protecting pines. In a little glade we surprised four young rabbits
together at breakfast. The Baas laid his hand lightly on my arm. "It
is sad, monsieur, isn't it?" he said. "The poachers steal right and
left nowadays. The _gardes champêtres_ are no longer armed, so the
thieves do as they will. There is more pheasant in the city markets
than chicken, and more rabbit than veal. The game will soon be gone,
like our horses and cattle.
"You remember, monsieur, the sand dunes by Blankenberghe and Knocke on
the Belgian coast? Ah, the rabbits that used to be in those dunes! But
now the firing of cannon has driven them all away."
A silence fell upon us both. The thickets grew denser, and we pushed
our way slowly toward the deeper coverts. I found myself thinking of
the little crosses along the seaside dunes which marked where greater
game than rabbits had fallen--the graves of men--the biggest game on
earth--the shallow pits and the frail wooden crosses, like that which
the Baas's leather boot had crushed a half hour before.
II--"WE FOUND A STARVING GERMAN"
We had reached the deepest woods, when a gasping, choking cry stopped
us short. The thicket directly before us stirred and then lay still
as death. The cry had been horrible as a Banshee's wail, and as
mysterious, but it was not the cry of an animal; it was human, and it
came from a human being in agony. The Baas crossed himself swiftly and
leaped forward, and instantly we had parted the protecting bushes and
were looking down on a man lying flat on the ground--a spectre with
a thin white face, chattering teeth, enormous frightened eyes, and a
filthy, much worn German uniform.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded.
The soldier did not answer, he did not rise, he lay motionless and
hideous like a beast. Then I caught sight of his left ankle, enormously
swollen and wrapped in rags, and his hands--they were thin as sticks.
The man was helpless, and he was starving.
And now came a strange thing. We two walked slowly around the man on
the ground as if he were a wild creature caught in a snare. We felt no
pity or astonishment; only curiosity. Utterly unemotionally we took
note of him and his surroundings. He had no gun, no knife, and no
blankets. He lay on some broken boughs, and he seemed to have covered
himself with boughs at night. The wild, haggard eyes turned in their
sockets and watched us as we moved, but otherwise no part of the man
stirred. He seemed transfixed, frozen in an agony of fear and horror.
"Ashes! He has had a fire here, monsieur, but it was days ago." At the
man's feet the Baas had discovered the remnants of a little fire. "Holy
blue!" he added in astonishment, "he has eaten these!"
A pile of small green twigs lay near the fire. The bark had been chewed
from them!
A buzzing swarm of flies, disturbed by our investigations, rotated in
the air, and a faint, bad odor hung about the place, indescribably
stale and filthy.
At the end of our search we turned again to the man on the ground.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" I demanded again. There was no
answer. "Baas, have you a flask?"
The old man slowly drew a little leather-clad bottle from his breast
pocket and passed it to me in silence. He offered it with obvious
reluctance, and watched jealously as I knelt and dropped a little
stream of liquid between the parted lips of the creature on the ground.
The man's lips sucked inward, his throat choked at the raw liquor,
he opened his mouth wide and gasped horribly for breath, his knees
twitched, and his wrists trembled as if he were dying. Then the parched
mouth tried to form words; it could only grimace.
For a moment I felt a mad impulse to leap on that moving mouth and
crush it into stillness; such an impulse as makes a hunter wring the
neck of a wounded bird. Instead, I continued dropping the stinging
liquor and listening.
Then came the first word. "More!" the black lips begged, and I emptied
the flask into them. The Baas sighed plaintively. "German?" the soldier
whispered.
"No. American," I answered.
"The other one?"
"Belgian."
The frightened eyes closed in evident relief. The man seemed to sleep.
"But you?" I asked.
"I'm German--a soldier," he said.
"Lost?"
"Missing." He used the German word _vermisst_--the word employed in the
official lists of losses to designate the wounded or dead who are not
recovered, and those lost by capture or desertion.
"You understand, Baas?"
"No, monsieur."
"He says he is a German soldier--a deserter, I suppose, trying to make
his way over the frontier to Holland. And he is starving."
The Baas's face became a battle-ground of emotions. His kindly eyes
glared merrily, his lips twisted until his beard seemed to spread
to twice its natural width. Instantly his face became grave again,
then puzzled, even anxious. A stream of invective and imprecation in
mingled French and Flemish poured from his troubled lips, and he
stamped his feet vigorously.
"He can't stay here," I concluded.
"It is death to help him," said the Baas.
"For you, yes; for me, no. The Germans can only disgrace me as a member
of the Relief Commission. They cannot kill me."
"He must not be left to die here, monsieur."
"The Germans will probably search your house if we take him there."
"He may betray us if we help him."
"That is possible. But you see he is very weak--almost dead."
"He may be a spy."
"That again is possible. But see! He has eaten twigs!"
"He is a damned pig of a German!"
"But you do not feed even pigs on sticks and leaves."
"I am afraid, monsieur."
"So am I, Baas. Yet you must decide, and not I. It is much more
dangerous for you than for me."
III--THE DESERTER'S LAST HOUR
We stared into each other's eyes, trying to guess each other's
thoughts. Every one in Belgium knows that the German army sows its
informers everywhere. We could not even trust each other in that
stricken country. Deserters and traitors were tracked down like dogs.
Any one who gave aid or comfort to such persons did so at the risk of
his life. It is said that pretended deserters deliberately trapped
Belgians into aiding them, and then betrayed their hosts. Something of
the sort was hinted in the famous case of Miss Edith Cavell. Knowledge,
then, bade us be cautious: instinct alone bade us be kind.
The Baas's wide eyes turned again to the creature on the ground, and he
sighed plaintively. "Monsieur," he began, in a very low, gentle voice,
"I will help him. Give me my flask and I will go for food and drink.
Then we must plan. Does it please you to remain here?"
"I shall stay here with him."
"Good! I will go."
I knelt beside the soldier and chafed his filthy hands until blood
flowed again in his dry veins. The swollen pupils of his heavy eyes
brightened. He talked continuously in a thin trickling whisper--a
patter of information about dinners he had eaten, wines he had drunk,
his military service, his hardships, and his physical and mental
sensations. I had read of victims of scurvy in the Arctic snows
dreaming and talking day and night of food, only of food. So it was
with the starving soldier. The liquor had made him slightly delirious,
and he babbled on and on.
His broken ankle pained him. When I moved him about to rest it, his
lightness astonished me. The man had been large and heavy; he was
shrunken to a bag of bones. His uniform hung about him like a sack, and
it seemed as if the slightest jar would snap his arms and legs. Tears
welled under his heavy, dirty eyelids. "Mother! Mother!" he whispered
once. "Art thou there? Mother!" Then as his eyes again cleared and he
saw the trees interarched above him--the trees which the Baas had told
me were one spirit; the grim, silent, sepulchral trees; the haunted,
malignant trees which had wooed him with their shelter and then broken
him and starved him; the trees beneath which his forest-dwelling
ancestors had cowered for thousands of years and to which they had
offered human sacrifices--he broke down and sobbed horribly. "She is
not here! She is not here! No, she is not here!" he repeated over and
over again.
IV--"WE BURIED HIM IN THE PIT"
When the Baas returned, we covered the deserter with our coats and
fed him. Perhaps we did wrong to give him food, although I think now
that he was doomed before we found him. We did our best, but it was
not enough. In less than an hour, after a horrible spell of vomiting,
the poor man was beyond all help of ours. His eyes rolled desperately,
his breath came in horrid gasps, and he grew rigid like a man in an
epileptic fit.
We tore open the breast of his uniform to ease his labored breathing.
A metal identification disk hung on a cord from about his neck over
a chest which was like a wicker-work of ribs. His belly was sunken
until one almost saw the spinal column through it. His tortured lungs
subsided little by little, the terrifying sound of his breathing sank
to nothing, his head thrust far back and over to the right side, his
arms stiffened slowly, his mouth fell open.
We watched, as if fascinated, the pulsing vein in his emaciated neck,
still pumping blood through a body which had ceased to breathe. The top
of the blood column at last appeared, like mercury in a thermometer. It
fell half an inch with each stroke of the famished heart. It reached
the base of the neck and sank from sight, and still we stared and
stared. The man was dead, yet I seemed to have an awful vision of
billions of sentient cells, billions of little selfish lives which had
made up his life, fighting, choking, starving to death within that
cooling clay.
The Baas bent his head, uncovered, and crossed himself. With a quick
stooping motion, he closed the wide open eyes and straightened the bent
limbs. Then he rose to his full height and looked at me sadly. "This
man had a mother, monsieur," he said. "We must forget the rest."
In the pit where the other German had lain we buried the body of the
deserter, and we found and repaired the little lath cross and set it up
at the grave's head. But first I took from about the neck of the corpse
the oval medallion which told the man's name and regimental number. It
was a silver medal, finer than those usually worn by privates in the
German army. I have it by me as I write, and on it is etched the brave
sentence, "God shield you from all dangers of warfare, and render you
back to us safe and victorious!"
I was late for breakfast at the Château, but Van Steen kindly made room
for me at his right hand. "Aha, monsieur!" he called gaily, "we thought
you were helping to find the deserter."
"Wha-what, monsieur le Baron?" I stuttered in amazement.
"The German deserter. A file of soldiers woke us up at seven o'clock,
inquiring for one of their men who ran away from Mons a month ago. They
are searching the stables and the forest. They have traced him here to
our commune. I hope they catch him!"
My fingers clutched the silver disk in my pocket. "I think they will
not catch him, messieurs. He ran away a month ago, you say?"
"A month ago.... But it is nothing to us, eh? Let us eat our
breakfasts." The Baron bowed grandly to me. "Monsieur le Délégue," he
began in his smooth, formal voice, "once again we remind ourselves
that it is thanks to you and the generous American people that we have
bread. It is thanks to you that our noble Belgium is not starving....
Eh bien! Let us eat our breakfasts."
And so we did.
(Told in the _Red Cross Magazine_.)
GRIM HUMOR OF THE TRENCHES
_As Seen by Patrick Corcoran, of the Royal Engineers_
Patrick Corcoran, of the Royal Engineers, on leave in New York,
gives a picture in which the monotony of slaughter is relieved
by wagers among the men and pranks with a football as the charge
begins. Told in the _New York World_.
I--AN IRISHMAN TELLS HIS TALE
"To the German soldier war is a serious business. To the Frenchman it
is sublime devotion. To the Englishman it is bully sport."
This from Capt. Patrick Corcoran of the Royal Engineers, hero of a
dozen "Somewheres" in France, twice wounded and on permanent leave in
New York City.
"And to the Irishman?" I asked.
"Fighting always was the Irishman's great amusement," he said. "The
English are good sports, but they never did get the fun out of their
fun that the Irish do."
* * * * *
Fun in the trenches! With shells dropping all around and blowing the
bodies of your comrades into red fragments! What do the soldiers do, I
wondered, when this is happening?
The Frenchmen sing, this captain told me. Not to keep up their courage,
but joyously, exultantly.
"And the British?"
"Sure, they lay bets on what the next shell will do."
* * * * *
"The 'sausages' are the fine toys," the captain went on. "The Boche
call 'em minnewieffers, but they look like sausages. They always come
with a series of whoops, and you can tell almost exactly where they're
going to hit. Then they sit down and rest five seconds before they
explode; they muss things up a little sometimes, but they're decent
about it.
"But the whizz-bangs--nobody loves a whizz-bang. You can't even hear
them coming. You never have time to place a bet. They just whizz and
bang in the same breath; and if you happen to be conscious after that,
you help to bandage."
* * * * *
Capt. Corcoran enlisted as a private. I wondered how he came to get his
commission.
"So did I," he said. "I was carrying despatches to different places
within our sector; couldn't go to another sector without special
orders. But one day I was asked to take a despatch to another sector
and I took it. When I came back, they made me a lieutenant. Nothing at
all had happened, and I couldn't understand it. I didn't have any pull
that I knew of; and besides, pulls don't count nowadays.
"They told me a while later," he added, "that I was the seventh man
sent out with that despatch. The first six were killed."
II--"I WAS IN A CAVE ON CHRISTMAS EVE"
It was nearing Christmas when I met Capt. Corcoran. He is a genial
and, I felt sure, a rather sentimental soul; but his matter-of-fact
conversation about matter-of-fact human slaughter was altogether
chilling. So I asked him about Christmas in the trenches.
"I spent last Christmas at Loos," he said. Loos, one of the worst of
slaughter pens! I grew expectant.
"I was sapping," he said. "Part of an engineer's duties are the
extension of deep underground passages toward the enemy's lines, laying
mines under 'No Man's Land' and listening, if possible, for signs of
activity on the other side.
"I was sapping--Christmas Eve. We were down thirty-five feet, in a
little cave about nine by four. There were three of us. Along toward
midnight a big shell landed right, and we were buried. We were buried
thirteen hours. One of the boys lost his mind, but they dug us out
Christmas afternoon."
"It wouldn't have been so bad," he added, "if we had only had to wait.
But we could hear the Boche sapping just a few feet away and we hated
like everything to be mined and blown up down there. You don't mind
it when you're out in the open air, but you get nervous in a fix like
that."
"It must have been a merry Christmas after all--just to get out," I
remarked.
"No," he said. "Something happened that got on my nerves. I went as
soon as I could to get my Christmas mail--wanted to see what Santa
Claus had brought--and he didn't bring me a blessed thing but a bill
for thirty pounds."
* * * * *
I have hoped for a reaction against war on the part of the troops--a
psychological revulsion, in time, against the long-drawn-out killing. I
tried to present my theory to the captain, but he didn't seem to grasp
it.
"Everybody's nervous," he said, "for the first day or two--like a horse
just in from the quiet country being driven through your city streets.
But, sure, if he was going to shy at the 'Elevated,' he'd do it the
first week. After that, he gets used to the noise and he'd be nervous
without it. 'Tis so with a soldier. He's glad to get wounded for a
change, and be sent back home; but then he gets to missing the noise
of the whizz-bangs and the coal boxes and the darling little sausages,
and he isn't easy until he gets into the game again."
"But the horrors of hand-to-hand fighting," I protested. "How can
anybody go through that and come out sane?"
"'Tis simple," he said. "You know you've got to get your man, or he'll
get you."
"Get him? How?"
"With whatever you've got. Maybe your bayonet. Maybe your knife. Maybe
nothing but your fists and teeth."
I tried to picture youths advancing under the smoke of artillery,
through fields mowed by machine guns, dropping a moment into craters
ploughed out by giant shells, creeping out under other curtains of
smoke and reaching at last that other line of youths--then the thrust,
the stab or the fight to the death with teeth and claws. I tried to
picture young husbands and fathers and lovers, and even jolly good
fellows, getting used to this--but I failed. I am an incorrigible
mollycoddle.
* * * * *
"What is the war doing to the soldiers?" I asked. "How is it changing
them most?"
"Making men of them," said the captain. "They came out little
pasty-faced clerks with no lungs, no muscle, no nerve and no vision.
Now they've seen life--and death--and aren't afraid of either. They
have muscles and nerves of iron, and a man's outlook on life. They'll
never be mere clerks or mere Londoners again."
* * * * *
Capt. Corcoran doesn't reminisce. He doesn't romance. Getting a war
story from him is hard newspaper work; not that he isn't willing to
give information, but war conditions are no longer a novelty in Europe,
and heroes are so common that their stories are no longer interesting.
Little by little, I learned the following facts about his record, which
did not seem at all extraordinary to him:
He fought in the battles of the Aisne, Pepereign, Festubert, Hooge,
St. Eloi, Neuve Chapelle, Loos and Pommier. He was wounded at Neuve
Chapelle, sent to England, recovered and insisted on going back. He was
wounded again at Pommier last February, two miles back of the line,
when a stray shell fragment struck him in the back. The force of it
hurled him to the ground in the midst of some barbed wire entanglements
that caught in his forehead and tore back his scalp to the crown. A
comrade clapped a cap upon his head to hold the scalp in place while he
was carried to the hospital. His recovery amazed the surgeons.
Once he broke military rules by staying away from his billet all night.
That night a shell struck the billet and killed his partner with whom
he had been sleeping for months.
At another time, a shell split a house in which he was installing
signal apparatus and killed half a dozen telegraph clerks with whom he
had just been talking. He was uninjured.
III--"EVERYBODY IS A HERO"
"Heroes," he mused. "I suppose everybody is a hero after he has got
on to the knack of heroism. You don't call a man a hero because he
rushes fearlessly across Fifth Avenue; but to a person who has never
seen anything busier than a country road, the act looks heroic. It's
something the same with No Man's Land. I have a friend, a doctor, who
got a D.S.O. for going out on No Man's Land to bandage up some wounded
comrades. He didn't know he was doing anything heroic. They needed
care; they couldn't come in, so he went out--that's all.
"It was different with O'Leary. He went out for the fun of the thing
and got eighteen Germans."
The captain spoke of Private Michael O'Leary, V. C., who won the
coveted decorations for this particular joke. It happened in the sector
where Capt. Corcoran was stationed and he was well acquainted with the
details.
"O'Leary had been betting on the 'sausages' for several days," he said,
"and he was bored. He wanted some real fun and let everybody know he
was in the mood.
"Betcha can't go across and bring back a Boche," somebody suggested.
O'Leary sprung from the trench and went. In a second he was lost in the
darkness and in half a minute the boys heard him yelling like a demon
for help. Nobody could ever figure out how he did it--he must have
brained the sentinel and disarmed the others while they were asleep.
But there he was, with the arms of eighteen of them piled up before
him, yelling back to the British trenches to come over and get the men.
Of course, the boys answered his call and brought the whole eighteen
back to the British lines.
"You see, the Germans, with all their efficiency, aren't used to that
kind of fighting. They're always so darn serious about it. They're
good soldiers but they don't have any fun. When they see us come over
kicking a football ahead of the charge, they don't seem to know what to
make of it. We do it sometimes, don't you know, just to add a little
novelty to the sport.
"The war is just beginning. The Germans have a great machine and it'll
take a long while to break it.
"As much as you people in the States have heard about German
efficiency, there has been little overestimating of it. Only one who
has seen the Germans in action can appreciate what a well-regulated
business organization they have made of war.
"I don't know what our boys will do when it's all over; they're so used
to war that peace will probably come hard for a while.
"Seriously, now, I don't know a soldier who is even dreaming of peace.
They didn't want war, but now that it is here, they're going to carry
it through. And they're going to have all the fun they can out of it
while it lasts."
PRIVATE McTOSHER DISCOVERS LONDON
_Told by C. Malcolm Hincks_
Experiences of a Highland soldier, back from the front, while
visiting London for the first time in his life. The hero's correct
name, of course, has been suppressed in this story in the _Wide
World_.
I--STORY OF THE HIGHLANDER ON FURLOUGH
He was standing on the main-line departure platform of St. Pancras
Station. Motionless, as though on guard over the bookstall, he might
have been made of the granite of his native country, and I felt sure
that his name was Sandy or Jock.
His war-stained khaki bore traces of many ordeals undergone; even the
big, red knees were flecked with mud. Around him hung the extraordinary
medley of equipment that so thoroughly justifies the old Army axiom
that a soldier is "something to hang things on."
A red face beamed out like a beacon from the mass of paraphernalia, a
wisp of sandy hair peeped from under the soft khaki headgear, but the
steady blue eyes glanced at me with hard suspicion as I felt for my
cigarette-case; and thinking my action might be misunderstood, I went
into the refreshment-room and dined.
Nearly three-quarters of an hour later I emerged. It was eight o'clock,
and I had half an hour longer to wait for my train to the Midlands. I
gasped when I saw the Highlander still standing on sentry-go beside
the bookstall. Presently he shouldered his rifle and paced along the
platform. There was a clatter, and his steel helmet slipped from his
back and rolled towards me. I just saved it from going under the wheels
of a heavy luggage truck a porter was pushing along.
The Highlander took his property with gruff word of thanks.
"Losh, mon; it's a terrible city!" he murmured, as he placed his rifle
between his knees and groped among the multitudinous buckles and straps
on his broad back. "D'ye ken it's been my life's dream to see yon
London? Ma old mither don't believe in dreams--and I'm thinkin' she's
reet. I'll be glad when eleven o'clock comes and I'm off for bonnie
Scotland!"
"Eleven o'clock!" I gasped. "Why, you've nearly three hours to wait,
and you were here when I arrived just after seven."
"Aye; I've been here since four o'clock. Mon, I know this platform as
well as I know ma own wee house! I feel safer here than in yon streets."
Having fixed his steel helmet to his satisfaction on top of the other
gear, he swung his rifle round on the sling--nearly braining an elderly
gentleman who was passing behind him in the process. Ignoring the
civilian's angry protest, he turned to me.
"That's the sixth," he said, shortly, and a faint glimmer of amusement
came into his clear blue eyes, "the sixth thieving rascal that felt ma
rifle this day. They hang round trying to steal something from ma kit.
It's a terrible city. I've been discoverin' it all day."
"Look here," I said, "I've half an hour to spare, and you must be
feeling hungry. I can't offer you a drink, but if you'll come and have
some hot tea or cocoa and something to eat, I'll be proud, and you can
tell me of your adventures."
The Scot eyed me suspiciously.
"A wee lassie made the same offer three hours since," he replied,
doubtfully. "A lassie all in furs, but I didna trust her, and I told
her so. She was after ma money or ma kit, or she wouldn't have been
so angry at having been found oot! But I'll trust ye, mon. I want a
bite of something, and if it's my adventures you want to hear, it's a
wonderful story I'll have to tell ye."
And here is the tale he told me, though I can only indicate the broad
Scots in which he spoke.
II--THE SCOTCHMAN TELLS HIS OWN TALE
For years in ma wee Inverness-shire home I'd dreamt of seeing London.
I'd never seen a city in ma life. I might have gone to Edinburgh once,
but I lost the excursion ticket I'd bought and couldna find it till
the train had gone. Ma mither had put it away for safety and forgotten
where she'd put it! I was working for Farmer Macpherson when news of
the war came, and about the end of August I was in the market-toon,
when up came a chap dressed like I am now, except that he'd only got
three stripes on his arm ... and was twisting a cane. "My lad," says
he, "don't you wish to serve your King and Country?"
"Aye," says I, "but I'm serving Farmer Macpherson juist noo, and he and
ma mither wouldna like me changing jobs."
Well, the sergeant had a lot to say. Mon, he was an awfu' liar, that
sergeant! Maybe he came from here; I'm thinking he did! He talked of
seeing life and of being in Berlin before Christmas.
"Mon," I says, "I'm not fashing maself about Berlin, but if I go in the
Army shall I go to London?"
"Of course," says he. "As soon as you're a soldier you'll go to London."
"All reet," says I; and I sent a boy home with the pony-cart to tell
them that Jock McTosher had 'listed and was going to London. Well, I
didna go to London. I trained in various parts of Scotland, just far
enough away to miss ma home, but too close to get a real change. Then
we went to an awfu' place in Wiltshire, all mud and huts and hard work;
and then slipped across to France. I was a sad mon when I left the dock
that night. I'd thought as a soldier I'd be sure to see London, but
I'd never even seen a big town save the one we sailed from, and they
marched us through that at night, when everything was quiet, and stowed
us away in the big ship like smuggled goods.
Well, I'd given up all hope of seeing London unless I got wounded and
was sent there, when a bit ago they told me ma name was down for a ten
days' leave! "Losh!" I says to maself, "I'll have a whole day in London
before going north!" Well, I've had it, mon, and it's been a wash-out!
At six o'clock this morning I arrived at Victoria, and with some pals
had breakfast at a hut in the station. One of them was a Londoner,
and when the laddies left me to go to their homes, he told me to keep
straight along the street and I'd come to Westminster Abbey and the
Houses of Parliament.
Losh! mon, I was verra disappointed with London when I stepped out into
yon street. It was quieter than the ruined wee village I'd left in
France. Well, I looked at the Abbey from the outside, but no' feeling
dressed for the kirk, I went across to the Houses of Parliament,
thinking maybe the politicians would have had their breakfast interval
and be starting again soon, as it was by then getting on for eight
o'clock.
But the big gates were shut and there seemed no one about but a
policeman. A nice mon he was--and he knew me, too.
"Halloa, Jock!" says he, quite friendly. "What are ye wanting?"
"Mon," says I, "I'm having a day in London, and I want to see
the Members of Parliament and the great lords at work. Maybe the
day-shift's having breakfast and not started yet?"
The policeman laughed as though I'd made a joke. He said the members
weren't working that day, and anyway they didn't start till the
afternoon.
"Mon," I said, "they must make good money, or they'd never be able to
live with so much standing-off time."
"They don't do so bad," says the policeman, with another laugh; and I
walked up a road called Whitehall, though I couldn't see anything white
about it, unless it was the faces of the wee lassies hurrying to work.
Then I went into a park and sat down and had a rest and a smoke. Maybe
I dozed for awhile, for when I got out into that same Whitehall again
something wonderful seemed to have happened. It was all noise and rush,
and I was saluting officers until my arm ached. Then I crossed the
road a bit, and after having been nearly run over twice, turned down a
side-street and lost myself.
III--ON THE WAY TO PICCADILLY
Presently I saw what looked like a kindly old gentleman, and I asked
him the way to Piccadilly.
"You'd better take the Tube," says he. "There's a station just over
there."
"Tube!" says I, doubtful like. "What's that?"
"An underground railway," says he, hurrying off. "You'll get to
Piccadilly Circus in a few minutes."
He was an awfu' liar, that mon! Why, it was ten minutes before I got
ma ticket! There were penny-in-the-slot machines besides the little
windows; but I don't trust them. There seemed to be about half-a-dozen
railways running into the place, and there were maps with all the
colours o' the rainbow to show you how to get to places; but as I
didn't know where I was, or whether I was on a green or a brown line,
they didn't help me much. I looked at the pictures and I looked at
the pert lassies in uniform clippin' tickets an' all. I didn't like
bothering them with questions, but at last I got to a window and asked
for Piccadilly.
"Penny," says the girl.
"Aye," says I, and I put down ma rifle, not meaning to hurt the foot of
the fussy mon behind me. "Is there any reduction for a return?" says I,
having been brought up never to waste the bawbees.
"No," she snapped. "Penny's the fare. Hurry up, please!"
"Yes, do," growled out the mon behind, hopping about on one foot and I
saw it was true about a crowd quickly gathering in London--for just in
the little time I'd been talking there were dozens of people waiting in
a line.
"I'll have to get at ma purse," says I, starting to search ma pockets.
"Losh! I believe I have it in ma pack! Will ye give us a hand with
these straps, laddie?"
"Oh, I'll pay your fare," says the man behind me; and no doubt he
meant it kindly, though his way was rough. Well, I puts ma ticket in
ma pocket and walks a little way. Then one of the wee lassies with
clippers stops me and wants ma ticket.
"Hold ma rifle, lassie," says I, "so as I can get it."
Seeing how unsociable everyone else seemed, I spoke kindly to the
lassie and told her I hoped she liked the job and her mither approved
and all. But maybe, knowing Londoners, she didna trust any mon; anyway,
the C.O. with a bad attack of liver couldn't have told me off much
sharper; and there was a crowd behind charging at me just like a game
of football!
Mon, I'm not surprised that these Londoners make good soldiers! A man
that could take that Tube every day of his life would think the first
line of trenches restful! Down a sort of underground tunnel I walked;
then suddenly I came to the funniest staircase I'd ever seen. I should
have stopped to stare at the rumbling, snarling thing, but people from
behind pushed me, and all of a sudden there was somethin' wrong with ma
feet, and I found myself carried forwards. While I was looking about me
steps formed before my eyes, and I gave a yell and clutched out to save
myself.
Now mind ye, mon, I'm a respectable young chap; ma feyther was elder at
the kirk and ma mither's always warned me to treat lassies with proper
respect.
I didna know it was a lassie's waist I clutched hold of when I went
down with a crash, ma rifle clattering and those awfu' stairs sliding
downwards all the time. When I pulled myself together I saw that I'd
dragged down with me a very pretty lassie, and she was sitting on ma
knee! She was wearing one of those terrible short skirts, and there
before my eyes was about a yard of silk stockings; but the lassie
jumped to her feet just as I was going to shut ma eyes.
She was quite nice aboot it, mind ye--the only nice Londoner I'd
met. She was flushed-up like, and confused, as anybody would be on
that awfu' livin' staircase, but she helped me to get to ma feet and
collect ma kit. It wasn't her fault, moreover, that I fell down again
in getting off that movin' contraption. I thought I was going to be
carried doon the crack where it disappeared, and what with marking time
and trying to step off with both feet at once I came down again with
another crash. I blocked the passage-way for a minute or two, and the
poor Londoners, with never a second to spare, were clambering all over
me. Do they get paid by the minute?
When I'd picked maself up and seen that nothing was missing, the dainty
little lassie had disappeared. I was sorry, for, although I've been
taught to be cautious of women, she was certainly verra nice, and no
weight at all on ma knee.
IV--"I'VE WALKED THE SEWERS OF LONDON"
Finding myself alone, I set off up a tunnel. Presently I came to a
notice--"Exit by Stairs." I didna know what "exit" meant, but I knew
all about those terrible conjuring-trick stairs, and so I turned back
and tried another tunnel. Seeing a lot of people going into a little
room, I followed them. I gave ma ticket to another lassie, but she was
so busy love-making to a bit of a boy that she took it without so much
as a glance at it or me. There were advertisements in the room, and
sort of sliding doors at each end of it. "It's a waiting-room," says I
to maself; and thinking there might be some time before a train came
and they opened the other door, I lit a "fag." Very wisely, I saw,
they'd put up "Beware of Pickpockets," so I kept my eyes about me.
"No smoking!" barks the lassie; and she came into the room, closing the
other gates behind her.
I was just going to argue with her, when all of a sudden the room
started to move upwards. Losh! mon, it gave me an awfu' turn! I yelled
out, and a man standing next to me laughed--anyway, he laughed till
I turned round and ma rifle knocked against his head. Then, before I
knew what had happened, the other gates swung open in a ghostly way.
Mon, I'll swear there was no one to open them! I drew in a breath
of fresh air, thinking I'd got to Piccadilly but, if you'll believe
me, I'd walked the sewers of London and _come out at place where I'd
entered_! And that old man said the "Tube" was an underground railway!
Underground maze, I call it! I walked to Piccadilly after that; I was
afraid of spending the rest of ma leave down there.
I have no doot that Piccadilly is gay enough. But I was feeling tired
and hungry the noo there were officers thick as flies after jam; and
there didn't seem room for me and ma kit on the pavement. And the
lassies! Never have I seen such clothes, and some of 'em had enough fur
on them to make twenty goatskin waistcoats. It's a queer thing, though,
but all of them seemed to have their clothes too short for them;
ma mither would have been horrified. They looked at me as if I was
something out of a show, and I began to feel nervous. "Losh!" I says to
maself, "I'll have a bit of dinner. I'll do maself well." So I walked
into a restaurant, after dodging a naval officer who was standing at
the entrance and seemed to have something to do with the place. As
soon as I got in I saw I'd made a mistake, and I'd have retired at the
double, but a foreigner in evening dress, with about four square feet
of starched shirt on him, came rushing up quite excited.
"You can'd sdop here," says he. "Dis blace is for ladies and gendlemen."
"Mon," says I, "there's many a rule made to be broken, or you wouldna
be here."
"I'll haf no insolence!" he cries, going very red. "You go to a common
restaurant. We do not serve your sort here."
That roused what ma mither calls the devil in me.
"Mon," says I, catching him by the collar, "I've been killing the
likes of you for the past sixteen months. The only difference is that
they wore a grey uniform, instead of that fancy dress of yours. Say
'kamerad' and bring me some sausages and mashed and a pint of beer, or
you'll be the thirteenth I've finished off at close quarters, and that
might be unlucky for both of us!"
"The Scotsman's quite right," piped a pretty voice; and I felt fair
frightened. The whole place was in an uproar. Ma rifle--an awkward
thing is a rifle--had knocked over a chair, and a young Brass Hat
(Staff officer) who was sitting at a table with the girl with the
pretty voice, came over. I had to let the other chap go, so as to
salute.
"This won't do, you know," says Brass Hat, very severe; but the pretty
lassie frowned at him, and he looked a bit awkward. "Confound you, you
fool!" says he, very fierce, to the man in evening dress. "The young
lady wants this man to lunch with us!"
V--"AND I WENT TO THE CINEMA"
I can't quite remember what happened after that. I should have liked to
have fed with that lassie, for her eyes sparkled like stars, and as the
Brass Hat was afraid of her it showed she was worth knowing. Still, she
wasn't my lassie, but his, and he mightn't have liked it, so I started
to retire. The Brass Hat gave me half a crown and said something about
being quite as keen on killing the waiter as I was; and then I found
myself out in Piccadilly again. It was some time before I found a
little pub where I got a good dinner, with beer, for eighteenpence. I
will say that for Londoners, mon, they do throw money aboot. Within an
hour or so I'd had a railway fare paid and been stood a good dinner.
But they take so much more out of you than what they give you, that's
my grievance.
Well, having had a good dinner, I strolled along for a bit, and then I
thought I'd have a motor-bus ride. As I was standing on the pavements
a 'bus stopped alongside me. Mon, I blushed and turned away ma head.
There, on the wee platform at the end, stood a lassie in a blue kilt
shorter than mine and high-top boots. Ma little sister wears longer
skirts! She was a brown, curly-haired lassie, quite twenty years old,
with a funny-shaped hat on her head and a cheeky smile on her lips.
"Want the Bank, Sandy?" says she.
"Lassie," says I, "war's a terrible thing! Go hame to your mither and
ask her to lengthen your kilt!"
"Kilt, indeed!" says the hussy, unabashed. "You're out of date, old
boy!" And she jerked the bell and the 'bus went off. She waved to me
from the stairs, but, of course, I took no notice. By now I was tired
of London, mon; I wanted a little peace. Coming to a cinema, I paid
saxpence at a little ticket-office and went through a hall that was all
mahogany and plush, with a sort of field-marshal in full dress sweeping
the marble floor. A lassie with a torch pulled a curtain on one side,
and I saw a man falling into a river with a motor-car chasing him. Then
the lights went up, and I saw I'd paid saxpence just to stand. I said
I'd been swindled, but the people round only cried "Hush!" and then the
lights went out again and some letters came up on the screen--"The Big
Advance on the Somme."
Mon, when you've been dodging shells and bullets for sixteen months,
and ruins and broken trees are the only sort of scenery you've seen,
you don't want to have "Big Advances" thrown at you on the pictures.
I think I began a speech, and I'm sure it would have been a fine one,
but things happen so sudden in London. I saw a shell coming over--on
the film, ye ken--and I ducked from force of habit and jostled one or
two people. In the excitement I upset a pretty lassie who picked up ma
helmet--it was in the dark, ye see--and then I was put out. I wanted to
go, or else they'd never have done it. After that---- Oh, is that your
train, mon?
"I should have liked to hear the remainder of your adventures in
London, Jock," I said, leaning out of the carriage window.
"There weren't any more," replied Jock, gazing suspiciously round him.
"I came straight here after that. I've had enough of London. I've only
three hours to wait the noo! I'll be feeling a wee-bit lonely, but----"
The train moved away suddenly. I saw the brawny man in khaki take up
his position by the bookstall, now closed. I waved to him, but he had
turned to granite again. Private McTosher had discovered London!
RUSSIAN COUNTESS IN THE ARABIAN DESERT
_Adventures of Countess Molitor as Told in Her Diary_
I--ON THE GREAT ARABIAN DESERT
One of the most striking of all the numberless enterprises of one kind
and another which have been brought to naught by the war was the plan
of a young, rich and beautiful Russian countess to unveil the secrets
of one of the earth's last unexplored and admittedly most dangerous
regions--the great Desert of Arabia, called by the tribesmen who live
on its fringe "The Dwelling of the Void," a region that is three times
as large as Great Britain, and upon which no European foot is yet known
to have been set.
The young widow of a wealthy Russian nobleman, whose estates were in
the neighborhood of Moscow, Countess Molitor's life had been full of
thrilling experiences even before she made her plan to go, without any
European companion, and conquer the unexplored Ruba-el-Khali.
Previously she had wandered, with only a small escort of native
bearers, through savage Southwest Africa, and had been captured there
and held for ransom by native torturers. She had adventured, too,
among the savage Tuaregs of the Saharan Desert, known as the most
bloodthirsty tribe on earth; had crossed the Alps in a balloon, made
between sixty and seventy flights in aero and water planes, been
attacked and kept prisoner by Apaches in Paris, had nursed in the
hospitals of Europe and taken part in rescue work in the slums of
London.
Of the remarkable experiences that have befallen the plucky countess
since then I am now able to tell as the result of having, to begin
with, received several lengthy letters from her at Cartagena, in Spain,
where she has been living for some months, and, more recently, having
been privileged to read the mightily interesting and vividly written
journal that she kept from the moment of her arrival at Port Said.
Had it not been for the war, it is extremely probable that the countess
would have accomplished her project, which would have pushed her into
the front rank of successful explorers. She carried out, it seems, her
original intention, a venturesome one, indeed, for a white woman, of
joining a Bedouin tribe and traveling with them, and had covered over
nine hundred miles of her journey when she was caught in the Turkish
mobilization and arrested, on suspicion of being a Russian spy, by
the Moslems, who, from the beginning had frowned on her project and
attempted to prevent it. Bitterly disappointed at being thus defeated
just when the chance of success seemed rosiest, the countess was
brought back as a prisoner to Damascus. There she had the narrowest
escape of being shot for supposed espionage, and it was only after
months of surveillance and affronts that she finally was permitted to
return to Europe.
II--GUEST OF A BEDOUIN SULTAN
Though she failed to get across the Arabian Desert, the countess,
previous to her arrest, had some of the strangest and most picturesque
experiences that ever have befallen a white woman. Probably no other
European woman has traveled, as she did, for weeks on end as the
honored guest of a Bedouin Sultan (who insisted on believing her to
be a sister of the Czar of Russia), living the nomadic life of the
tribe and riding on camel-back, nor lived, as did the countess, all by
herself, in the heart of old-world Damascus, an experiment that does
not commend itself even to the foreign consuls. What she saw of the
brutalities of the Turkish mobilization alone makes as thrilling a tale
as any that has been told since the war began.
Meanwhile the countess has been the victim of an astonishing accident,
as a result of which she is still chary about using her right arm.
"One day here at Cartagena," she writes, "while swimming some distance
out at sea, I was followed and attacked by a big dolphin. Luckily an
officer at the fortress had seen it, and he fired on the dolphin. But
before killing him, one bullet went through my right arm! I must say in
fairness to the dolphin that it really was not he who first attacked
me. I saw him following me, and I thought I could have a little ride
on his back, knowing that dolphins are good-natured, as a rule. But he
misunderstood my attentions and turned on me, and, had not the second
shot been fired an instant later, I should have been lost."
The countess made the journey to Beyrout via Port Said.
From Beyrout she went by train to Damascus (a day's journey), where she
had planned to live for a time and improve her knowledge of Arabic,
which is one of the six languages which she speaks, before setting out
for the desert. To begin with, she put up at the only European hotel in
this famous city of the East, and found its proprietor to be a strange
character, indeed. Untidy of person and appallingly rude in manner, "he
reigned there," writes the countess, "with absolute despotism. This
his monopoly of the European hotel business in Damascus enabled him to
do, as the Arab hostelries are impossible for foreigners.
"Here is a little example of his delightful ways. One day an English
visitor asked for a bath and, as answer, was told to get his luggage
ready and leave the hotel in two hours' time, as his hotel had no
room for people who were dirty enough to need a bath! It seemed to be
a special passion and sport of his to turn people out of his hotel,
and any one to whom he took the smallest dislike was ejected without
the slightest consideration. Those who won his favor, however, he
entertained with jokes and stories worthy of an old pirate!"
She met both the English and Russian consuls, who placed themselves at
her service and introduced her to other Europeans likely to advise her
wisely in the matter of engaging her caravan and getting acquainted
with friendly Arab chiefs, who would be able to give her a certain
amount of protection at the outset of her journey, and eventually she
found an old Syrian woman willing to let her house and act as cook and
general factotum.
III--UNDER ESPIONAGE IN DAMASCUS
And so she settled down, and from this time, the early days of May,
until when in June she began her journey the countess, with no other
protector than old Sitt Trusim, as her bent and shriveled landlady, who
proved to be the most capable of spies, was called, lived the life of
a Syrian woman of the upper class, wearing the native dress, smoking
the nargileh, studying Arabic diligently and always dreaming of what
would happen when she was alone with her camels and the Arabs under the
desert stars.
The pages of the journal she kept during those months are reminiscent
of "Kismet" and the "Thousand and One Nights," for where the countess
willed to go she went, regardless of whether it was precisely safe
to do so or not. And adventures she had in plenty. For while keeping
nominally in touch with her European acquaintances on the hill of
Sahiye, outside Damascus, she found her chief delight in wandering
through the bazaars and the quaint streets of this enchanted city of
minarets and in riding on horseback through the surrounding country in
the cool of the evening. Once while thus doing she was attacked, as she
had been warned she would be, by a couple of robbers, who possessed
themselves of all the money she had, but missed her small Browning
pistol, which, Bedouin fashion, she carried in her riding boot, and
with this she eventually cowed them and made her escape.
It was soon made plain to the countess that all her movements were
painstakingly reported to the Turkish authorities, though the Vali,
or Governor, consistently posed as her friend. She had by no means
agreeable experiences, too, owing to the jealousy of certain Syrian
families, whose pressing invitations to various ceremonials she had
been obliged to decline, while accepting those of others and immensely
enjoying the impressive and occasionally screamingly funny rites which
she witnessed as their guest. One of these hosts of hers, by the
way, was the proud possessor of the only bath in Damascus. More than
one attempt was made to lure Countess Molitor to places where it was
undoubtedly intended to ill-treat if not actually to make away with
her. I will let her tell of one of these plots.
"To-day Sitt Trusim brought me a letter addressed in unknown
handwriting. Before opening it I asked her who brought it. She tells
me that a man delivered it, whom, after questioning him, she found out
to be deaf and dumb. I read the letter, which was an invitation from
a lady asking me to visit her and her daughters this afternoon. She
complained that I had given preference to her friends by visiting them,
and said that she would send her man-servant to bring me at 5 o'clock.
I don't know why this letter aroused my suspicions. Perhaps on account
of the mysterious deaf and dumb messenger.
"I sent for Vadra Meshaak (a friend's dragoman) to come to me,
and showed him the letter quite carelessly, without mentioning my
suspicions. He at once declared that it was written by a man and not
by a woman and became very serious and angry, feeling sure that there
was some treason behind it. At 5 o'clock the man was to come and fetch
me. Well, he (Vadra) would dress up in my Arab costume, which in its
largeness covers the whole figure, and go with the man and find out who
the writer of the letter was. If it really was a woman he could explain
his disguise as a joke. But he absolutely feared foul play! So in the
afternoon we sent Sitt Trusim on an errand to the farthest end of the
town, and I arranged Vadra Meshaak to look like a Syrian lady.
"Punctually at 5 o'clock the mysterious deaf-and-dumb man knocked at
the door, and Vadra Meshaak opened it and went away with him. I had not
been alone a quarter of an hour till he was back again, all fury and
excitement. After he had calmed down a little I heard his story! He
had followed the man to a house in the inner court where three Turks,
very well known to Vadra Meshaak, were getting up to pounce upon him.
He did not leave them any time to talk, but gave each of them a heavy
blow in the face, and before they could realize what had happened he
had disappeared again.
"They must have thought me a very fine pugilist! What their intrigue
against me had been we shall never know. Vadra thinks that they
probably meant to keep me in their house by force over night and then
afterward report that I was a woman of no character and thus get me
expelled."
At the outset of the arrangements for the journey she was fortunate
in getting acquainted with an old Arab Sheik, Mahmoud Bassaam, who
had previously traveled with the Arabian lady explorer, Miss Bell,
and was known to be entirely trustworthy. He had spent virtually all
his life with the Bedouin and, as a camel dealer, had accumulated
what was regarded in the East as a large fortune; yet he consented to
accompany the countess (whose personal charm generally prevails, not
only with men, but with her own sex, too), and took charge of all the
arrangements for her journey, including the buying of camels and outfit.
"My idea," the countess writes in her diary, "is to join the Roalla
tribe at Palmyra and make friends with their Sultan, as they are one of
the greatest and richest tribes in all Arabia. Once friends with the
Roalla I intend to travel with them, move with them through the inner
deserts southward and, arrived south, I hope to be able to interest the
Sultan and induce him to cross the Ruba-el-Khali with me. Because I
think this is only possible for a great tribe, with all their herds of
camels and sheep. On my journey with him I shall try my utmost to fire
his imagination and to rouse his enthusiasm for the exploration of the
great desert."
As her dragoman, the countess had an American university graduate,
one Doctor Kahl, a Syrian, "well educated, serious and clever," who
also had spent many years with the tribes of Arabia, but who, when
introduced to the countess by Sheik Mahmoud Bassaam, had a lucrative
practice as a dentist in Damascus.
IV--ACROSS DESERT ON CAMEL CARAVAN
It was on the fifth of June that she set out, secretly, for fear that
the Turkish authorities at Damascus would oppose her if they knew of
her intentions. Allowing it to be supposed that she was merely going
for a ride on horseback, she met her American-taught dragoman on the
outskirts of Damascus, and rode with him to Adra, on the fringe of the
desert, where Mahmoud Bassaam and her caravan (eight camels and camel
men, an Arabian cook and a guide) were awaiting her.
It was in September, after they had traveled for more than 900 miles
through the desert in company with the Sultan Al Tayar and his
followers that the first echoes of the European war reached these
travelers.
In the meanwhile the Countess who, from first to last, was treated
as a guest of the highest distinction by the Sultan (to whom she had
been presented by Mahmoud Bassaam) had been able to revel to the full
in the dreamy "_dolce far niente_" existence which she had so often
pictured to herself. She had become familiar with all the customs and
observances of the Bedouins--she had even witnessed a pitched battle
between her hosts and an enemy tribe--and had learned to eat with her
fingers as they did without discomfort. By some means the impression
that she was a sister of the Czar of Russia had become fixed in the
minds of these tribesmen, and when the Countess wished to disabuse them
of it, the Sultan dissuaded her, hinting that it was all to the good.
It was while crossing the Dahma Desert and heading for the wells of
Wadi-al-Mustarri that a small Arab tribe brought them the tidings that
Turkish soldiers were scouting the country, and that at Hail great
demonstrations and assemblies of Turks and Arabs had taken place. And,
on arriving at Jilfi, a small trading town, a few days later they
learned that a European war had broken out, though between whom nobody
knew.
At Jilfi the countess was arrested, a paralyzing blow for her,
considering that she had covered more than half the distance to the
Ruba-el-Khali, and that another two months would have found her on
its borders, and that she had succeeded in winning the Sultan to the
venture of attempting to cross it. He and his chiefs, who first wished
to resist, parted from their guest with keen sorrow, and the Sultan
presented her, as his parting gift, with a magnificent emerald, of
which, however, she was robbed while being brought back as a prisoner
and ill with fever to Damascus. There the Turkish authorities greeted
her with soft words, declaring that they had acted only for her safety,
but, though she was allowed to go free and to live in her own house,
she was aware all the time that she was carefully watched.
V--HELD PRISONER--ESCAPE TO EGYPT
The account which she gives of the Turkish mobilization in the days
that immediately followed is graphic enough: "Soldiers armed to the
teeth pass," she writes, "driving before them villagers to be enlisted.
The boys all look terrified. Patriotism means nothing to them; they
loathe their Government and are frightened to death at the thought of
becoming Turkish soldiers, who are treated like dogs. Those who can,
fly and hide themselves in the mountains. At present the Lebanon is
full of such fugitives, and, being very desperate and nearly mad with
fright and hunger, they are quite dangerous to meet. I am told they
hide like animals in the grass and bushes and live on wild cucumbers.
Poor things."
Then German officers arrived on the scene and things grew rapidly
worse. "The commandeering in town," writes the countess, "is rapidly
bringing about the utter financial ruin of many families. To-day
every house was ordered to provide a hundred blankets or to pay a sum
equivalent to their value. Those who cannot comply are thrown into
prison. From the store at which I buy my provisions they have taken
$2,500 worth of rice, sugar and coffee, the poor man's entire stock,
without paying him a penny or even giving him a receipt. He is ruined.
From another store they have taken carpets and rugs valued at $1,000
which are, I am told, destined for the private households of the
officers! The same is, no doubt, the destination of $1,500 worth of
ladies' silk stockings, linen and dresses, which were also commandeered!
"A commission visited the manager of a firm of automatic pistols and
took away 800 without paying for them, leaving the rest. Two days later
the manager was arrested, under the pretext that he had purposely
hidden the arms which the commission had not taken. They put him into
prison, and only after a week's incarceration, his family having paid
£50 to the Government, was released. Meanwhile he has not had a receipt
for his guns."
Eventually the countess managed to escape from Damascus to Bayreuth,
where she had hoped to find a friend in the Vali, or Governor, there,
who had treated her with great consideration at the time of her arrival
in Syria. Upon instructions from Damascus, however, he kept her a
virtual prisoner, and when later her trunks were examined and the
photographs and notes she had made while on her expedition discovered
she was in imminent danger of being shot as a Russian secret agent. The
Russian consul, who was himself in danger and had made one fruitless
effort to escape, was unable to assist her.
She found her best friends, then, in the officers of the American
men-of-war _North Carolina_ and _Tennessee_, which were lying off the
town. They gave her good counsel and helped to keep her spirits up.
After some weeks of agonizing uncertainty it was decided that the
countess should merely be expelled from the country, and she was given
an hour to get aboard of a vessel which was sailing for Egypt.
GERMAN STUDENTS TELL WHAT SHERMAN MEANT
_Three Confessions from German Soldiers_
_Told by Walther Harich, Wilhelm Spengler and Willie Treller_
What the educated German soldier thinks about the war, how he is
affected by the strain and the brutalities and the heroisms of life
consequent of it, is described with a fresh, powerful vividness
in a book of war letters from German students issued under the
editorship of Professor Philipp Witkop, of Freiburg ("Kriegsbriefe
Deutscher Studenten"). Translations of some of the impressions on
the German youth are here presented.
I--"DRIVEN TO DEATH BY ME"
Of the worst of all I have not written.... It is not the slaying, not
the mounds of dead, which we are always passing, and not the wounded
(they have the morphine needle and they lie quiet and peaceful in the
straw of the requisitioned peasant carts). To me the worst is the
distress and suffering to which man and beast are constantly subjected
by the terrible strain. We have just buried my first mount, a glorious
animal, virtually driven to his death. Driven to death by me! Can you
imagine that a person as peaceable as I could find it possible to drive
a horse to death with whip and spurs?
There is no help for it. The word is forward--always forward!
Oh, this everlasting driving on!
One stands beside a team that can go no further and compels the
drivers, with kindness or threats, to force the impossible out of the
horses. The poor animals are all in, but one grabs the whip himself and
mercilessly beats away at the miserable beasts till they move again.
That is the shocking thing--that one is constantly compelled to make
demands upon the poor animals to which they are not equal. Everything
here is beyond one's strength. The impossible is made possible. It must
go--till something or other breaks.
Or picture this to yourself: Shaken with fever and with burning eyes, a
boy comes to me, whimpering--he can endure no more--and I ride into him
and drive him back to the front. Can you picture that? But it must be!
Everything here is beyond one's strength. My God! We ourselves must
do impossible things. But can one demand that of the others? We know
that the struggle is for the German idea in the world--that it is to
defend German understanding, German perception against the onslaught
of Asiatic barbarism and Romanic indifference. We know what is on the
cards if we do not do our utmost.
But the men? How often since we came to this God-forsaken region did
we tell ourselves that it was impossible to go forward at night. It is
really impossible. And then came an order--an order which could not be
carried out during the day, so it went at night. It went because it
must. Because "the order" is the great unavoidable--something that must
be carried out--Fate, the all-determining. We know what "the order"
means now! It is that which gives our people the ascendancy over the
whole world.
WALTHER HARICH.
II--HORRORS OF "NO MAN'S LAND"
Near Maricourt, December 17, 1914.
Soon after 11 we were awakened by the retiring sentries. As tired as
dogs though we were, we crawled out into the open. It was still raining
wet strings--a cold, ugly December night; not a star to be seen. Every
once in a while the sound of a shot came to us from the other side of
the stream.
"You," remarked Hias suddenly, "listen! Hear anything?"
"What do you mean?"
"Now."
It was a long, wailing cry for help. I could hear it distinctly.
"There is a poor devil out there, wounded," said Hias.
Great heavens--in this weather! And he must have been lying there
without help since early yesterday.
He couldn't be in the wood anywhere, for we had gone through that
thoroughly. Perhaps he had been caught by a shrapnel splinter during
the retreat across the field. Well, what was it to us? Let his comrades
get him. He must be just a few meters from the French trenches, anyhow.
Released at 1, we went back to our tents to get some sleep, cursing the
French who left their comrade to perish so miserably.
At 3 the next afternoon, when I went on duty again, the poor devil
was still calling for help, keeping it up all day. We could not help;
we did not see him. And to expose ourselves to the French was a
proceeding not to be lightly recommended. It was a horrible feeling to
be condemned thus to inaction while a wounded soldier called for help.
When the wind changed one could hear the poor devil whimper and weep
and then suddenly rouse himself and send out a call for help, "Oh, la,
la!"
Why didn't the French take him away? There was no danger. We could not
shoot, for we saw nothing. And we had no intention of doing that. I was
glad when my hour was up.
At 8 o'clock I was at my place again with Hias. The poor Frenchman was
whining more pitiably than ever. For half an hour we listened; then
Hias lost his patience.
"What a tribe of pigs," he broke out, "to leave a comrade to die like
a dog! He can't last much longer."
"Well, Hias," I said, "what can we do? I am sorry for him myself, but
there is no help. He must die."
After a few minutes a terrible scream: "Oh, la, la, la, la!" pierced
the night. Then there was quiet. God be praised! Now he is dead and at
peace, I thought. And quietly I repeated a few prayers for his soul.
But after a while we heard his cry again.
"Well, it's enough now," exclaimed Hias. "I can't stand this any
longer. I'm going to get him, with or without permission." He spoke and
disappeared.
In a minute his brother took his place at my side, while he himself
ran up to the trenches. He was back in about ten minutes. He had the
permission. The lieutenant also was going and asked if I would come
along, as I knew something of first aid and could speak a little French.
When we got to the lieutenant three more men, splendid fellows, on whom
one could rely, had volunteered. In a twinkling we had gathered tent
cloth, side arms and saws and were running singly across the meadow. Of
course, the sentries were notified that we were out in front.
We entered the wood. While two men worked with knives and saws to cut a
way through, the others held themselves ready for anything that might
develop. We stumbled over bodies, weapons and knapsacks. At last I
found a little path which the French had made a few days previously.
I rested a while and was just about to return to my comrades when a
hand gripped my foot. Great God, I was frightened! For a second I was
paralyzed; then, tearing out my sword--
"Pitie! pitie!"
Some one under my feet was whining for mercy. My teeth chattered. I
could hardly move or answer.
"Oh, m'sieur camarade; pitie! pitie!"
Suddenly the lieutenant appeared and I found my control again. Getting
down on my knees, I carefully groped for the body.
"Look out now," whispered the lieutenant. "It may be a trap."
"Give me your hand," I ordered the Frenchman. A cold, moist, trembling
hand was put into mine.
"Where is your weapon?" I asked. He had lost it as he pulled himself
along till he was exhausted.
Suddenly from somewhere near we heard the horribly familiar call, "Oh,
la! la!"
"Well, now," said the lieutenant, "we have one man, but not the right
one."
I asked the wounded one whether we would be seen if we tried to get the
other man.
"_Oui, mon brave camarade, Allemand._" The lieutenant hesitated, but
resolved nevertheless to go on.
One man remained behind with the Frenchman--a corporal, he said he
was--with orders to stab him instantly if he called for help while we
were working our way through the brush. We came to the edge of the wood
at last and peered out.
We could make out the forms of many black objects--dead men, killed so
near their own trenches, too! Hias was beside me, and with his sharp
peasant eyes soon espied the body of the poor fellow we were after.
The lieutenant crawled out, and we followed. Coming up to him, I called
softly, "_Camarade!_" I did not want to frighten him; besides, he might
scream for help, then we would be in a nice fix.
"Oh, oh, _Dieu! Dieu!_" he breathed and emitted sounds like the joyful
whining of a puppy when he saw me.
He grasped my hand and pressed it to his breast and cheek.
I felt him over carefully. As I fumbled along his left leg I received
a sudden shock. Just below the calf it ended. The foot was torn off
above the angle and hung loosely on the leg. As his whole body was
wet I could not tell whether he was still bleeding. I could only make
out that a rag was tied about the wound. He had bandaged it with his
handkerchief, as I learned later.
We soon had him beside his comrade.
The lieutenant went back to his command, leaving the rest to me. The
others carried the corporal away to the nearest aid station, while I
remained with his comrade, who, as he lay there, softly spoke to me
about himself--his wife and his child--of the mobilization. This was
his first day at the front. Fate had overtaken him swiftly. He was a
handsome man, with big, black eyes, dark hair and mustache. His pale,
bloodless face made him doubly interesting. His voice was so tender and
soft that I was touched; I could not help it. I gently stroked him:
"_Pauvre, pauvre camarade Français!_"
"Oh, monsieur, _c'est tout pour la patrie_."
I lay down and nestled up close to him and threw my coat over him, for
he was beginning to shiver with fever and frost. Then it began to rain
very softly. So we lay one-half, three-quarters, a whole hour. At last,
after one and a half hours, the comrades returned.
My poor wounded one was crying softly to himself.
He was soon in the hands of a physician and an attendant. His wounds
were looked after and he was given some cold coffee.
I had to go.
A look of unutterable gratefulness, which I shall never forget, a nod:
"_Bonne nuit, monsieur_," and I was outside in the cold, damp December
night.
WILHELM SPENGLER.
III--A BELGIAN MOTHER AND HER BABE
Ingelmünster, November, 1914.
In Fosses, near Namur, I happened to be the only physician in the
place, as all the doctors had fled. So it came about that the first
prescriptions that I have ever written were in the French language. It
was rather odd, but it went. The sixty-five-year-old apothecary and I
have opened many good bottles of Burgundy in his bachelor apartment
while he told of his student days in Geneva and Brussels; I of Germany
and its glories.
One time I was called to a village an hour distant to the help of a
young mother. And it may have presented a curious and unforgettable
spectacle to the Belgian peasants when after two hours' hard work the
"_jeune docteur Allemand_," shirt-sleeved, armed and girt with a woman's
apron, presented the young mother with a tiny, howling Belgian, while
outside the guns thundered in the distance, killing perhaps hundreds
and hundreds of other Belgians.
WILLY TRELLER.
(Translations by Julian Bindley Freedman for the _New York Tribune_.)
BAITING THE BOCHE--THE WIT OF THE BELGIANS
_Told by W. F. Martindale_
The people of Brussels have always been noted for a very pretty
turn of wit. On the other hand, not even his best friends have
ever accused the German of possessing a sense of humor. With the
"Boches" in possession of Brussels, it is easy to forecast that the
Bruxellois would find them fair game. This amusing story shows how
the citizens have "got their own back" on the invaders, as related
in the _Wide World_.
I--STORY OF M. MAX--BURGOMASTER
No one ever suspected the German mind of possessing a sense of humour.
But that it should prove such easy--and fair--game as Teutonic
behaviour in the course of the war has shown it to be is more than
the most maliciously satirical could ever have hoped. In turn, and
according to their several temperaments, the Allied nations have
indulged their wit at the expense of the Boche. The British have guyed
him with an almost affectionate contempt; the French have sacrificed
him with a wholly contemptuous hatred, and the rest have all scored off
him in turn.
But it has been left to the Belgians, and more particularly the
citizens of Brussels, to elevate the pleasing pastime of Boche-baiting
into a fine art. The heaviest harness has its weak joints, and the
comedies enacted during the German occupation of the Belgian capital
have shown that even the mailed fist is not proof against the
penetrating shafts of ridicule and wit.
For a contest of wit _versus_ mere force the Bruxellois were well
equipped. They have long enjoyed a reputation for a wit peculiarly
their own, a blend of English levity and French irony, and they have
had the advantage of a victim who positively, as the phrase goes, "asks
for it." Moreover, a brilliant lead was set them. The exploits of M.
Max, the dauntless Burgomaster of Brussels, will live long in the
annals of war, for his courageous wit well matched the spirit of the
troops which at Liège dared to confront and dispute the passage of the
German legions.
When the Germans marched into the undefended city, doing their utmost
to make their entry as humiliating as possible to the inhabitants, M.
Max went to meet their commander as calmly as though he were paying an
ordinary official call. The Prussian general informed him that he would
be held responsible for the good behaviour of the citizens and their
instant obedience to every order of the conquerers. The Burgomaster
knew very well what that meant--that he would be shot out of hand, as
other mayors had been, if anyone dared to lift a finger against the
Germans. But he received the news with a smiling face, and assured the
commandant that all necessary steps had already been taken for the
maintenance of public order. Then he went back to his office, showing
a courage and calmness in a most difficult situation that delighted
his fellow-countrymen, and even invoked the grudging admiration of the
enemy.
II--HOW HE OUTWITTED THE PRUSSIANS
Some of the stories told concerning the worthy magistrate's prowess
are probably fiction, but others rest upon good foundation. For
instance, when M. Max was summoned to confer with the German commander,
the latter ostentatiously laid his revolver on the table--just one
of those characteristic little actions that have made the invaders
so cordially hated everywhere. It said, as plainly as spoken words,
"Remember that the powers of life and death are in my hands, and that
I have got force at my back." Some men would have lost their nerve in
such circumstances, but the Burgomaster was made of different stuff.
Without a moment's hesitation, M. Max took his fountain pen from his
pocket and, with a humorously emphatic gesture, banged it down upon the
table opposite the revolver. Was it a sort of hint, one wonders, that
"the pen is mightier than the sword"--that the soldier's reign would
be a brief one? Anyway, it evidently impressed the Prussian, as did
the Burgomaster's conduct throughout the conference, for at the close
of the meeting the general patronizingly congratulated M. Max on his
conduct at the discussion and graciously offered to shake hands with
him. But the Burgomaster was no more susceptible to soft words than
to threats. He remembered how German officers had deliberately ridden
their horses through the city's flower-beds and roughly jostled women
and children off the sidewalks. "Excuse me," he said, firmly, "but we
are enemies."
A little later there came another sharp passage of arms. The new
governor of the city sent for M. Max and informed him curtly that, on
account of the stubborn resistance Belgium had offered, the capital
would have to pay the staggering fine of eight million pounds! How long
would it take the Burgomaster to produce the money?
M. Max looked at him with a smile.
"You are a little too late, general," he said. "All the funds of the
city were sent to Antwerp some time ago, and we have not a penny in our
coffers."
That was check number one to the governor, but another was to follow.
The good folk of Brussels, the Germans noted, were showing altogether
too much spirit. They were saying among themselves that the French
would soon put the Germans in their places. So the governor placarded
the town with a notice informing the inhabitants that France had left
the Belgians to their fate; she had all she could do to look after
herself, and would trouble no further about her little ally. This
specious story might have had the designed effect but for M. Max.
Paying no heed to the possible consequences to himself, he immediately
had another notice, bearing his own signature, pasted underneath the
governor's poster. It was short and very much to the point. It stated
that the German statement was an out-and-out lie to which no attention
should be paid. What the governor said when he heard of this swift
counter-stroke may be left to the imagination. What he did was weak
enough. He simply issued another notice saying that in future no
proclamations were to be posted up without his sanction.
For a few days M. Max was left in peace; then he had another little
tussle with the enemy. Because a clerk at the town hall refused
to accept a requisition order which was not properly filled up, a
blustering German officer forced his way into the Burgomaster's room
with a cigar in his mouth.
M. Max looked at him coldly.
"Sir," he said, "you are the first person to walk into my rooms without
being properly announced."
The Prussian began to bully and threaten, but without heeding him M.
Max sent one of his staff to fetch the intruder's superior officer,
General von Arnim. The general came, heard of his subordinate's
rudeness, and sentenced him on the spot to eleven days' arrest. Then he
turned to M. Max.
"Now, sir," he said, "the conversation can continue."
"Pardon, general," replied the Burgomaster, "it can now commence."
III--HUMOR OF THE WITTY BRUXELLOIS
Throughout their dealings with the people of Brussels the Germans
have found themselves time and again outwitted. Scarce a prohibition
has been framed which has not been countered on the instant by some
brilliant evasion that has rendered it not merely null and void, but
ridiculous as well. "_Verboten_," that fetish of the docile German
mind, succeeds only in stimulating the inventiveness of the witty
Bruxellois.
Exception was taken, for example, to the wording of certain
proclamations by the Burgomaster which had been put up on the walls
in various parts of the city, and the German authorities ordered that
sheets of white paper be pasted over them. The order was duly carried
out. Ere nightfall blameless blank sheets marked the spots where the
suppressed placards had previously figured. Next morning the sheets
were still there, blank as before, but hardly blameless. An oily sponge
had rendered them transparent during the night, and the censored
proclamations underneath were plainly visible for all who chose--and
there were many--to pause and ostentatiously read.
Again, the wearing of the Belgian national colours is forbidden. So
be it. Rosettes of red, black, and yellow ribbon are discarded; not a
favour adorns the decorous civilian buttonhole. But soon a new fashion
in attire appears upon the boulevards. A dandy is observed handsomely,
indeed strikingly, apparelled in yellow trousers, red vest, and black
coat. The mode quickly becomes popular, and soon it might almost be
said that for the patriotic Bruxellois "motley's the only wear." That
the motley in this case should comprise the Belgian national colours
is a coincidence which any wearer of it, one may be sure, would be
astonished to discover.
When last year the anniversary of that fateful fourth of August came
round, the Germans in Brussels, guilty of conscience, sought to
anticipate by prohibition all public reminiscence of the date. Their
feelings may be imagined when, on the morning of that significant
anniversary, they were greeted by the sight of a careless torn
"scrap of paper" thrust negligently through the buttonhole of every
Bruxellois. To frame an edict that would render _verboten_ such subtle
demonstrations as this would tax even the Teuton's encyclopædic
diligence.
A scrap of paper is not the only strange but meaning device which has
adorned the citizen's buttonhole in Brussels. On the day when Italy
joined the Allies, the Germans, in anticipation of that long-expected
event, had of their wisdom forbidden any display of the Italian colours
or flag. None appeared, but from out of those resourceful buttonholes
peeped neat rosettes and sprigs of macaroni.
If presently we learn that by order of the All-Highest every buttonhole
in Brussels is sewn up, it will hardly be matter for surprise. It would
be a charactertistic step.
Those ribbon favours have proved prickly thorns to the Germans. They
seem to act upon the Prussian mind as a red rag upon the bull, and
like the rag, when in the deft hands of a skilled _toriro_, they
frequently lure the victim to his own undoing. It happened once, soon
after the display of national colours had been prohibited, that a
Prussian officer, entering a Brussels tramcar, found himself seated
opposite a Belgian lady upon whose coat the forbidden red, black, and
yellow ribbons were flauntingly displayed. It is the custom of many
Belgian ladies, on finding themselves in a public vehicle with a German
officer, to quit their seats and stand on the conductor's platform
outside. Ruffled, perhaps, by the omission of this somewhat pointed
tribute to his presence, the intruder leaned forward and requested the
removal of the offending colours. The suggestion was greeted by a stony
stare, the demand which followed it by an expressive and provocative
shrug of the shoulders.
"If you will not take off those colours, madam, I shall remove them
myself."
This menace eliciting no response, the Prussian officer stretched forth
a Prussian fist and made a Prussian grab. The favour came away in his
clutch, but that was not the end of it. Within his fair antagonist's
dress ample lengths of ribbon were concealed, and the more the
discomfited officer pulled the more streamers of red, black, and yellow
reeled forth. It was a case literally of getting more than he bargained
for, and the charming murmur of thanks which he received when, in sheer
desperation, he dropped the tangle of ribbon on the floor and made
hastily for the door must have gratified that Prussian exceedingly.
IV--THE JOKERS OF BRUSSELS
Practical joking has become popular in Brussels since the German
occupation. "Everybody's doing it"--amongst the Bruxellois, that
is. A prohibition was lately placed upon the use of motor-cars by
the civil population, and orders were issued for the enforcement of
dire penalties in cases of disobedience. One afternoon a couple of
German officers were seated in a _café_ discussing mugs of beer with
that portentous solemnity which the Teutonic mind finds proper to
such an occasion, when a loud "Honk, honk!" the unmistakable blast
of a motor-horn, was heard in the street outside. Forth dashed the
officers, indignant at this flagrant transgression of orders, but when
they reached the pavement no car was there. None was even in sight
upon the whole length of the boulevard, though the sound of the horn
had been close at hand. Crestfallen, the representatives of law and
order--Prussian style--returned to their beer-mugs, but were hardly
seated when again the loud "Honk, honk!" fell upon their ears, and
again they dashed into the street, with the same result. Convinced that
some impudent guttersnipe must be playing a trick, they questioned the
nearest sentry. But the latter had seen neither car nor urchin; he
had not even heard the mysterious sound, he averred, and the baffled
officers began almost to doubt their ears. But the smile on the face of
the Belgian proprietor of the _café_ was suspicious.
Fresh mugs of beer were requisitioned, but the very first "Prosit" was
interrupted by the malevolent "Honk, honk!" With froth-flecked lips
that gave them an aspect admirably suited to their mood, the enraged
officers set down the mugs with a bang and once more strode forth in
quest of the miscreant. Once more a perfectly empty street met their
gaze. But even as they scowled abroad, a mocking "Honk, honk!" sounded,
this time just above their heads. The listeners started and looked up,
to see a green parrot in a cage upon the window-sill above regarding
them imperturably with a beady inscrutable eye. So flagrant a case
of _lèse majesté_ could not be overlooked, and the green parrot was
executed.
But even in his murders the Boche lacks a sense of proportion, which
is, of course, merely another way of saying that he has no sense
of humor. To the martyrdom of the parrot must be added that of two
luckless pigeons whose sole crime against the Deutches Reich was that
of being born after a certain date. It was decreed soon after the
occupation of Brussels that all owners of pigeons must notify the
authorities the number of birds which they possessed. Amongst those
complying with the order was a certain shopkeeper who kept a pair
of pigeons as pets. They were not of the carrier variety, and he was
allowed to retain them. But pigeons are notoriously domesticated
creatures, and presently an interesting event occurred in the
establishment of this happy couple. A couple of squabs were hatched
out. These duly assumed down, which in turn became feathers, and
presently there were four pigeons where formerly had been but two. At
this stage a German official, armed with a registration list, paid a
visit of inspection. He noted the well-preened quartette, and referred
to his papers. Then he frowned ominously.
"On such and such a date you registered two pigeons."
"That is so," was the answer. "Since then----"
"But you have four there."
"Quite true. You are----"
"But you are only entitled to have two."
"A thousand pardons, mein Herr. But one cannot interfere with Nature.
My two pigeons, you see----"
"If you registered two only, you cannot be allowed to have four. It is
self-evident."
It is needless to repeat the colloquy at length. Though that
explanations were cut short, refused a hearing. No German official
was ever known to "use his discretion"; that is a prerogative of the
muddle-headed British. The list had _two_ pigeons; here were _four_.
Obviously there was only one course to be taken. The abundant pigeons
shared the fate of the indiscreet parrot.
Next day there appeared suspended in the mourning owner's shop-window
two feathered corpses adorned with this pathetic placard:--
MORTS
POUR LA PATRIE!
V--THE SECRET NEWSPAPER--_LIBRE BELGIQUE_
But the most brilliant and daring feat achieved in Brussels is
unquestionably the publication of _Libre Belgique_, a mysterious weekly
journal which makes its appearance with unfailing regularity, though
how, where, and by whom produced the Germans have never been able to
discover. This is the very apotheosis of Boche-baiting, for _Libre
Belgique_ is a fiery sheet. It does not mince words, but flagellates
the Germans with the most scornful virulence, holding them up to
ridicule and contempt. Every week it pours the vials of bitter wrath
and hatred upon the Boche's devoted head, and the Boche can do nothing
but sit meekly under this scorching cataract. For though a reward,
which has already risen from a thousand pounds to three times that
figure, is offered for a denunciation of those responsible for this
"scurrilous rag," the secret of _Libre Belgique_ remains inviolate.
Exhaustive searches have been conducted, many arrests have been made
upon suspicion, but except for two minor actors in the great comedy,
whose function was merely the distribution of copies, no one has been
caught. Yet _Libre Belgique_ has already celebrated one anniversary
of its birth, and is well into its second year of existence. And
every week, without fail, General von Bissing, the German governor of
Brussels, receives a "complimentary" copy, which he doubtless peruses
with absorbed interest.
It is characteristic of Brussels wit that in conformity with law the
paper announces in each issue the address of its office and printing
works. These, it appears, are in "a cellar on wheels," and in view
of the peripatetic habits thus suggested, correspondents are desired
to address their communications to the _Kommandatur_, _i.e._, the
headquarters of the German authorities!
But _Libre Belgique_ has another function to discharge beyond that
of a courageous jest, well calculated to keep the Bruxellois in good
heart. Drastic in its satire upon the enemy, it is equally unsparing in
its record of German crimes and its dissection of the often grotesque
claims made by the German official communiqués. Von Bissing and his
staff may affect to make light of this gadfly among journals, but the
rewards offered for its betrayal and the energetic measures taken to
bring about its suppression tell another story. _Libre Belgique_,
indeed, aptly illustrates the parable at which Burgomaster Max so
subtly hinted when he laid his pen beside his interlocutor's pistol.
The pen is far mightier--in the long run--than the sword, and the
Germans, though they will not perhaps admit it even to themselves, have
an uncomfortable inkling of that fact.
That _Libre Belgique_, in spite of all proffered bribes, should never
yet have been betrayed is a wonderful testimony to the high patriotic
spirit of the Bruxellois. For though the operations of the paper's
staff are doubtless closely guarded, the number of persons who are in
the secret must inevitably be considerable, and leakage is difficult
to prevent. But the Belgian spirit is a thing with which we are
all familiar now, and when to that is added Brussels wit the whole
phenomenon is explained.
One fancies, indeed, that when the Belgian capital is at length
evacuated by the Germans the populace will be half sorry to see them
go. The Boche is not exactly a lovable fellow, but to people of a
satirical turn of mind, _naïveté_, which he possesses in unparalleled
degree, is always engaging. As a butt the Boche is unique, and in that
capacity, if in no other, he has positively endeared himself to the
witty citizens of Brussels.
HOW SERGEANT O'LEARY WON HIS VICTORIA CROSS
_Story of the First Battalion of the Irish Guards_
He shot eight Germans in eight seconds, captured a machine gun,
took two barricades single handed, and saved his whole company from
being exterminated. The story is told in the _New York American_ as
dispatched from London.
I--WHO IS THE BRAVEST MAN IN THE WAR?
Who is the bravest man that the war has produced?
It would probably be impossible to answer this question with any
approach to accuracy and impartiality. But it is interesting to compare
some of the incidents reported and see how modern courage compares with
that of past history.
It is generally admitted that all the nations engaged have fought with
remarkable bravery and steadiness, so that a man must have done some
extraordinarily daring action to make himself notable. Thousands and
thousands of acts of bravery have been performed by many among the
millions of soldiers engaged. Doubtless some of the most heroic have
died without having their acts mentioned.
Of the innumerable feats of bravery reported the one that has impressed
the British public most is that of Sergeant Michael O'Leary, of the
Irish Guards, who is a native of Ireland, as his name suggests.
He has received the coveted Victoria Cross, been promoted Sergeant and
a long description of his deeds has been given him on the official
records--a very great honor. He has also been offered a commission,
but will not take it at present because he does not want to leave the
Irish Guards, and there is no place for him there as an officer.
The cold official record says that O'Leary won his Victoria Cross "for
conspicuous bravery at Cuinchy. When forming one of the storming party
which advanced against the enemy's barricades he rushed to the front
and himself killed five Germans who were behind the first barricade,
after which he attacked a second barricade, about sixty yards further
on, which he captured, after killing three of the enemy and making
prisoners of two more. Lance Corporal O'Leary thus practically captured
the enemy's position by himself and prevented the rest of the attacking
party from being fired on."
Further details of O'Leary's wonderful exploit were given by Company
Quartermaster Sergeant J. G. Lowry, of the Irish Guards, who was
engaged in the fight.
"Our First Battalion," he said, "had been holding trenches near the La
Bassee brickfield, and our losses were heavy. The Germans had excellent
cover, both in trenches and behind stacks of bricks.
"We were all delighted when the order came that the brickfield had to
be taken by assault next day.
"Lance Corporal O'Leary never looked to see if his mates were coming,
and he must have done pretty near even time over that patch of ground.
When he got near the end of one of the German trenches he dropped, and
so did many others a long way behind him. The enemy had discovered what
was up.
"A machine-gun was O'Leary's mark. Before the Germans could manage to
slew it around and meet the charging men O'Leary picked off the whole
of the five of the machine crew, and leaving some of his mates to come
up and capture the gun, he dashed forward to the second barricade,
which the Germans were quitting in a hurry and shot three more.
"O'Leary came back from his killing as cool as if he had been for a
walk in the park and accompanied by two prisoners he had taken. He
probably saved the lives of a whole company.
"Had that machine gun got slewed round, No. 1 Company might have been
nearly wiped out."
II--STORY OF THE YOUNG IRISH GUARD
What impresses people in O'Leary's deed is not only his bravery but
the triumphant success with which he carried out the whole act. Other
soldiers may have displayed more self-sacrifice and endurance, but not
one of them appears to have done more for his side by one individual
act of bravery than O'Leary.
It is the dashing quality of his deed that wins admiration and this
quality, it is to be noted, is peculiarly Irish. He is credited by his
admirers with having shot eight men in eight seconds. His quickness
must have been phenomenal, and here again he showed a peculiarly Irish
trait.
How one man could have shot eight soldiers, when all eight of them
were armed and many of their comrades were only a few yards away, must
appear a mystery to many. The Germans were perhaps retiring hastily
from their positions, but they had magazine rifles in their hands and
fired many shots at the British.
Why did they not get O'Leary, who was running out alone ahead of his
companions? He must have been amazingly lucky, as well as amazingly
quick.
Then it is almost equally astonishing that he could have shot eight men
in a few moments while running. The best explanation of this is that
the British soldier has a rifle carrying more bullets than that of any
other army.
The Lee Enfield rifle now used in the British army carries ten bullets
in the magazine and one in the barrel. O'Leary, of course, fired all
his eleven bullets, and he is credited with making eight of them kill a
man apiece. That is an amazing shooting record, said to be unequalled
for a soldier.
Sergeant O'Leary is not a particularly fierce looking soldier, as might
be expected, but a tall, slender, fair-haired young fellow. He is only
twenty-five years old.
"A quiet, easy-going young fellow O'Leary is," said his friend,
Sergeant Daly, of the Second Battalion of the Irish Guards. "But he is
remarkably quick on his feet."
O'Leary was born in the little village of Inchigeelach, in the County
Cork. His father and mother still live there. He has an older brother
and four sisters, who are now in America.
He served for several years in the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police,
but went back and joined the British Army in order to be nearer home.
After the fight in which he won his decoration he wrote home:
"Dear Parents: I guess you will be glad to hear that I was promoted
full sergeant on the field on account of distinguished conduct on
February 1, when we charged the Huns and routed them in disorder.
"You bet the Irish Guards are getting back now."
Mrs. O'Leary, the old mother of the hero, has been interviewed at her
home in Ireland. As might be expected her words were very simple.
"It's proud I am of Mike," said Mrs. O'Leary, "but I wish he was home
instead of being in that cruel war.
"When that telegram came for me, I thought sure Mike was dead, but
when I opened it I found that he had been promoted. Sure I was better
pleased to know that he was alive than promoted.
"Mike is a good boy. He never gave me a moment's uneasiness since he
was in the cradle, except when he went away on his foreign adventures.
I suppose he had to leave me. There's little enough chance for a boy
here, with only the pigs to look after and his father and me."
We have been inclined to think that the days were over when a mighty
warrior could rush in among the foe and slay many with his own hands
but O'Leary and many others in this war have proved that that is not
the case.
III--TALE OF A GORDON HIGHLANDER
Many of the famous deeds of antiquity have been curiously paralleled in
the war. For instance, one of the ancient feats that everybody mentions
occasionally was how the brave Horatius held the bridge across the
Tiber with two companions against the whole Etruscan army.
Now we find again and again that a bridge has been the scene of deeds
of conspicuous heroism in this war. The British were defending a
river bank and bridge against a fierce German attack. The crew of a
British Maxim gun had all been killed. Then Angus MacLeod, of the
Gordon Highlanders, rose from cover, seized the Maxim gun and all alone
carried it, under fire, to the far side of the bridge, where he played
it on the advancing Germans.
He is credited with having killed sixty Germans. Finally he fell dead
and thirty bullets were counted in his body. The delay enabled the
British to rally and repel their opponents.
An extraordinary act of heroism was reported of an unnamed French
soldier during the disastrous retreat of the French from the Belgian
frontier and the Meuse River early in the war.
This man had been taken prisoner with some companions. The Germans,
according to the report, drove their prisoners before them when
attempting to cross a strongly defended bridge, to make the French
think it was a party of their own men returning. As the French
prisoners stepped on the bridge, one of them, a big and strong-voiced
man, yelled:
"Fire, nom de Dieu, or you will be wiped out."
His own act made his death certain. He fell riddled with bullets from
both sides.
Lieutenant Leach and Sergeant Hogan of the British Army each received
the Victoria Cross for an extraordinarily daring and ingenious action.
The two men killed two Germans, took sixteen unwounded prisoners and
twenty wounded men. Leach and Hogan with ten men crawled unobserved to
a section of trench that had been captured by the Germans earlier in
the day. Leach and Hogan dropped into the trench unnoticed and the ten
men lay in wait to shoot any Germans who showed themselves.
A trench is built in zigzags so that there is only a straight section
of about twenty yards along which an enemy could shoot. The Germans in
the first section were taken by surprise and all killed or wounded.
Then the two men hurried on to the next turning. As they walked Hogan
put his cap on his rifle and held it above the trench to show their men
outside where they were.
Lieutenant Leach poked his automatic revolver round the corner of
the trench and began shooting at the Germans from cover. The German
soldiers with their big clumsy rifles could not hit the deadly hand
that was the only object to aim at. While the Lieutenant was shooting,
Hogan watched over the top of the trench to shoot any German who tried
to get out or attack them in the rear. Thus all the men in each section
were killed, wounded or captured.
How do these and the many other brave men who have been reported in
the present war compare with the heroes of antiquity? Achilles is the
foremost of Greek warriors. He personified the Greek ideal of bravery,
manly beauty and fiery enthusiasm. The "Iliad" contains pages and pages
about his deeds, his speeches, how he sulked in his tent, and his
quarrel with Agamemnon, but it does not seem after all that he did a
vast amount of harm to the enemy. Of course, he killed Hector, but that
was not amazing, and he acted with considerable brutality about it.
Achilles was undoubtedly a fine orator, but in achievement he appeared
to compare badly with modest Sergeant O'Leary.
STORY OF A RUSSIAN IN AN AUSTRIAN PRISON
_An Officer's Remarkable Experience_
This very unusual narrative, with its light on Austrian prison
conditions, appeared in the Russkoe Slovo, Moscow, June 30, 1916.
It was written by a petty officer of the Russian Army at the
request of the paper's Paris correspondent. The correspondent tells
of a party of thirty Russians who had recently arrived in Paris
from Italy, all war prisoners from Austria, who had managed at
different times to slip through the lines on the Italian front. It
was translated for _Current History_.
I--"I WAS PRISONER OF THE MAGYARS"
I was taken prisoner by the Magyars in the Carpathians. We were driven
to the station of Kashitzi, where we found more Russians, I don't know
how many, and were placed in dirty cars, from which cattle had just
been removed. The stench was terrible, the crowd unthinkable. The doors
were locked all the time.... We travelled two days; on the third we
arrived in a camp called Lintz. What did I see in this camp? Filthy
barracks, naked bunks on which our soldiers were scattered, pale,
exhausted, hungry, nearly all barefoot or in wooden clogs. Many were
suffering from inflamed feet and exhaustion. I don't know how they call
it in medicine, but to my mind it was the fever of starvation. One gets
yellow, trembles incessantly, longs for food....
The prisoners were fed very poorly, mainly with turnips, beans, and
peas.
Once a soldier decided to complain to Francis Joseph or Wilhelm. He
went up to an electric pole, formed his fingers so that it looked as if
he were speaking into a telephone horn, and shouted, "Hello, Germans,
give us some more bread!" He called and knocked with his fists for some
time, but, of course, received no reply. Many soldiers made fun of
him at first, but others began to look for a way to complain against
such treatment of war prisoners. Meanwhile the bread became poorer and
poorer in quality and less in quantity. The meals consisted of beans,
and in addition there were bugs in the beans. We got meat three times
a week, the other days we got herring.
On the 24th of May, 1915, a company was recruited among us to be sent
away to do some "agricultural" work. The soldiers would not believe
it, claiming that peace was near. I was in the first contingent. Our
train was passing between mountains covered with evergreen. Every now
and then it would shoot through tunnels. This surprised me greatly. I
understood that we were not going in the direction of Russia. And so
it was. We finally arrived in a place, where the thousand of us were
quartered in one building. We at once began to be treated differently,
much more insolently and severely. On the 27th we were driven to the
fields to work. We wondered what the agricultural labour we were to do
could be. We were supplied with shovels and pick-axes, led to a wood on
a hill some 1,600 metres high, mustered into rows, and ordered to dig a
ditch--that is what the Germans called it--but we called it otherwise.
It became clear that we were to dig trenches.
The first day passed in idleness and grumbling. All unanimously refused
to work, even if we had to pay with our lives for it.
We waited for the following morning. The guards came to take us out to
work, but we said that we would not dig trenches. Then the Colonel
came and asked in Russian: "Why don't you want to work?" We all
answered: "This work is against the law. You are violating the European
laws and breaking all agreements by forcing us to construct defensive
lines for you." The Colonel said: "Look out, don't resist, or we will
shoot every one of you. We don't care now for the laws to which you
point us. All Europe is at war now--this is no time for laws. If you
don't go to work, I will have you shot."
We all exclaimed: "We won't. Shoot us, but we will not do the work."
II--STANDING BEFORE THE EXECUTIONER
All of the 28th we were in our yard. No food was given us. Thus we were
held for three days without food. On the fourth day a company of cadets
arrived. Leading them was the executioner, with stripes on his sleeves.
They loaded their rifles, holding them ready. Then the Colonel asked:
"Who will go to work?" The crowd answered "No!" The Colonel said: "I
am sorry for you, boys, you don't understand that you are resisting
in vain." Suddenly the crowd was split into two. Those who agreed to
work were given dinner and put to work. The other half, in which I was
included, was led away to another yard. From among us ten were picked
out and taken away--we knew not where. We were ordered to lie on the
ground with our faces downward, and not to turn our heads.
On June 2 there remained only fifty men who still refused to work,
suffering hunger for the sixth day. The ten soldiers who were daily
taken away from us were subjected to, besides hunger, suspense in the
air from rings, with their hands tied to their backs. In about thirty
minutes one would lose consciousness, and then he would be taken down
to the ground. After he recovered his senses he would be asked if he
agreed to work. What could one answer? To say "I refuse" meant another
ordeal. He would begin to cry and agree to work.
The following day our heroes were led out into the open, ten were
selected from our midst, arranged in a line facing the rest of us,
and told that they would be shot immediately. Of the remainder half
were to be shot in the evening, the other half the following morning.
Their graves had been dug by the ten heroes themselves. I have not the
slightest hesitancy in calling them so.
Then a space was cleared, and Ivan Tistchenko, Feodor Lupin, Ivan
Katayev, and Philip Kulikov were ordered forward. The first was Ivan
Tistchenko. An officer and four cadets approached him. The officer
asked him if he would agree to work. He answered "No," and crossed
himself. His eyes were bound with a white 'kerchief, and these pitiless
and unjust cadets fired at the order of the officer. Two bullets
pierced his head and two his breast, and the brave fellow fell to the
wet ground noiselessly and peacefully.
In the same manner the second, third, and fourth were treated. When the
fifth was led forward he also refused to work, and they already had his
eyes bound. But some one in the crowd exclaimed: "Halt--don't fire!"
And the comrades asked for his life, all agreeing to go to work. And I
never learned the identity of the chap who saved that fellow's life and
many other lives.
We remained in that camp for two and a half months. Then we were
removed closer to the front, to a locality inhabited by Italians.
Our soldiers there would inquire from the Italian labourers, to whom
the guards paid no attention, where the boundary lay. We learned the
direction and the distance to the boundary, which was about thirty
miles. It was even nearer to the Italian front. And so on Sept. 29 a
comrade and I decided to escape.
(Some particulars of the escape have been deleted by the Russian
censor.)
Toward dawn we emerged from the thick of the pine trees and bushes, and
descended to the base of the mountain. At our feet was a stream, about
fifty feet wide, rapid, and full of rocks. Here we made good use of our
training in gymnastics. My comrade, a tall fellow, was light on his
feet. He jumped like a squirrel from rock to rock. To me it seemed that
I would slip and be swept away by the current. My comrade was already
on the opposite shore when I, making my last jump, failed to gain the
beach. Fortunately he was quick to stretch out to me his long stick,
and drew me out of the water as wet as a lobster.
We walked along the stream all day without encountering anybody. At the
end of the day we came in sight of a tiny village, but there were no
people nor soldiers to be seen. Only near one house smoke was rising.
We decided to approach stealthily and investigate. We saw an old woman
at the fire, bending over a kettle of sweet corn. We surmised that
the inhabitants of the village must have deserted it because of its
proximity to the front, while the old woman refused to abandon her home.
We approached her and confessed that we were Russian soldiers. She
thought long. What "Russian" meant she did not know, but she understood
the meaning of the word "soldiers." She presented us with some of her
sweet corn and pointed out the way to the Italian front.
III--"WE ESCAPED TO ITALIAN FRONTIER"
It was six in the evening when we came upon an advanced Italian
post. The sentinel stopped us with a "Halt!" He was pointing his
rifle at us, showing that he would shoot if we advanced. He called
for his superior. We were searched and taken into their quarters.
An officer soon came in. Through an interpreter he asked us for our
names, regiments, and army branches. He gave each of us a package of
cigarettes.
Only then I understood that we were received as guests. When the
officer gave us the cigarettes, saying "Bravo, Russi!" the soldiers
began showering us with cigarettes, chocolate, and confetti. One
soldier guessed better than the rest; he brought us a dish of soup,
meat, and a bottle of wine. After this there was a regular wedding
feast. Each of the soldiers brought something to eat, cheese, butter,
sardines. We, knowing our condition, abstained from eating too much.
Thinking that on the following day we would have to suffer hunger
again, we put all the presents into a bag presented us by one of the
Italians. Thus we accumulated about fifteen pounds of bread, cheese,
butter, chocolate, lard, and boiled beef. Then the Italians noticed
that our clothes were wet, and began presenting us with underwear and
clothing, so that we soon changed our appearance. We were anxious to
converse with them. The interpreter, who spoke Russian imperfectly, had
a great deal of work. Just the same, I will never in my life forget
his first words in Russian, as he asked us, by order of the officer:
"Who are you--brothers?" In tears we answered him that we were Russian
officers escaped from captivity; he asked it so kindly, and we were
infinitely gladdened by his sweet words.
The following day we were taken to the corps headquarters. Officers
would come in, shake hands--some even kissed us, which embarrassed us.
Unwittingly tears would come to our eyes when we recalled our life in
the prison camp and this sudden change for the better.
The General also visited us. He pressed our hands, gave each of us a
package of cigarettes, and presented us with 10 lire in gold. We wanted
to decline the money, but the interpreter said, "Take," and we did.
We lived for about a month in Italy. What a noble people!--soldiers,
civilians, and officers. It is impossible to describe! At every station
(on the way to France) the public would surround us, all anxious to do
us some favours, all showing their deep affection for the Russians.
Once a Sister of Mercy was distributing coffee to our party as the
train began to move. She ran along till the train gained full speed,
desiring not to leave some of us without coffee. Our soldiers would
wonder at the affection of the entire Italian people for the Russians,
and would shout incessantly: "Viva Italia! Viva Italia!"
TWO WEEKS ON A SUBMARINE
_Told by Carl List_
This article, by a German-American sailor on a Norwegian ship
bound for Queenstown with a cargo of wheat, was communicated to
_L'Illustrazione Italiana_, from which it is here translated for
_Current History_.
I--"I WAS ON A NORWEGIAN SHIP"
The Norwegian ship on which I was embarked was nearing the Irish
Channel. The afternoon was misty, the sea rough. We were warned by an
English steamer of the presence of German submarines in the vicinity.
There was a certain depression among those on board.
I asked the Captain if there were anything to do. "No," he answered.
Boom! a cannon shot was heard at the very moment. General confusion.
All the men ran up on deck and looked about, terrified. Boom! another
cannon shot. Then one of the German sailors, pointing to a spot on the
horizon, said: "A German submarine."
It was true. The black spot grew rapidly larger, and then one could
make out some human figures near the small cannon on the deck. It was
the famous U-39. We hoisted our flag and awaited events. The Captain
sent the mate with our ship's papers over to the submarine, which was
now near. Soon those who were not German received orders to take to the
boats. The Germans were taken on board the U-39, I among them. When
this was done our ship was sunk.
So there I was on board a submarine. The impression of it was strange
enough. The first evening, quite exhausted, I threw myself down in a
corner. I heard a few short orders, then the sound of the machinery....
After that everything was in absolute silence. Some said we were
navigating at such a depth that big ships could pass overhead of us....
I fell asleep.
Next day on waking I tried to get my bearings. We Germans were treated
as friends. We were permitted to go about everywhere.
The boat had the shape of a gigantic cigar, about 200 feet long,
divided into numerous compartments. They were full of shining
instruments. Now there was a buzzing sound, like the inside of a
bee-hive, now absolute silence reigned. Every nerve was tense with
the expectation of the orders on which our lives depended. Toward the
prow was the room from which the torpedo was launched, a room full of
tubes and valves. The officers' lodgings are very restricted, since the
space on board a submarine proscribes any comfort. The commander was
Lieut. Capt. Foerstner, a tall young man, thin and pale--which is not
surprising, since he never had a moment's repose; neither he nor the
men of the crew ever got their clothes off during the twelve days I was
on board.
The periscope, the eye of the submarine, made known to us everything
that took place on the surface of the water, and it did so with such
clearness that it was almost like looking through a telescope. There
was always a man on watch there.
II--"I WAS ABOARD THE U-39"
Suddenly a ship comes in sight. Its smoke is like a black line drawn
on the horizon. A bell rings. It is a signal for each man to be at his
post. The U-39 slowly rises to the surface. A last look is given at
the mirror of the periscope; no English coast guard is in sight. So
everything is ready for action. We hear the command, "Empty the water
cistern." Freed from her ballast, the submarine rises to the surface.
"Both engines ahead at full speed!" The boat cleaves her way through
the water that cascades her sides with foam. In a short time the ship
is reached. The submarine hoists her flag and fires a cannon shot. No
flag betrays the nationality of the captured ship, but we can read the
name, _Gadsby_, on her side. She is English. We signal that her whole
crew is to take to the lifeboats, and quickly! At any moment we may be
surprised.
Through the megaphone we indicate to the men the nearest way to land;
then a cannon shot, then a second one. The captured ship, after
pitching for a while, sinks.
The time necessary for the sinking of a ship differs considerably in
different cases. Some disappear in five minutes, others float for
several hours. The finest spectacle I witnessed was the sinking of
the _Fiery Cross_. The crew received orders to get off in the boats.
Some of our men rowed up close to the abandoned ship and attached
hand grenades to her sides. They were fired and the three-master was
blown up with all her sails spread and set. The hull and the rigging
went down to the depths, but the sails spread out on the surface of
the water like so many little fields of polar ice. Eleven ships were
destroyed during my stay on board. Quite a number of others were
captured, besides these, but they were let go again.
This trip, which I shall never forget, lasted twelve days. It was
dangerous, but it was exciting and so fine that I would not have missed
it for anything in the world.
A GERMAN BATTALION THAT PERISHED IN THE SNOW
_Told by a Russian Officer_
This is a tragic story of a night fight in snow-buried barbed wire
entanglements where a whole German battalion perished. It comes
from Petrograd to Montgomery Schuyler in the form of a letter from
a Russian officer.
I--TRAGIC STORY OF A NIGHT FIGHT
"We were creeping across the snow, when we hear a frightened '_Wer
kommt da?_'
"'Hold on, Germans! Where the devil do they come from?' ask our men in
surprise. 'Are they numerous?'
"'_Wer ist da?_' we hear again.
"Our only reply is to fire by the squad, and then again. The Germans
are a little surprised, but pull themselves together and return the
fire. It is dark and neither side can see the other. In groping about,
we finally meet, and it is give and take with the bayonet. We strike
in silence, but bullets are falling about us like rain. Nobody knows
who is firing and every one is crying in his own language, 'Don't fire!
Stop!' From the side where the firing comes from, beyond and to the
right, they are yelling at us, both in German and Russian, 'What's the
matter? Where are you?'
"Our men cry to the Germans, 'Surrender!'
"They answer: 'Throw down your arms. We have surrounded you and you are
all prisoners.'
"Wild with rage, we throw ourselves forward with the bayonet, pushing
the enemy back along the trenches. In their holes the Germans cry,
peering into the impenetrable darkness, 'Help! Don't fire! Bayonet
them!' Hundreds of shouts answer them, like a wave rolling in on us
from every hand.
"'Oh, little brothers, their force is numberless. We are surrounded on
three sides. Would it not be better to surrender?' cries some one with
a sob.
"'Crack him over the head! Pull out his tongue! Drive him to the
Germans with the bayonet!' are the growling comments this evokes.
"A command rings out, vibrating like a cord: 'Rear ranks, wheel, fire,
fire!'
"The crowd before us yells, moves, and seems to stop. But behind them
new ranks groan and approach. Anew the command is given, 'Fire, fire!'
"Cries and groans answer the fusillade and a hand-to-hand struggle
along the trenches ensues.
"German shouts are heard: 'Help! Here, this way! Fall on their backs!'
"But it is we who fall on their backs. We pry them out and clear the
trenches.
"In front of us all is quiet. On the right we hear the Germans
struggling, growling, repeating the commands of the officers:
'_Vorwärts! Vorwärts!_' But nobody fires and nobody attacks our
trenches. We fire in the general direction of the German voices,
infrequent shots far apart answer us. The commands of '_Vorwärts_' have
stopped. They are at the foot of the trenches, but they do not storm
them. 'After them with the bayonet,' our men cry, 'Finish them as we
finished the others.'
"'Halt, boys,' calls the sharp, vibrating voice of our commander. 'This
may be only another German trick. They don't come on; we are firing and
they do not answer. Shoot further and lower. Fire!'"
II--"SO PERISHED A WHOLE BATTALION"
"New cries and groans come from the Germans, followed by some isolated
shots, which fly high above us. After five or six rounds silence
settles upon the trenches and continues unbroken. 'What can this mean?'
wonder our men. 'Have we exterminated them all?'
"'Excellency, permit me to go and feel around,' offers S., chief scout,
already decorated with the Cross of St. George.
"'Wait, I am going to look into it myself.'
"The officer lights a little electric lamp, and prudently sticks his
arm above the rampart. The light does not draw a single shot. We peer
cautiously over and see, almost within reach of our hands, the Germans
lying in ranks, piled on top of one another.
"'Excellency,' the soldiers marvel, 'they are all dead. They don't
move, or are they pretending?'
"The officer raises himself and directs the rays from his lamp on the
heaps. We see that they are buried in the snow up to the waist, or to
the neck, but none of them moves. The officer throws the light right
and left, and shows us hundreds of Germans extended, their fallen
rifles sticking up in the snow like planted things.
"'I don't understand,' he mutters.
"'Excellency, I am going to see,' says the chief scout.
"'Go on,' the officer consents, 'and you, boys, have your rifles ready
and fire at anything suspicious without waiting for orders from me.'
"S. gets out of the trench and immediately disappears, swallowed by
the soft snow up to the neck. He tries to get one leg out, but without
success. He tries to lean on one hand, pushes it down into the snow,
then pulls hard and swears. His hands are frightfully scratched; the
blood tinges the snow with dark blotches.
"'It's the barbed wire defenses,' he cries. 'Help me, little brothers.
Alone I can do nothing.'
"We catch him by the collar of his tunic, and with difficulty pull him
out. His coat, trousers, boots are in shreds.
"'Thousand devils,' he swears. 'I have no legs left. They're scratched
to pieces.'
"The officer understands: the trenches are defended by intrenchments
of barbed wire. The snow had covered and piled high above them. The
whole battalion we had seen had rushed forward to the help of those
who had called and had got mixed up in the wires. The first over had
sunk into the snow and disappeared. Those coming after had stepped on
them, passed on, become entangled wires, and had fallen in turn under
our hail of lead. Rank on rank, ignorant of what had happened and
rushing on like wild animals, had shared the fate of their comrades. So
perished a whole battalion."
THE FATAL WOOD--"NOT ONE SHALL BE SAVED"
_A Story of Verdun_
_Told by Bernard St. Lawrence_
The following graphic account of one of the most dramatic episodes
in the great Battle of Verdun was related to the writer by a
Verdunois, who himself heard it from a young French officer, and
recorded it in the _Wide World_.
I--POILUS GOING TO SAVE VERDUN
"Courage! We'll never allow the Boches to get through. Cheer up! They
shall never get your town. _Vive Verdun et les Verdunois!_"
Thus, in a hundred and one different ways, did the brave _poilus_,
marching with admirable _entrain_ towards Verdun, instil hope into our
downcast hearts.
We were on our way, the civilians of Verdun, to Paris and elsewhere, in
cattle-trucks and military wagons--a painful journey, in bitter cold
and snow, which would have been almost unbearable but for the sight of
those merry-hearted troops, swinging along in the daytime on the road
bordering the railway, and at night sweeping past us in trainload after
trainload in the direction of the town which, shattered by shot and
shell though it was, we still pictured in our hearts as home. There
were long waits in the darkness at wayside stations or on sidings,
whilst the saviours of France went forth to battle, but wherever
possible we found help and encouragement. At the larger _gares_ warmth
and creature-comforts were in readiness to cheer us on our way. The
waiting and refreshment rooms were crowded with railway officials,
charitably-disposed ladies, and military officers, all of them eager to
do something to ameliorate our lot, and at the same time to hear the
latest news from the Front.
I was fortunate in making the acquaintance at Chalons of a young
officer, Lieutenant Marcel R----, who was able to tell me a good deal
about the Battle of Verdun, or, more strictly speaking, a singular
episode in it. Vague rumours of the "_Coup_ of the Caures Wood" had
already reached my ears, but it was not until I met Lieutenant R----
that I heard all the dramatic details, in the planning and execution of
which he himself had played a part, though a minor one.
"_Eh bien!_ How have you been getting on at Verdun lately?" he began
by asking me. "I was quite sorry to have to leave the battlefield and
go, _en mission_, to Paris. But I shall be back there to-morrow. Shall
I find a soul left?"
"Only Père François, the _marchand de vin_ of the Rue Nationale," I
replied. "He alone remains of the three thousand inhabitants. We left
him standing at the door of his wine-shop, which he said he would not
abandon for all the Boches in creation."
"He plays his part, without a doubt," replied Lieutenant R----, with a
laugh. "It was at Père François's that we celebrated the _coup_ of the
Caures Wood, and I shall never forget his enthusiasm when we told him
the story."
"I envy him the privilege," said I. "Might I hope to hear you repeat
it, if there is time before the train starts?"
"_Mais certainement!_ This is what happened. But I must begin at the
very beginning. The setting for the episode I have to describe is
indispensable."
And Lieutenant R---- proceeded to tell his story as follows:--
II--LIEUTENANT R---- TELLS HIS STORY
We were in the early days of the battle, but sufficient had already
happened to make it clear to every one of us that at last we were
face to face with a big affair. The German High Command had decided
on a step which we welcomed most joyfully--to stake its all on a vain
endeavour to regain the confidence which the public in Germany has
fast been losing, not only in the military party, but also in the
Hohenzollerns themselves. The roar of the guns was so deafening that
we had to stuff our ears with cotton-wool or any material we could
find to deaden the dreadful sound. The ground shook under the shock of
the exploding shells. But neither the sounds which came to us, nor the
sights which met our eyes as we looked down upon the ever-advancing
masses of men in grey-green uniforms, had the slightest ill-effect upon
our nerves. Judging by my own feelings, we were all supremely uplifted.
It seemed to me that we had been preparing all our lives for that one
glorious day.
"Come on, come on, grey-green battalions, and let us bite deep into
your flesh! It matters not what cowardly means you adopt; poison gas
or squirters of flaming liquid are all one to us, for you will never
succeed in getting through. Come on, like animals to the slaughter!
Those who succeed in escaping the _arrosage_ of the 'seventy-fives'
will find that Rosalie--the bayonet--is waiting for them." Such was the
savage hymn which my men were singing in their hearts as we defended
the Bois de Caures.
"Rosalie" did her work well, I can tell you, when the Boches came to
close quarters. The snow-flecked ground in front of us, furrowed as
though by a titanic plough, was covered with bodies. However, as they
still came on in serried masses, it was decided that a retreat to the
defences which had been prepared many weeks before was necessary. Full
of confidence, and knowing that this slow retreat would enable us to
kill more and still more Germans, we made our preparations.
But first of all let me locate the Wood of Caures, though it may
be superfluous to do so in the presence of an inhabitant--perhaps
a native--of Verdun. It is situated to the north of your town, and
is one of a number of woods and forests which are visible as dark
masses of foliage to anyone standing on the heights in the immediate
neighbourhood of Verdun, or, better still, if the observer be seated
in an aeroplane. The eyes of our gallant airmen were constantly fixed
on the Bois de Caures, which lies between the Bois d'Haumont and the
Herbe Bois, on the Bois des Fosses, which is due south of where we
were, and on the Forest of Spincourt, which was to our east. These
precious collaborators kept us constantly informed as to the movements
of the enemy. Every few hours they brought in their reports to the
Headquarters Staff, whence came the order that, in conjunction with the
remainder of the line, we were to fall back.
"The move is to be made to-morrow--towards evening." Captain Peyron
told me in the afternoon. "But I understand from Chief Engineer Moreau
that we're to prepare a little surprise for the Kaiser's crack troops.
We've got to hold the wood like grim death until everything is ready.
Moreau and his staff of engineers have been out all day in the wood
prospecting, and the sappers must be already at work."
III--ON THE EVE OF THE _COUP_
At nightfall I learnt a little more from one of Moreau's assistants,
Lieutenant Chabert, a former brilliant pupil of the Ecole des Arts et
Métiers, who, owing to his deep knowledge of electrical science, has
on countless occasions rendered invaluable service. He is one of those
men who can turn their hands to anything in the scientific line. He
staggered into our dug-out, dead-beat, after ten hours of feverish and
continuous work with the sappers, and before throwing himself down to
sleep had just strength enough to mumble, "See that I'm called as early
as possible, _mon ami_, will you? I've got hundreds of yards of wiring
to see to yet. _Dieu merci_, we've still got a day before us!"
I promised to wake him at five sharp, and, envying him his sleep,
immediately went in search of Sergeant Fleury, to delegate him to carry
out the duty entrusted to me in case--one never knows what the fortunes
of war may bring about--I were prevented from doing it. By the time I
had found the sergeant the moon had risen over the battlefield, and if
I live to be a hundred I shall never forget the sight. Our machine-guns
were still firing two hundred rounds a minute on the German formations.
As the enemy approached through the ravines round Flasbas and Azannes
they were enfiladed, and the deep clefts in the hills were positively
filled up with dead. Then, towards the early hours of the morning,
came a lull. The respite was doubly welcome; it gave us both time to
breathe and behold the work we had done. A ghastly spectacle indeed was
revealed as our searchlights swept over the battlefield.
When the dawn came the lull continued--at least, till noon, when we
had once more to face the hammer-blows of the Kaiser and the Crown
Prince. I called Chabert at the appointed hour. After a great stretch
and a yawn, he went off like a giant refreshed to his work among the
human moles of the Caures Wood. About noon, Moreau came to hold a
consultation with Captain Peyron, under whose immediate orders we were,
but he was in such a hurry to get back to his sappers and electricians
that he had not time to say more than:--
"_Bonjour_, R----; see you later. All goes well!"
The satisfied expression on his face told me that without words.
IV--"COUP OF CAURES WOOD"
I did not meet either him or Chabert until after the retreat; and,
to tell you the truth, we were so busily engaged in keeping back the
Germans until it suited our purpose to let them come on _en masse_ that
I almost forgot about the "little surprise" which Moreau, Chabert, et
Cie. had announced to me through my chief.
When evening came the gradual move back to more advantageous positions
began. I shall not go into the details of a strategic retreat with
which you yourself must be almost as well acquainted as myself,
but simply state that we evacuated the Caures Wood and got away to
the high ground in the neighbourhood of the Bois des Fosses, where
Peyron, Moreau, Chabert, Sergeant Fleury and myself calmly awaited the
impending catastrophe which had been so skilfully and rapidly prepared
for the oncoming enemy. The Bois de Caures, in the gathering darkness
of night, stood out like a huge black mass against the sky.
"What do you estimate the strength of the attacking force in our
section to be?" I asked Captain Peyron.
"Two thousand odd," he replied, "and they have all of them fallen
into the trap. As our men ran away through the wood, they followed in
masses, blindly and stupidly--_les imbéciles_! Not one of them will
escape, Moreau?"
"Not a soul," replied the chief engineer. Then, glancing at his
luminous watch and turning to Chabert, he added, "One more minute, and
we shall see what we shall see."
We kept our eyes fixed intently on the dark Bois de Caures. Someone,
somewhere, was pressing a button; for all at once huge tongues of
flames, accompanied by a series of explosions which rent the cold night
air, leapt into the sky. Simultaneously a mental vision must have
occurred to every one of us, as it certainly did to me--a vision of
hundreds upon hundreds of Germans, caught like rats in a trap, blown to
pieces amidst the shattered trees of that fatal wood.
So ended the story of the "_Coup_ of the Caures Wood" as related to
me by Lieutenant R----. Hardly had he uttered the last words when the
departure bell rang and we hurried away to the train which was to take
us to Paris.
HEROISM AND PATHOS OF THE FRONT
_Told by Lauchlan MacLean Watt_
This touching bit of genuine literature, penned by a poetic Scot
"somewhere in France," deserves to rank as a classic among war
letters.
I--STORY OF A YOUNG SCOTTISH SOLDIER
Out here in the land of war we sometimes feel very far from those we
love; and then, as though we had walked somehow right through reality,
our thoughts are lifted oversea, and the mirage of home floats like
a dream before us. The magic stop is touched in many ways. Little do
the brave lads speaking to us in camp or hospital know how often they
brought us underneath its spell.
Just a week ago, in a tent where the wounded lay, I was beside the
bed of a fine young Scottish soldier, stricken down in the prime of
his manhood, yet full of hope. The thought of the faces far away was
always with him upholdingly. In fact, the whole tent seemed vibrant
with the expectation of the journey across the narrow strip of blue
which sunders us from home. This Scottish youth had been talking, and
it was all about what to-morrow held for him. His mother, and the girl
that was to share life with him--these were foremost in his thought.
His face shone as he whispered, "I'm going home soon." Everything
would be all right then. What a welcome would be his, what stories
would be told by the fireside in the Summer evenings! But he made the
greater journey that very night. We buried him two days later, where
the crosses, with precious names upon them, are growing thick together.
Surely that is a place most holy. There will be a rare parade there on
Judgment Day of the finest youth and truest chivalry of Britain and of
France. Soft be their sleep till that reveillé!
We got the Pipe Major of a famous Highland regiment to come over; and
when the brave dust was lowered, while a little group of bronzed and
kilted men stood around the grave, he played the old wail of sorrow of
our people, "Lochaber No More." I heard it last when I stood in the
rain beside my mother's grave; and there can be nothing more deeply
moving for the Highland heart. The sigh of the waves along Hebridean
shores called to me there, among the graves in France.
The men who lie in this hospital are those who could not be carried
further meanwhile, and they have been dropped here, in passing, to
hover between life and death until they make a move on one side or
other of the Great Divide. So it is a place where uncertainty takes
her seat beside the bed of the sufferer, watching with ever unshut eye
the fluctuating levels of the tide of destiny. It is a place where
the meaning of war gets branded deep upon you. The merest glimpse
solemnizes. Of course, the young may forget. The scars of youth heal
easily. But the middle-aged of our generation will certainly carry to
the grave the remembrance of this awful passion of a world.
II--THE MIRACLE OF DEATH
Here, of course, you meet all kinds of men, from everywhere. They were
not forced to come, except by duty, in their country's need. They were
willing in the day of sacrifice, and theirs is that glory deathless.
One has been burned severely. How he escaped at all is a miracle. But
they are all children of miracle. Death's pursuing hand seems just to
have slipped off some as he clutched at them. This man looks through
eye-holes in his bandages. He is an Irishman, and the Irish do take
heavy hurts with a patient optimism wonderful to see.
There is also a fine little Welshman, quite a lad, who has lost his
leg. He has been suffering continually in the limb that is not there.
To-day he was lying out in the sun, and he looked up cheerily at me.
"Last night," he said, "for about half an hour I had no pain. I tell
you I lay still and held my breath. It was so good I scarcely could
believe it. I thought my heart would never beat again, at the wonder of
it."
The usual picture postcard of the family is always close at hand.
One North of Ireland man, up out of bed for the first time, was very
full-hearted about his "missis and the childer." Said he with pride,
"She's doin' extra well. She's as brave as the best of them, and good
as the red gold--that's what she is."
Another poor fellow, in terrible pain, asked me to search in a little
cotton bag which was beside him for the photograph of his wife and
himself and the little baby. "It was took just when I joined," he
whispered. "Baby's only two months old there."
One day those who were able were outside, and a gramophone was
throatily grinding the melody out of familiar tunes, with a peculiarly
mesmeric effect. Suddenly the record was changed to "Mary of Argyle."
The Scotsman by whose bed I was standing said: "Wheesht! D'ye hear
thot? Man, is it no fine?" And the tears ran down his cheeks as he
listened. It was a poor enough record. In ordinary times he would have
shouted his condemnation of it. But he was now in a foreign land--a
stricken, suffering man. And it made him think of some woman far away
beside the Forth, where he came from. And his heart asked no further
question.
At the head of the bed of some of them you will see a blue paper.
"You're looking grand to-day," said I to a young fellow. And he
replied, "Is there anny wonder, Sir, wid that scrap o' paper there?"
For it was the order for home on the first available opportunity.
"Sure, won't the ould mother be glad to see me?" he continued. "The
sunshine here is beautiful, but sunshine in the ould country is worth
the world."
"Good-bye, Sir!" they sometimes cry. "I'll be away when you come round
again." But perhaps next time a sad face looks up at you, for the day
so eagerly anticipated has been again postponed.
It is always home, and what the dear ones there are like, and what
they will be thinking yonder, that fills up the quiet hours toward
restoration, as it strengthened the heart and arm of the brave in the
hour of terrible conflict.
The endurance, patience, and courage of the men are beyond praise--as
marvelous as their sufferings. I can never forget one who lay moaning
a kind of chant of pain--to prevent himself screaming, as he said.
III--THE PIPER PLAYED "LOCHABER NO MORE"
Last night we had a very beautiful experience. We were searching
for a man on most important business, but as the wrong address had
been given, that part of it ended in wild-goose chase. Nevertheless
we were brought into contact with a real bit of wonder. It was an
exquisite night. The moon, big, warm, and round as a harvest moon
at home, hung low near the dreaming world. The trees stood still
and ghost-like, and the river ran through a picture of breathless
beauty. We had got away beyond houses, and were climbing up through
a great far-stretching glade. The roar before us was a trellis of
shadow and moonlight. Suddenly we had to stand and listen. It was the
nightingale. How indescribably glorious! The note of inquiry, repeated
and repeated, like a searching sadness; and then the liquid golden
stream of other-world song. How wonderfully peaceful the night lay all
around--the very moonlight seemed to soften in the listening. And yet
again came the question with the sob in it; and then the cry of the
heart running over.
The valley lay lapped in luminous haze, a lake somewhere shining. But
there was no other sound, no motion, no sign of life anywhere--only
ourselves standing in that shadow glade, and that song of the
beginnings of the world's sadness, yearning, and delight, somewhere in
the thicket near.
It was difficult to believe that we were in a land of war; that not far
from us lay ruined towns of ancient story; that the same moonlight,
so flooded with delight for us, was falling on the uninterred, the
suffering, and the dying, and the graves where brave dust was buried.
It was all very beautiful. And yet, somehow, it made me weary. For I
could not help thinking of the boy we had laid down to rest, so far
from home, and the piper playing "Lochaber No More" over his grave. And
of the regiment we had seen that very day, marching in full equipment,
with the pipers at the head of the column, so soon to be separated from
the peat fires and the dear ones more widely than by sundering seas.
And we hated the war. God recompenses the cruel ones who loosened that
bloody curse from among the old-time sorrows which were sleeping, to
afflict again the world!
AN AVIATOR'S STORY OF BOMBARDING THE ENEMY
_Told by a French Aviator_
This is a tale of the risks, the courage, the fears, the luck, the
compulsion of duty and the haunting memory of destruction that mark
the fighting service of the airmen. It is a French aviator's plain
tale of experience from _Illustration_, Paris.
I--"OUR FLIGHT AT DAY BREAK"
When our flight commander came in we knew by his smiling face that he
had something interesting for us. "Make a careful inspection," he said.
"The staff counts on you to destroy a station of great importance. Take
oil and essence enough for four hours' flight. Each of you will carry
five 90's and one 155. If you do not wholly destroy the place during
the first attack, rest, go back to-morrow and finish your work. You
will get explicit orders before you start."
Our service is not confined to the defense of Paris. We are not the G.
V. C. of the skies. We had no idea where we were going; but our chief
was in such good spirits that we looked for a fine adventure. So full
of ardor, we all, pilots and engineers, inspected our great flyers.
Then, in view of resting for our work, we turned in for the night. When
someone knocked violently on my door I sprang up broad awake.
"Get up, sergeant!" cried a voice. "It is nearly three o'clock! You
will be late!"
The motors were turning on the ground. I dressed hastily and went
out.... Brr! it was cold. The field lay like a shadow in the
moonlight; the sky was of ideal clearness; a light fog was rising
from the damp ground. Our whole assembly, pilots and observers, went
into the little shack used as our flight bureau. Then came a great
hand-clasping, farewells--silence.
The commander pointed out our route and we traced it on our charts. Now
we knew where we were going and what we had to do.
There were our machines in the half-light, drawn up in line of battle.
Every pilot cast a swift glance at his craft as he went aboard. They
tested the motors. The grinding of the motors had slowed down; there
was an instant of relative calm. An order passed from pilot to pilot:
"Start from right to left, thirty seconds headway!"
A long rattle broke the silence; an avion glided over the ground and
went up: _Our Chief!_ I was second. I heard my friends wishing me luck.
I rolled on at full speed, rose, and rushed out, into the darkness.
When I had been flying ten minutes I realized that something was the
matter. My motor was not "giving." The altimeter marked 1,800 meters.
I saw the trenches stretching like cobwebs across the ground. I tried
to rise--_Impossible!_ I was less than 2,000 meters above the earth; I
was under orders; it was up to me to get to my destination and destroy
the object I had been sent to destroy; and my motor would not raise me
one foot. For one moment sickly doubt assailed me. I crossed the line
and, instantly, my craft was a target. The explosion of the bombs was
so violent and the bombs were so near, and there was so many of them,
that the air was in a tumult. My machine oscillated. The noise was
head-splitting; the muzzles of their 77's formed a bar of fire. I was
taking heavy risks, but what else could I do? _I must get there and do
my work._
The 105 was going; so were the 77's, upward like a bit of fireworks,
hurrying along towards the zenith until his lamps were like little
stars. On the following day we set out again to do our work. _We had
been sent to destroy._
II--"WE DROPPED BOMBS ON THE ENEMY"
We started at four o'clock in the afternoon and landed to reconnoiter
at a camp near the lines. While the motormen examined our motors, and
while the electricians put in the lights, we automobiled to a nearby
town and ate our dinner. We were dressed for our trip. The time set for
our ascension was nine o'clock.
At dinner the chief had said to us: "When my lights go out you will
know that I am flying as a bird flies _for their lines_!" As we stood
there watching his flight his lights went out. That was his signal to
us; _his farewell_. But we saw him once more when his swift black plane
cut across the disk of the yellow moon.
Then I went up. I rose to a height of 600 meters. I turned my last
spiral and put out my lights and the lights fixed to the wings, leaving
nothing but the little chart lamp.
The earth lay away below us, vast, dark and still. We heard no sound,
we saw no light save the pallid light of the moon. The wind was strong.
I had no guiding points. I steered by the stars. As we approached the
lines the broad fan of a searchlight fixed upon me. I made a rapid
turn. Something was coming. We saw two light-bombs and three golden
fusees shooting worms of fire.
After a flight of fifty minutes we reached our objective point. I
slowed down and we descended. When 500 meters above the earth we
dropped incendiary cans and bombs. A shower of light bombs answered
us; they showed us what we were doing and made it easier to do our
work. Then the lights of powerful projectors fastened on us. But our
work was done, and before long we were over our landing.
The home run before the light wind was a pleasure. _But a man always
remembers_, and the thought of the damage I had done haunted me! They
fired their cannon. We were so close to them I wondered they did not
hit us. On that occasion my big machine did well because my motors
were normal. But, to sum it all up in a few words, everything was in
my favor this last time. We escaped, and, what is more important, we
contributed not a little to the success of the French in Champagne.
A DAY IN A GERMAN WAR PRISON
_Told by Wilhelm Hegeler, Popular German Novelist_
The strange mixture of races on the western front is here depicted
by a noted German author in the form of a prison guard's narrative
of his daily life.
I--THE ANIMALS IN THE "ZOO"
There they lie in a gloomy room of the railroad station, the English
prisoners, together with their allies from the Old and New Worlds. The
room used to be the waiting room for non-smokers, and it is no darker
or uglier than any of the other rooms, only it seems so because of its
occupants.
"Service at the Zoo." Every one of us knows what this means--duty with
the prisoners. Our soldiers have invented good-natured nicknames for
the Turcos, Indians, and Algerians that they meet here: "The men from
the monkey theatre," "The Masqueraders," "The Hagenbeck Troop." But
they walk past the Englishmen in silent hatred. A little sympathy is
needed, even for banter.
The prisoners' room is empty, except for a few inmates who for various
reasons could not be sent away. I am on duty here to-day. Crumpled
forms squat on mattresses along the wall like multi-colored bundles of
clothing. Not much is to be seen of their faces. Only a black arm, a
lank yellow hand, a gaudy blue sash, a pair of wide red trousers stand
out. There they crouch in the same stoical calm as they did before
their houses in the distant Orient, with the exception that they, with
the instinct of wounded animals, hide their faces.
An Englishman lies on a bed opposite them. He looks at me expectantly
as if he wants to say something. But although I am not forbidden to
talk with the prisoners, I feel no necessity for doing so.
An hour goes by. From time to time I give a drink to the Orientals who
ask me for it through gestures. At last the Englishman can keep silent
no longer and asks:
"Will they treat us very severely?"
I shrug my shoulders. "People feel angry at the English. Our soldiers
assert that they waved white flags and then threw hand grenades."
"I don't know anything about that. That may have been the case earlier,
but I have been in the war only eight days. A week ago I was in
Newcastle with my wife."
He takes a tin case from under his shirt, opens it, and looks at it
for a long time. Then he shows me the case, which contains the picture
of a woman, his wife. Then he takes a piece of paper from his trousers
pocket and shows me that, too. A name and address are written on it.
"That is the man who bound up my wound on the field of battle. He was
very good to me. After the war I shall write to him."
After a long period of silence he begins to talk again. But I do not
think further conversation timely. I only pay attention once and that
is when he explains to me his grade in the service and his rate of pay.
He is something like a Sergeant and says, pointing to his insignia: "A
common soldier gets only so much; with this insignia he gets so much
more, and when he has both, as I have, he gets so much." He names the
munificent sum with visible pride.
II--"A BELGIAN IN GERMAN UNIFORM"
Then the door opens and my comrade announces in a tone that implies
something unusual: "A Belgian in a German uniform." I look at the man
in astonishment. Why is he allowed to run around without any guard in
particular? The expression of his face is rather stupid. He sits down
near the stove and crosses his legs comfortably. I ask him how he got
the uniform. He answers in Flemish. Before an explanation is possible
the hospital corps men bring in six or seven Englishmen on stretchers.
Now quick work is necessary. Mattresses must be spread out on the
floor and the people changed from bed to bed. The room is filled with
inquisitive hospital corps men and soldiers. I shove them all out. When
the door is finally closed again I count my prisoners and find the
Belgian is missing. I rush outside to look around the station platform.
There stands my Belgian on the doorstep. I seize his arm in an almost
friendly manner and invite him to come inside again. At last he tells
me how he got the uniform. He insists he got it in the hospital in the
place of his own tattered one. I shake my head increduously, but the
chaffeur who brought the prisoner hurries up and verifies the story.
Now the station commandant comes along and is also of the opinion that
the prisoner must get some other kind of clothing. "But," he orders,
"first ask the staff doctor if his uniform can be taken off without any
danger to his wounds." I don't have to do this, because the wound is on
his upper thigh. I hunt up an unclaimed English cloak and, with visible
relief, the Belgian warrior crawls out of the German lion's skin.
III--PRISON KEEPER TELLS HIS STORY
New prisoners are brought in--Frenchmen, Scotchmen, and Canadians.
Many of the first-named cough frightfully. When they are asked where
they got that, they answer that they have had it the whole Winter long.
There is a lank, powerful-looking non-commissioned officer among them.
He makes a sign to me and confesses confidentially that he is very
hungry. I tell him he must have patience, as there will soon be coffee
and bread given out.
"Bread? Black bread?" He curls up his nose. "May I not have a little
pastry, perhaps?"
"You just try our black bread," is my reply. "It is the same as we have
ourselves. We are better than we are supposed to be in France."
"Yes, that's true," he agrees. "They told us that the prisoners were
badly treated in Germany. Now I see that such is not the case. Besides,
they tell you the same thing about our prisoners in France. But they,
too, do not have it so bad. On the contrary. I have seen some of them
myself in Brittany. They get a quart of cider a day. There was an
enormous crop of apples last Summer. And there is enough to eat. And
besides that, they are allowed to stroll through the city a couple of
hours every afternoon."
I permit myself to make a mental reservation regarding the last
assertion, but a Frenchman brought in a little later makes the same
statement.
A fairly educated and intelligent Canadian joins in the conversation
and puts the question that occupies all of them the most: "What sort of
fate awaits the prisoners?"
"You will have to work a few hours a day. Still, you are paid extra for
that."
"It is tough to have to sit in close rooms all the time."
"No," I answer, "the wooden houses are surrounded by broad, open
places. I, myself, have seen Englishmen playing football in a prison
camp."
Then his eyes sparkle and he lets slip the remark: "That is certainly
better than in Canada." Presumably he refers to the camp of the
civilians interned there. I ask him why he enlisted. He colors up and
answers, with a somewhat embarrassed smile: "Well, I knew that my
country was in danger, so I wanted to aid it." And this smile seems
to me to betray less the embarrassment of a man looking for a clever
answer than that of an educated person not liking to use pathetic
expressions. For the entire man has the appearance of frankness and
decency.
In these days when fresh batches of prisoners are coming along all the
time I have answered many more questions. They are almost always the
same questions and receive the same answers. I have also seen convoys
of unwounded prisoners wending their way by day and by night along
lonely roads not so very far back of the front. I have repeatedly asked
prisoners how they were being treated. Many had requests to make;
none had a complaint. On the other hand, I saw many acts of kindness
performed by the doctors, by the sisters, and, not the fewest, by the
soldiers.
MURDER TRIAL OF CAPT. HERAIL OF FRENCH HUSSARS
_Strangest Episode of the War_
_Told by an Eye-Witness_
I--KILLED HIS WIFE--TRIED BY COURT-MARTIAL
Captain Edouard Anselme Jean Herail, of the Eleventh Regiment of
French Hussars, but formerly of a cuirassier regiment, killed his wife
at Compiegne, because she insisted on staying in a place where his
regiment was encamped in defiance of military orders, which required
that officers' wives must not visit them. Herail was threatened with
disgrace for failure to obey orders.
Captain Herail was tried for the murder before a court-martial in
Paris. The courtroom was crowded by a fashionable attendance, largely
consisting of women, for the case involved most delicate and unique
domestic problems, and the persons concerned were of high social
position. The Captain's father was a prominent judge. His wife had one
brother who won the Nobel Prize, and another brother is a well-known
lawyer.
She was tall, slender, with a mass of Titian red hair and large blue
eyes. She had an artistic temperament and a seductive personality, when
not enraged.
The Captain is a man of middle height, strongly built, his thick hair
brushed back, his complexion ruddy, altogether a good type of the
cavalry officer. A reddish mustache adds to the impression of physical
vigor, but his manner is gentle.
The address of the prosecuting attorney showed that on November 23
last the regiment of cavalry to which the captain belonged had been
withdrawn from the front and sent to camp at Campiegne for a period of
rest, after extremely severe fighting in Lorraine and in the north,
where the officers and soldiers of the regiment had lost heavily and
performed their duty in a very gallant manner. Captain Herail, for his
bravery, was recommended by his superiors for the cross of knight of
the Legion of Honor.
Mme. Herail, who had been at Narbonne with her three children, learned
three days after the regiment came to Compiegne that it was there.
She hurried immediately to meet and embrace her husband, who was
embarrassed by her presence from the beginning.
He felt obliged to take every means to hide the presence of his wife
in the town, for a note from the commanding general of October 4 had
absolutely forbidden the wives of officers to be with their husbands,
and it was added that any infraction of the order would be severely
punished. Much disorder and disregard of discipline had been caused
in the army by the presence of wives and also of those who were not
wives. In spite of this officers' wives had frequently broken the order
and had settled down in the vicinity of the camp. Lieutenant-Colonel
Meneville, commanding the Captain's regiment decided to call the
attention of his officers a second time to the necessity of observing
the rule.
II--MME. HERAIL DEFIED MILITARY LAW
It was in the midst of this already very delicate situation that Mme.
Herail arrived to stay with her husband. He represented to her in
the most affectionate manner that she was breaking the orders of his
superiors, but she met his remonstrances with a storm of indignant
reproaches.
"Your superiors are not my superiors!" exclaimed Mme. Herail, "and I
owe them no obedience. Did one ever hear of such tyranny? Their orders
are an outrage on personal liberty and the rights of a wife. There
is no power in France that can make me leave my husband or keep my
children away from their father."
Finally, Mme. Herail burst into tears and her husband, instead of
pressing her to go, fell on her bosom and wept with her.
The colonel of the regiment, who learned that his orders and warnings
were being disregarded by Mme. Herail, called his officers together
again. This was a third warning to them. He did not wish to appear
to be striking especially at Captain Herail, for whom he had a high
regard, and he told them all that very severe punishment would be
inflicted on those who disobeyed the order. The disobedient, he said,
would be sent back from the front, which, under the circumstances,
would be a humiliating disgrace for a soldier.
Then he turned to Captain Herail and asked him to speak out "like a
soldier and without beating about the bush" and tell him why his wife
did not go away. Captain Herail endeavored to make an explanation, but
instead of saying that he had been struggling vainly to make her go
away, he tried, out of affection for his wife, to excuse her conduct
and to offer special reasons why she should remain.
The colonel then lost his patience, and inflicted fifteen days close
arrest on the captain, and made a report to the general of the brigade
that the captain should be sent back to the depot at Narbonne. The
general approved the recommendation and in addition said that the
captain should not receive the Cross of the Legion of Honor for
which he had been recommended. The colonel ordered Major Bouchez, the
immediate superior to Captain Herail, to keep the latter under arrest
in his rooms at 26, rue de la Sous-Prefecture, Compiegne, where he
lodged with Mme. Masson.
III--DRAMATIC SCENE BETWEEN HUSBAND AND WIFE
It was here that the climax of this unique drama occurred at about
8 o'clock in the evening. Major Bouchez came into Captain Herail's
room. The latter's wife remained concealed in the next room. She heard
everything that was said. Major Bouchez, who knew that she was there,
raised his voice so that she could hear perfectly the reproofs which he
addressed to his comrade. The interview lasted an hour and the major
demonstrated fully to Captain Herail the terrible and disgraceful
situation in which he would be placed, from a military point of view,
at this supreme crisis of the French nation, if he did not obey orders
by sending his wife away.
"You will be sent before a court martial," said Major Bouchez, "for
refusing to obey the orders of your superiors, you will be struck from
the list of the Legion of Honor, and you will be sent back from the
front to the depot with the cripples and the old women. You would be
better off if you were dead."
Captain Herail went into the next room and addressed his wife:
"You have heard what he has said? I must insist that you go away
immediately. Go!"
"I will not go," said Mme. Herail, squaring her shoulders and settling
down upon a divan.
"I give you the order to go immediately," repeated her husband with
anger.
"As a matter of morality," said Mme. Herail, "you have no right to give
me such an order."
"We are not in the domain of abstract morality," replied the husband,
"but in the domain of civil and military law and you owe me obedience."
"If you give me that order, everything will be over between us for
life, and anyhow, I will not obey the order," retorted Mme. Herail,
with remarkable feminine logic.
"I give you two minutes to reflect," said the unfortunate captain,
whose emotions were getting terribly wrought up.
He went back to the other room, where Major Bouchez was waiting for
him, took up his service revolver, and then returned to his wife's room.
"Have you reflected? Is it no?" he asked, evidently anticipating his
wife's immovable obstinacy.
"I will never leave you alive. I love you too much, Jean," said Madame
Herail.
"Then you will leave me dead," said Captain Herail.
IV--"HE AIMED AT HIS WIFE--AND FIRED"
Captain Herail then aimed point-blank at his wife with his revolver and
fired three shots at her. She fell to the ground dead, all three of the
bullets having passed through her head. Major Bouchez rushed in, saw
the body, and, as he testified at the trial, found Captain Herail in
tears and out of his mind with remorse.
Witnesses said that the sorrow of Captain Herail was intense. He was
continually weeping, calling on the dead woman, and asking for his
three children. It was proved that during the eleven years they were
married he had shown the deepest affection for his wife, and it was
only the military disgrace she had brought upon him that could have
caused him to commit the act.
He was married to his wife in 1904 when he was a lieutenant in the
First Regiment of Cuirassiers. She was then Mlle. Henriette Courel.
They both belonged to wealthy families and their marriage was an event
in fashionable society. They began life under the happiest auspices.
They were apparently a well-matched couple. He was very good-tempered
and easy-going, while she was a devoted wife and a model housekeeper,
but very jealous and extremely exacting.
She required that her husband should have no interest in life apart
from her. At the annual military manoeuvres she insisted on following
him around, and he, from fear of being made ridiculous, asked her to
stay away, but she would not do so. His comrades called her his colonel.
During the testimony relating to these facts Captain Herail's eyes were
wet with tears, and finally, when it came to the description of the
scene of the killing, he could not restrain himself at all and broke
into heartrending sobs.
Then the presiding officer ordered him to stand up and relate what he
had to say in defence of his act. His tears continued to flow and at
first he was unable to utter an intelligible sentence. He could be
heard sobbing:
"My poor wife! My poor wife!"
After a time he was able to make a statement concerning his
difficulties with his wife, of which these were the most striking
passages:
"If she had only let me fulfill my military duties we should have been
the happiest family possible. She was very good and very clever, but
she never would permit me to be away from her."
The unfortunate captain, who had faced death from bullets, day after
day for months, without a tremor, while his comrades were falling all
around him, broke down as he spoke of his dead wife and buried his
nails in his flesh, unable to continue. The spectacle was an intensely
painful one and caused nearly everybody in the audience to weep,
including some of the officers on the bench.
"What could I do?" went on the poor captain when he had recovered some
self-control. "I thought of handing in my resignation, and yet, I loved
my calling, although my promotion had been slow. I remained thirteen
years a simple lieutenant.
"Naturally, I appeared a careless officer, without ardor, constantly
trying to get away from my daily duties. The truth is that my wife,
every time I went out, urged me to return home as soon as possible,
complaining that I was leaving her alone.
"I wished to give my resignation, although it was a hard prospect for
me to leave the army a simple lieutenant without getting the Cross of
the Legion of Honor. I did not tell my conjugal difficulties to any one.
"Then I was forced to abandon the idea of resigning, because my wife
would not agree to such a solution. She was proud of the service I was
in.
"Our third child had just been born when my squadron was ordered to
start for the frontier of Morocco, where the war had just broken out.
Suddenly my wife, though still in delicate health, announced that she
would go with me, that she would make the campaign."
V--THE VERDICT--"NOT GUILTY!"
The captain continued the history of his curiously troubled married
life up to the time of the outbreak of the present war. When he came to
the recital of the tragedy at Compiegne he lost all control of himself.
He said that the only thing with which he could reproach himself was
having concealed from his military superiors the truth concerning his
difficulties with his wife.
Colonel Jacquillart, the president of the court martial, asked Captain
Herail sharply:
"Why did you not use some other method than shooting your wife to end
the distressing situation?"
"I tried every other means first," replied the captain, "and I must
have been mad with fear of disgrace to kill the wife I loved so much."
Many military officers testified and gave Captain Herail a splendid
character. Colonel Meneville, who had recommended that the captain
should not receive the Legion of Honor on account of his disobeying the
order to send wives away, said that in every other respect Herail was
an excellent officer, brave and competent.
Henri Robert, the most noted member of the Paris Bar, defended Captain
Herail eloquently.
"A judge far more inexorable than any of you," said M. Robert, pointing
to the bench, "his mother-in-law, has forgiven him. She writes me
lauding him as an ideal man and officer and worthy of his country. His
dead wife's sisters and brothers also forgive him freely."
The members of the court martial only took fifteen minutes to reach a
decision. They returned and rendered unanimously a simple verdict of
"Not guilty!"
The verdict was received with frantic applause mingled with tears by
the audience. (Told in the _New York American_.)
HOW THEY KILLED "THE MAN WHO COULD NOT DIE"
_Told by a Soldier Under General Cantore_
I--STORY OF THE ITALIAN ALPINI
They said he could not die. The men who fought under him in Tripoli,
the men who stood beside him in the bloody capture of Ala, looked on
Antonio Cantore with almost superstitious awe. For he ought to have
been killed a hundred times. A hundred times he came back, smiling
quietly behind his spectacles, out of perils through which other men
could not live. So the legend grew up among the Italian Alpini that
their commander led a charmed life; they said he had the camicia della
madonna and that bullets could not harm him. Death got him at last, but
those boys of his--as he used to call his soldiers--will not believe
it, even though they carved his tomb out of the rock and heaped the
earth over his body.
Gen. Cantore was not a bit like a hero, as one pictures heroes. One
might have taken him for a schoolmaster, a clerk in the post office,
a retired commercial traveller. He was not tall, nor was his bearing
martial. His kind blue eyes looked mildly through his round spectacles.
His mouth laughed under his white mustache. He wore a black mackintosh
and walked with his head a little on one side and his hands in his
pockets. But he was not afraid. Neither was he foolhardy. He neither
feared nor courted death; he merely ignored it. He had the sublime
courage of the man who knows the danger so well that he will let no
one else face it, but will brave it all alone.
The veterans of the Tripoli campaign talked in this wise to the young
recruits of the Alpini:
"Look at that old man, with his kind face and gentle soul. He is the
father of the Alpini. He has seen them born and has brought them up,
all of them. They are his sons, his boys. With a word he has moulded
them according to his own heart of bronze; with a smile he has forged
them a heart of steel. You don't know him? Then you were not in Libya!
But go to him, say 'Good morning, General!' and tell him your name.
Ten years from now he will remember the name. And some night when you
are on outpost duty and the hail of bullets is most furious, and the
miaowing of the shells is maddest, when the air seems a-quiver with
death, and the darkness is shot through with arrows and flashes, and
the silence is shattered with bangs and explosions and roars, if your
heart trembles a moment as you think of your little ones at home and
the bells of the far-away village church ringing the Angelus, you will
see the old man, the General, Antonio Cantore, rise suddenly before
you, place himself between you and the enemy, shield you with his body.
"For, you see, Antonio Cantore is everywhere and always ahead of
everybody. When you leap first into an enemy's trench, eyes aflame,
hands clawing, bayonet between your teeth, look ahead from the trench
in which you are battling, and between it and the second line of
trenches from which the enemy is still bombarding you with rapid-fire
guns you will see a kind old man, his eyes twinkling behind his
spectacles, his mouth smiling under its white mustaches, his hands in
his pockets, his head slightly bent and inclined to one side. It will
be Antonio Cantore.
"For that old man, you see, is always everywhere and ahead of
everybody. And he cannot die. We have seen him return unscathed from
places where hundreds and hundreds have been killed. We have seen him
march without flinching right up to the cannon and the mitrailleuse.
Shells and bullets fall before him; they are afraid of his smile!"
II--"MY GOD! A GENERAL!"
Thus the lengend grew and spread from the Adige to Leno, from the
Altissimo to Coni Zugna, from Pasubio to the Col Santo, wherever the
Alpini were engaged.
And every hardy mountaineer who was called to the colors cheered his
loved ones on parting with the words: "Never fear! I am going to join
Antonio Cantore's brigade."
One night on the slopes of Monte Campo, Gen. Cantore was on
reconnoitring patrol. For he was his own scout. Most commanders ask
for two or three volunteers for a night reconnaissance. This general,
instead, would say: "Are there two men who would like to come with me
to-night and inspect the enemy's barbed wire entanglements?" And all
the men would want to go. He would pick out two, saying to the others:
"No, no, boys; I need only two of you. Thank you, just the same.
Your time will come." To the chosen ones it was like a promotion or
receiving a medal of honor.
And so, one night he was out scouting with only his sergeant as
company. "His" sergeant was Sergt. Cillario, a veteran of Libya,
who had stayed in the army just to be with Antonio Cantore, whom he
called "my" general. They had climbed a difficult mule-path toward
the Austrian trenches, the general leading, the sergeant following in
silence.
At last the general told the sergeant to stop, and he went on alone.
When he would not permit a man to risk his life, that man did as he was
told. Only on such occasions did Gen. Cantore make his rank felt. He no
longer said: "Let us go, my boy," but "Sergeant, stay there." His boys
were not saints, but they obeyed. They had to, for otherwise he--raised
his voice and smiled no more!
So that night, as on many others, he went on alone. And when his hands
touched the first barbed wire the sentries of the Austrian trenches
fired at him. This did not disconcert him. He went on with his hands
in his pockets, his head on one side, stooping to examine through his
spectacles the entanglements by the light of flashes from the enemy's
guns. He was ten yards from the Austrian trench, a single dark shadow
advancing like fate through the volleys, an invulnerable shadow seeking
out the interstices of the barbed wire entanglements to find spaces
through which men might pass, scrutinizing them with the calm interest
of a botanist examining a garden.
A Tryolean kaiserjaeger, who has been taking careful aim at him, saw
the insignia of his rank.
"My God! a General!" he exclaimed, and let his rifle fall.
III--TALES OF GENERAL CANTORE
When the town of Ala was carried by assault last June he was the first
to enter it. He went through the hail of bullets with the same calmness
as he would have gone through a rainstorm, and as unscathed.
When the Austrians fled a group of about one hundred and fifty took
refuge in the Cafe 25 Maggio in the piazza then called Moses, and in
the Villa Brazil, almost opposite, determined to resist to the last
in order to cover the retreat. Gen. Cantore said the lieutenant in
command of the nearest platoon, "Come on." They went to the door of
the cafe. "Make them open," he said, "but leave your pistol. They won't
fire." But they did, sending a shower of bullets from the windows.
Neither of the Italians was hit.
"They won't open," said the lieutenant.
"I'll make them," said Cantore. He approached the door, armed only with
his riding whip. Another volley greeted him, and shots from the windows
of the Villa Brazil. He was unwounded, but he lost his calm as he cried:
"Charge, boys, charge! Burst the place open and take them all
prisoners!"
The fight lasted a quarter of an hour. The walls, windows and door of
the cafe were shot full of holes; the Villa Brazil was turned into a
ruin. The few Austrians left alive were made prisoners.
That street is now the Piazza Antonio Cantore.
When the fight was over Gen. Cantore and a few other officers sat down
to dine in the Albergo di Ala. There were three girls from Roverto
who had taken refuge there. They were so pretty that they were called
the "three graces." They waited on the diners. Gen. Cantore chatted
with them, joking one especially, whose name was Pina, calling her
affectionately by pet names--Pinotta, Pinella, Pinina, Pignotta,
Pignina--laughing like a big boy. When he rose from dinner he took her
chin in his hand and said:
"Poor little Pina, far away from thy home! But we shall soon be at
Roverto, and thou wilt come to Roverto right after us. Then thou wilt
be happy again, eh?"
But Antonio Cantore was never to see Roverto. A man cannot snub Death
indefinitely. Death had to get even with Cantore, or remain forever
discredited. One day he had his revenge.
It was on July 20. The Alpini, under Gen. Cantore, were in the
Ampazzano valley, trying to dislodge the Austrians from the slopes of
the three mountains called Tofana di Rozzes, Tofana di Mezzo and Tofana
di Dentro, whence they were able to fire on Cortina and other towns.
Between the Tofana di Rozzes and the Tofana di Mezzo was a refuge hut
for chamois hunters from which Austrian sharpshooters picked off the
Italian soldiers at their leisure. The refuge hut had been bombarded,
but the effect was doubtful.
At 12.30 o'clock Gen. Cantore and Capt. Argenteri started to explore
the place. They reached the advanced trenches by 5.15 o'clock. The
Austrians were still firing from the hidden hut. Cantore and the
Captain tried to locate the precise spot, but could not.
"Captain, we will go up higher and look," said the General. They
climbed up the slope and hid behind some rocks. As they peeped over
these the sun shone straight in Cantore's face.
"I cannot see well," he called to the Captain. Then he stood up and
was placing his field-glasses to his eyes when three shots rang out.
Cantore fell, with two bullets in his forehead. He died instantly.
"His" sergeant, veteran of many battles, grown callous by the sight and
suffering, asked a month's leave of absence to go away and mourn for
his general. In Verona he walked about like a spectre, his face ghastly
and set. They asked, "How did the General die?" And Cillario answered,
"Antonio Cantore is not dead. Antonio Cantore could not die." (Told in
the _New York World_.)
HOW MLLE. DUCLOS WON THE LEGION OF HONOR
_Story of a Woman Who Drove Her Auto at Full Speed into a German Force_
_Told by an Eye-Witness_
I--DECORATED BY MARSHAL JOFFRE
PARIS, Sept. 24.
The two most romantic and brilliant features of the war, the two
things that have relieved it from being a dull record of close-range
slaughter, have been the use of flying machines and automobiles.
Flying machines may appear more romantic and spectacular to the
outsider, but those who have seen the war at close quarters are of the
opinion that the most astonishing and brilliant feats of arms have been
performed by motor cars.
The experience of Mlle. Helene Duclos, who annihilated practically a
whole German company with her automobile, is one of the many amazing
instances of the use of this comparatively novel instrument of war.
Other cases in the various warring countries have, perhaps, been
equally remarkable, but hers necessarily gains added interest from the
fact that she is a woman, and a very attractive one.
It has been shown that a high-powered armored motor car, running at
sixty miles an hour, can, under certain conditions, disorganize a whole
army and slaughter scores of soldiers. If driven into a body of men
in close formation and taken by surprise its powers of injury are
unlimited.
Armored cars have been used for the terribly difficult work of removing
barbed wire entanglements. The car runs up to the entanglements, throws
grapnel irons over them, and then backs away to uproot them. The
armored car can do this work under a fire that exposed men could not
live in.
Armored cars are employed in coöperation with flying machines. The
aviator brings information where a car can do most damage, and then
hovers overhead, giving warning to the motormen when they must retire
or, return for help if necessary. An armored car crew connected with
the British Naval Flying Corps has received honorable mention for
annihilating a whole party of Uhlans.
Some armored cars carry two machine guns and others a gun of larger
calibre.
Mlle. Duclos's motor exploit has made her the great heroine of the
moment. She has been decorated by General Joffre with the cross of the
Legion of Honor for her brilliant and heroic act.
II--MLLE. DUCLOS TELLS HER STORY
"I was determined to do something for my country in the fighting field,
something that the Germans would remember--something more than soothing
the fevered brow," said Mlle. Duclos, describing her exploits. "My
great-grandfather was a captain of grenadiers under Napoleon, and the
blood of generations of soldiers runs in my veins.
"My first ambition was to enlist in the fighting automobile service.
I had been used to running all kinds of cars since my childhood, and
was as fit for this work as any human being could be. But I found the
authorities obdurate. They simply would not let a woman into the
combatant services. I tried disguising myself as a man, but the rigid
physical examination made this attempt useless.
"Finally it seemed to me that the only way of reaching the front was
to join a volunteer motor ambulance corps, as several other women had
done. I transformed a 60-horsepower, eight-seated touring car into a
motor ambulance for four badly wounded men or eight slightly wounded
ones. I qualified for the service and was authorized to proceed to the
front in Alsace, accompanied by a mechanician.
"While performing my ambulance duties I had a good opportunity to watch
the armored automobiles, and realized that their work was the most
exciting and perhaps the most decisive of the war."
One day Mlle. Duclos, having taken some wounded men to the field
hospital, was returning once more to the fighting line. Eager for
adventure she drove her car up a mountain road, which was not included
in the trench zone, and entered a wild, mountainous country, from
which the French were desperately trying to drive the Germans by flank
attacks, surprises, air raids and other stratagems.
Soon the rattle of rifle bullets and machine gun fire close at hand
caught her attention. A turn in the road brought her in sight of a big
armored French car that stood disabled in the middle of the road. The
engine had been smashed by a shell. The Germans were firing at it from
cover some distance away. The French soldiers were firing away from the
protection of the armor with their machine guns and their rifles, but
they were handicapped by the immobility of the car, and the Germans
were gradually encircling them. Three of the eight Frenchmen forming
the crew of the car lay dead in the road, killed while they had exposed
themselves in an attempt to repair the engine.
Mlle. Duclos saw three German soldiers rise from cover and advance in
an effort to rush the car. They were shot down, but she saw that in a
few more minutes the Frenchmen must be overwhelmed.
Taking in the situation at a glance, the experienced motorist sped up
to the injured car and backed up her machine before she stopped.
"Get in," she cried to the French soldiers, "or you will be taken in
another minute."
The five Frenchmen jumped into Mlle. Duclos's car with their rifles.
Under a rain of bullets she sped back by the way she had come. Luckily
they all escaped, and a turn in the zigzag road soon put them out of
danger.
The Germans must have taken possession of the car in a leisurely manner
after the escape of the French. It was precious booty to them. Probably
they tried to repair it, and, finding that impossible, started to tow
it back.
The Frenchmen were not satisfied to escape with their lives and leave
their car behind. Mlle. Duclos had noted carefully the direction of the
surrounding roads. After running back a short distance she found a road
that would lead them to the one that the Germans would follow on their
way back.
The French officer in charge of the party insisted on taking the
steering wheel of the car, but Mlle. Duclos demonstrated that she was
the only one who could get the best speed out of her car. Thus she
forced them to let her stay in the place of danger.
Behind a pile of rocks that marked the meeting of the roads they lay in
wait for the returning Germans.
Up the road came the Germans tugging at a rope that drew the great
disabled French armored car. There were about forty of them,
practically half a company, minus the men who had already fallen in the
fight.
It was impossible for the five Frenchmen to cope with them in any
ordinary fight. Only surprise and stratagem could hope to meet the
situation.
III--SHE PLUNGES HER MOTOR INTO THE GERMANS
Mlle. Duclos immediately suggested that she should drive the car
straight down on the unsuspecting Germans. Her opportunity for a great
action had come. She seized it.
Down hill upon the toiling Germans flew the great 60-horsepower
car. Straight as an arrow it went, with the weight of its two tons
multiplied a hundred times by its speed and downward course.
All the Germans in its full path went down like ripe corn before the
scythe. Straight it flew on without being swerved in the slightest
degree by the human obstacles in its way.
Severed heads flew up in the air and arms and legs were chopped off by
the flying car. Ghastly fragments of flesh and bone, a muddy mixture
of blood and viscera, human remains that had nothing human about them,
spattered the wheels and the body and all the occupants of the car.
"I felt like the very incarnation of the spirit of destruction and
revenge," says Mlle. Duclos describing this wild scene. "I was not
human."
The car flew on its path of death until it reached the captured French
armored car. Mlle. Duclos missed this by an incalculable fraction of
an inch and then slowly brought her racing car to a stop.
The French soldiers looked back. Only a few German soldiers, who were
out of the path of the auto, had escaped death or maiming. Perhaps
there were six in all, and they were aghast at the demon of death that
had swept through them.
The French soldiers showered the Germans with hand grenades and would
probably have overcome the rest of the party and recaptured their auto,
when a party of Uhlans was seen riding up the road from the direction
of the German lines.
It appeared that scouting aviators of both sides had witnessed
the fight over the armored car and had carried word back to their
respective forces.
Once more the gallant French motor fighters were in danger of being
wiped out. Acting in co-operation with the officer, Mlle. Duclos ran
her car back again, putting it between the survivors of the first
German party and the new reinforcements. This move put the former at a
great disadvantage, as they were standing about in a flat, open place,
but, of course, it exposed the Frenchmen to the newly arriving German
forces.
The Frenchmen with rifles and pistols disposed of the remnant of the
first German party, and then started to hitch their disabled car to
Madame Durand's machine.
A shower of bullets from the German side warned them that their gallant
efforts would probably be in vain.
"Whir-r-r! whir-r-r!" came the frightful scream of war cars from the
direction of the French lines.
Two powerful French armored cars sped down the road, with machine guns
spouting death, and engaged the German reinforcements.
At the conclusion of this new battle the five French motor fighters
were able to secure their disabled car, and Mlle. Duclos at the wheel
of her own car led the glorious wreck back in triumph.
Thus it happened that she received the military cross of the Legion of
Honor and is the heroine of the hour.--(_New York American._)
THE RUSSIAN "JOAN OF ARC'S" OWN STORY
_Told by Mme. Alexandra Kokotseva, the "Russian Joan of Arc,"
Colonel Commanding the Sixth Ural Cossack Regiment--Translated from
a Letter Forwarded from Petrograd to Friends in New York_
I--"BELIEVE NONE OF THOSE GERMAN LIES"
As Jessaul (Colonel) of my dashing Cossack regiment I must be discreet
in my letter writing. Only last week one of my officers--in fact the
Sotnik (Captain) himself--let himself in for a nice wigging from the
department censor by heading a letter to his mother in Moscow with the
name of the nearest village to our regimental headquarters and the
exact date. All such details are "verboten," as the Austrian would say
whose bullet has given me this nice little rest in the field hospital.
Do not worry on my account. In a week I shall sit just as firmly in
my saddle as ever. Never was a wounded soldier of either sex more
petted and coddled than I am. Every day my little ones (Cossacks of her
regiment) almost bury me under Spring flowers.
"Listen, Batjuschka," I had to say just now to the grimmest and
fiercest of them--a grizzled giant who only yesterday captured six
Austrians single-handed--"do you wish to see your Jessual shedding
tears like a mere woman? For shame! About face--march!"
But the wretch had the audacity to try and kiss my hand--he left a tear
on it, anyway. When I'm out I shall have to discipline him severely!
My splendid Cossacks! Who would have thought that they would consent
to be commanded by a woman? Often have I told you of their superior
attitude toward women. They expect their women to work for them,
to serve them and be always submissive. Evidently my fierce little
ones consider me as a sort of Superwoman. Or, perhaps they do not
consider me a woman at all--except now that I am wounded and in the
hospital--and respect merely my colonel's uniform. Truly it has little
in common with the Tartar shirt, half-coat and foot-gear and kerchief
of their sisters and wives. At any rate they obey my slightest wish,
perform the most reckless deeds, gayly court death, to win my approval.
If you should be writing to Paul ----, or to Anna in America, be sure
and tell them to believe none of those German lies. Not one of my
fire-eating Cossacks has been guilty of offering indignities to a woman
of the enemy. Maybe my little ones do some burning and looting--if my
back is turned--but to act in a beastly way to women and children, no!
II--"TO MY FRIENDS IN AMERICA"
You have heard of us in the enemy's country. Ah, there was fat living!
Eggs by the hundred thousand; egg pancakes to tighten the belts of a
whole army, and mutton and beef without stint. We grew fat. Our ragged
and gaunt Austrian prisoners looked upon us with envy. Soon they also
were fat!
You know that we of the Cossack regiments have little to do with
the fighting in trenches. For us it is to make forays, to make
whirlwind attacks upon detachments of the enemy guarding their line
of communications, and capture positions badly defended by artillery.
I may be permitted to instance our usefulness on the frontier of
Galicia, between the Dniester and Pruth. It was my Cossacks who
surprised the Austrians at Okna.
The Austrians were intrenched. Our infantry attacked, but were
repulsed. Ah, then you should have beheld my little ones! There were
two Cossack regiments--two thousand dashing, fierce fellows--itching
for a hand-to-hand encounter with the despised Teutons. As the infantry
were retreating my little ones were given their chance.
Yelling madly and firing their carbines, they galloped west and east,
covering a long front to convince the Austrians that they were in large
force. The ruse worked. The enemy started to retreat to the southwest.
Before they were clear of their trenches the Cossacks were riding them
down, plying the cold steel right and left and cutting off large bodies
for prisoners--finally taking the position.
That is the work at which my fine fire-eaters are famous. The Sotnik
(Captain) of my regiment sent to me a bloodstained, grizzled victor in
a hundred battles who begged the privilege of presenting to me seven
caps belonging to the Austrian infantry service uniform, each pierced
through its crown. Like so many grouse, they were skewered upon my
brave Cossack's bayonet.
"Thank you, Batjuschka, but I am not hungry," I said, for my little
ones do not mind being teased. "Neither are they hungry who lately
wore them," was the quick answer. "Where are those seven Austrians?"
I asked, looking about in pretended stupidity. "With God," said my
gallant Cossack, as he reverently crossed himself. "Ah," I said,
"afterwards you went back and with your bayonet skewered each Austrian
cap where it lay beside its dead owner." "No," he replied gravely,
"with my bayonet I skewered each cap with the same thrust that sent its
owner to God." And again he crossed himself.
It was all true--there were witnesses of the encounter--seven to one,
and all the seven now "with God."
Do you shudder when I write to you of these things? Do you say to
yourself that "this terrible war" has robbed me of all my estimable
"woman's weaknesses?" Do you picture me brazenly calloused to scenes
of human agony and violent deaths for thousands in a single engagement
which probably has no effect upon the final outcome?
You would be wrong. It is simply that if you are a soldier it is your
duty to kill, and perhaps to be killed, in defense of your country. No
matter how dreadful the things that happen, they are inseparable from
war and you must get used to them. Gradually you do get used to them.
If you did not your services to your country would be of no value.
You would not be a true soldier, who must be able always to shrug his
shoulders and say to himself, "Well, such things happen," and then go
on faithfully with his soldier's work.
But believe me, these duties performed as well as I am able to
perform them, promotions, honors--afterward they will be as nothing
compared with what is dear to me as a woman. Through all this violence
and carnage and misery I know that I shall have gained in all that
becomes a woman--in faithfulness, tenderness, pity for the poor and
unfortunate, and in charity.
AN ITALIAN SOLDIER'S LAST MESSAGE TO HIS MOTHER
_Translated by Father Pasquale Maltese_
This is an extraordinary revelation of the heart of an Italian
soldier. It is the last letter to his mother written by a young
poet who fell on the Isonzo leading a platoon in battle. Father
Pasquale Maltese, pastor of the church of St. Anthony, New York,
translates it for _The Parish Monthly_ as an "inspiration to the
youth of every land."
I--"TO DIE A BEAUTIFUL AND GLORIOUS DEATH"
MOTHER:
This letter, which you will receive only in case that I should fall
in this battle, I am writing in an advanced trench, where I have been
since last night, with my soldiers, in expectation of the order to
cross the river and move to the attack.
I am calm, perfectly serene, and firmly resolved to do my duty in full
and to the last, like a brave and good soldier, confident to the utmost
of our final unfailing victory; although I am not equally sure that I
will live to see it. But this uncertainty does not trouble me in the
least, nor has it any terror for me. I am happy in offering my life to
my country; I am proud to spend it for so noble a purpose, and I know
not how to thank Divine Providence for the opportunity--which I deem
an honor--afforded me, on this fulgent autumnal day, in the midst of
this enchanting valley of our Julian Venetia, while I am in the prime
of life, in the fulness of my physical and mental powers, to fight in
this holy war for liberty and justice. All is propitious to me, all
is favorable to die a beautiful and glorious death; the weather, the
place, the season, the opportunity, the age. A better end could not
have crowned my life, and I feel the pleasure to have made a good and
generous use of it. Do not grieve over my death, mother, or else you
will offend my good fortune. Do not weep, mother, for it was written
in Heaven that I should die. Do not mourn, mother, or else you would
regret my happiness. I am not to be mourned but envied.
You know the ineffable hopes that give me comfort because they are the
very same hopes in which you also have placed all that is dear to you.
When you read these words of mine, I will be free, unfettered and in a
safe place, far from the miseries of this world. My struggle will be
finished and I shall be peaceful; my daily death shall have come to an
end, and I shall have reached the place on high, to the life without
end. I shall be face to face with the Judge whom I have greatly feared,
to the Lord whom I have greatly loved.
Think of it, mother dear, when you read these words. I shall view you
from heaven, side by side with our dear ones, with father, with my dear
Laura, with Dino, our Guardian Angel. We shall be in the regions above,
all united to celebrate your arrival, to watch over you and over Gino,
to prepare for you, with our prayers, the place of your everlasting
glory. Should not this thought alone be sufficient to dry your tears
and to fill you with unspeakable joy?
II--"WEEP NOT, MY DEAR MOTHER"
No, no, weep not, my dear and saintly mother, and be brave, as you
have always been. Should the pleasure of having offered to our adored
Italy, this glorious land, this land predestined by God, should the
pleasure of having offered the sacrifice of the life of one of your
sons, be not sufficient for you, remember, nevertheless, that you must
not rebel, not even for one instant, to the divinely wise and divinely
loving decrees of our Lord. If He wanted to reserve me for other
work, He could have permitted me to survive. Since He has called me
to Himself, it is a sign that such was the best thing that could have
happened and the best thing for me. He knows what He is doing, and it
remains for us to bow and to adore, accepting with trustful joy His
most Exalted Will.
I do not bemoan life. I have tasted of all its insane infatuations and
have withdrawn with an insurmountable weariness and disgust.
Like a young prodigal son, after so many wanderings, having returned to
the house of the father, I could have hoped now, and reasonably so, to
taste of the good joys, the joys of duties well performed, of the good
practised and preached, the joys born of art, of labor, of charity, of
a fruitful mind.
Side by side with the good, beautiful girl whom you know and esteem,
and whom I have always loved, always so tenderly, timidly and
faithfully loved, even in the midst of my errors and blameworthy
blunders, I could have hoped to make a good husband and a good father.
In the world there are so many battles to fight, for love, for
justice, for liberty, for the faith, and for a time I must confess, I
presumptuously believed myself predestined and assigned to the arduous
and terrible task of winning one or another of these battles.
All this was, I admit, beautiful, flattering, desirable, but it cannot
compare with my present lot. This is the very truth, and indeed I
cannot say whether I would really be satisfied if the writing of this
letter would have been in vain. Life is sad; it is a painful and
annoying duty, a long exile in the uncertainty of our own lot. In
order that life might go quickly in accordance with my wishes, and
without leaving me in a thousand disappointments, there would be need
of many very rare and difficult occurrences. Besides, I am and I feel
weak, I have not the least confidence in myself. The whole battle
against the ingratitude and wickedness of the world would not have
frightened me as much as the battle against myself. It is better,
therefore, dear mother, as it has happened. The Lord, in His wise and
infinite goodness, has reserved for me just the destiny that was fit
for me; a destiny that is easy, sweet, honorable, rapid; to die in
battle for one's country.
With this beautiful and praiseworthy past, fulfilling the most desired
of all duties as a good citizen towards the land that gave him birth,
I depart, in the midst of the tears of all those that love me, from
a life toward which I felt weary and disgusted. I leave the failings
of life, I leave sin, I leave the sad and afflicted spectacle of the
small and momentary triumphs of evil over good. I leave to my humble
body the weight of all my chains and I fly away, free, free in the end,
to the heavens above, where resides our Father, to the heavens above,
where His holy will is always done. Just imagine, dear mother, with
what joy I will receive from His hands even the chastisements that His
justice will impose on account of my sins. He Himself has paid all
these chastisements by His superabundant merits, a God of mercy and
of love, redeeming me with His precious blood, living and dying here
below for my sake. Only through His grace, only through Jesus Christ,
could I have succeeded that my sins be not my eternal death. He has
seen the tears of my sorrow, He has pardoned me through the mouth of
His spotless spouse, the Church. I do sincerely hope that the Madonna,
so loving and kind toward us, will assist me with her powerful help in
the instant when my eternity will be decided.
III--"GOOD-BYE, MOTHER--WE SHALL NOT DIE IN VAIN"
And as I am about to speak of forgiveness, dear mother, I have only
one thing to say with all simplicity: Forgive me! Forgive me all the
sorrows that I have caused you; all the agonies that you have suffered
on my account every time I have been ungrateful, stubborn, forgetful,
disobedient toward you. Forgive me if, by neglect and inexperience, I
have failed to render your life more comfortable and tranquil since the
day when my father, by his premature death, entrusted you to my care.
Now I understand well the many wrongs I have been guilty of toward you,
and I feel all the remorse and cruel anguish now that dying I have to
entrust you to the providence of the Lord. Forgive me lastly this final
sorrow that I have inflicted upon you, perhaps not without stubborn
and cruel inconsideration on my part, in giving up my life voluntarily
for my country, fascinated by the attractions of this beautiful lot.
Forgive me also if I have not sufficiently recognized and tried to
compensate the incomparable nobility of your soul, of your heart, so
immense and sublime. Mother, truly perfect and exemplary, to whom I owe
all that I am and the least good I have done in this world.
I have so many things to say to you that a book could hardly contain
them. Nothing else, therefore, is left me but to recommend you to our
Gino, on whose goodness, on whose integrity, and on whose strength
of will, I put all trust. Tell him in my name to serve willingly
our country as long as she will have need of him, to serve her with
abnegation, with ardor, with enthusiasm, even unto death, should that
be necessary. Should he be destined to live a long and struggling life,
let him be equal to it with serenity, with firmness, with indomitable
love for justice and honesty, trusting always in the triumph of good
with God's grace. Let him be a good husband and a good father; let
him raise up his children in the love of God, respect for the Church,
fidelity toward our King, to the observance of the law, to scrupulous
devotion to our beloved country. Think often of us here above; speak
of us among yourselves; remember us and love us as when we were alive,
because we shall always be with you.
Pray often for me, for I am in need of it. Be courageous in the trials
of life, as you have always been strong and energetic in the midst
of the tempest of your earthly career; continue to be humble, pious,
charitable, so that the peace of God may always be with you.
Good-bye, mother; good-bye, Gino, my dear and my belovèd! I embrace
you with all the ardor of my immense love, which has increased a
hundredfold during my absence in the midst of the dangers and hardships
of the war. Here, far away from the world, always with the image of
imminent death, I have felt how strong are the ties that bind us to
this world; how mankind is in need of mutual love, of faith in each
other, of discipline, of harmony, of unity, what necessary and sacred
things are the fatherland, the home, the family; how blameworthy is the
person who renounces these, who betrays and oppresses them.
Love and freedom for all, this is the ideal for which it is a pleasure
to offer one's life. May God cause our sacrifice to be fruitful; may
He take pity upon mankind, forgive and forget their offenses, and give
them peace. Then, oh! dear mother, we shall not have died in vain. Just
one more tender kiss.
GIOSUE BORSI.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Obvious errors of punctuation and diacritical markings were corrected.
Inconsistent hyphenation was made consistent.
Both "dug-out" and "dugout" are used frequently and have not been
changed.
"of" added in "Permission of New York American" in table of contents
entry for "HOW MLLE. DUCLOS...".
P. 35: One the face of it -> On the face of it.
P. 35: These stiplations -> These stipulations.
P. 82: There were a group -> They were a group.
P. 94: The Advance to Monse -> The Advance to Mons.
P. 96: secure a birth -> secure a berth.
P. 115: we could could procure -> we could procure.
P. 133: Aerschat -> Aerschot.
P. 134: The sequal to my one-hundredth flight -> The sequel to my
one-hundredth flight.
P. 143: Deisel -> Diesel.
P. 158: But I've illusions -> But I've no illusions.
P. 176: There it a pretty little comedy -> There is a pretty little
comedy.
P. 178: as had been been anticipated -> as had been anticipated.
P. 180: Deutschland, Deutschland, über Allies -> Deutschland,
Deutschland, über Alles.
P. 182: It that mine exploded -> If that mine exploded.
P. 186: undergoing the the process -> undergoing the process.
P. 186: immediate requiremenst -> immediate requirements.
P. 191: this his previous blunder -> that his previous blunder.
P. 192: one well swoop -> one fell swoop.
P. 195: back in in Petersburg -> back in Petersburg.
P. 198: non-combatatants -> non-combatants.
P. 204: barely distinguishable roads -> barely distinguishable road.
P. 206: descended on her shoulder -> descend on her shoulder.
P. 208: keepers of the the forest -> keepers of the forest.
P. 214: the German had fired -> the Germans had fired.
P. 220: as thought he meant -> as though he meant.
P. 221: turned be back -> turned me back.
P. 222: obession of my fear -> obsession of my fear.
P. 231: Flemish titler -> Flemish title.
P. 241: without specal orders -> without special orders.
P. 266: Jilfla -> Jilfi.
P. 273: leave a comrade die like a dog -> leave a comrade to die like
a dog.
P. 276: jeun docteur Allemand -> jeune docteur Allemand.
P. 282: a public vehicles -> a public vehicle.
P. 284: lès majesté -> lèse majesté.
P. 309: Vive Verund -> Vive Verdun.
P. 317: the old wail of sorow -> the old wail of sorrow.
P. 325: Every one us -> Every one of us.
P. 334: replied the hsuband -> replied the husband.
P. 340: Thus the lengend grew -> Thus the legend grew.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "True Stories of the Great War, Volume VI (of 6) - Tales of Adventure—Heroic Deeds—Exploits Told by the Soldiers, Officers, Nurses, Diplomats, Eye Witnesses" ***
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