Within range of the German guns, probably not more than four or
five kilometres from Verdun, we came on a line of men waiting
their turn to go into the cinema. After all there was no reason "de
s'en faire," and if they were alive they decided they might as well
be happy and amused. Just before entering the gate of Verdun we
passed a number of ambulances, some of them driven by the
American volunteers. These young Americans have displayed
splendid heroism in bringing in the wounded under difficult
conditions. Many of them have been mentioned in despatches,
and have received from France the Croix de Guerre. I also saw an
ambulance marked "Lloyds."
It would be useless to pretend that one entered Verdun without
emotion,--Verdun, sorely stricken, yet living, kept alive by the
indomitable soul of the soldiers of France, whilst her wounds are
daily treated and healed by the skill of her Generals. A white city of
desolation, scorched and battered, yet the brightest jewel in the
crown of France's glory; a shining example to the world of the
triumph of human resistance and the courage of men. A city of
strange and cruel sounds. The short, sharp bark of the 75's, the
boom of the death-dealing enemy guns, the shrieks of the shells
and the fall of masonry parting from houses to which it had been
attached for centuries, whilst from the shattered window frames
the familiar sprite of the household looked ever for the children
who came no longer across the thresholds of the homes. Verdun
is no longer a refuge for all that is good and beautiful and tender,
and so the sounds of the voices of children and of birds are heard
no more. Both have flown; the children were evacuated with the
civilians in the bitter months of February and March, and the birds,
realising that there is no secure place in which to nest, have
deserted not only Verdun but the whole of the surrounding district.
We proceeded to a terrace overlooking the lower part of the town
and witnessed a duel between the French and German artillery.
The Germans were bombarding the barracks of Chevert, and from
all around the French guns were replying. It was certainly a joy to
note that for one boom of a German cannon there were certainly
ten answers from the French guns. The French soldiers off duty
should have been resting in the caves and dug-outs which have
been prepared for them, but most of them were out on the
terraces in different parts of the city, smoking and casually
watching the effect of the German or of their own fire. I enquired of
one Poilu whether he would be glad to leave Verdun, and he
laughingly replied: "One might be worse off than here. This is the
time of year that in peace times I should have been staying in the
country with my mother-in-law."
There is no talk of peace in Verdun. I asked one of the men when
he thought the war would end. "Perfectly simple to reply to that,
Mademoiselle; the war will end the day that hostilities cease."
I believe that the Germans would not be sorry to abandon the
siege of Verdun. In one of the French newspapers I saw the
following verse:
Boches, a l'univers votre zele importun
Fait des "communiques" dont personne n'est dupe.
Vous dites: "Nos soldats occuperont Verdun.
Jusqu'ici c'est plutot Verdun qui les occupe."
(You say that you soon will hold Verdun, Whilst really Verdun holds
you.)
We left the car and climbed through the ruined streets to the top of
the citadel. No attempt has been made to remove any of the
furniture or effects from the demolished houses. In those houses
from which only the front had been blown away the spoons and
forks were in some instances still on the table, set ready for the
meal that had been interrupted.
From windows lace curtains and draperies hung out over the
fronts of the houses. Everywhere shattered doors, broken
cupboards, drawers thrown open where the inhabitants had
thought to try to save some of their cherished belongings, but had
finally fled leaving all to the care of the soldiers, who protect the
property of the inhabitants as carefully as if it were their own.
It would be difficult to find finer custodians. I was told that at
Bobigny, pres Bourget, there is on one of the houses the following
inscription worthy of classical times:
"The proprietor of this house has gone to the War. He leaves this
dwelling to the care of the French. Long live France." And he left
the key in the lock.
The soldiers billeted in the house read the inscription, which met
with their approval, and so far each regiment in passing had
cleaned out the little dwelling and left it in perfect order.
From the citadel we went down into the trenches which led to the
lines at Thiaumont. The heat in the city was excessive but in the
trenches it was delightfully cool, perhaps a little too cool. We heard
the men make no complaints except that at times the life was a
little "monotonous"! One man told me that he was once in a trench
that was occupied at the same time by the French and the
Germans. There was nothing between them but sand bags and a
thick wall of clay, and day and night the French watched that wall.
One day a slight scratching was heard. The men prepared to face
the crumbling of the barrier when through a small hole popped out
the head of a brown rabbit. Down into the trench hopped Mrs.
Bunny, followed by two small bunnies, and although rabbit for
lunch would have improved the menu the men had not the heart to
kill her. On the contrary they fed her on their rations and at night-
fall she departed, followed by her progeny.
From all the dug-outs heads popped out and the first movement of
surprise at seeing a woman in the trenches turned to a smile of
delight, since the Poilu is at all times a chivalrous gentleman. One
man was telling me of the magnificent work that had been
accomplished by his "compagnie." I congratulated him and told
him he must be happy to be in such a company. He swept off his
iron casque, bowed almost to the ground, and answered: "Certainly
I am happy in my company, Mademoiselle, but I am far happier in
yours." The principal grief of the Poilus appeared to be that a shell
two or three days before had destroyed the store of the great "dragee"
(sugared almond) manufactory of Verdun. Before leaving the
manufacturer had bequeathed his stock to the Army and they were
all regretting that they had not been greedier and eaten up the
"dragees" quicker.
In the trenches near Verdun, as in the trenches in Flanders, you
find the men talking little of war, but much of their homes and their
families. I came once upon a group of Bretons. They had opened
some tins of sardines and sitting around a bucket of blazing coals
they were toasting the fish on the ends of small twigs. I asked
them why they were wasting their energies since the fish were
ready to be eaten straight from the tins. "We know," they replied,
"but it smells like home." I suppose with the odour of the cooking
fish, in the blue haze of the smoke, they saw visions of their
cottages and the white-coiffed Bretonnes frying the fresh sardines
that they had caught.
The dusk was now falling and, entering the car, we proceeded
towards the lower part of the town at a snail's pace in order not to
draw the German fire. We were told that at the present time
approximately one hundred shells a day still fall on Verdun, but at
the time of the great attack the number was as high as eight
hundred, whilst as many as two hundred thousand shells fell daily
in and around Verdun.
Just before we reached the entrance to the citadel the enemy
began to shell the city and one of the shells exploded within two
hundred feet of the car. We knew that we were near the entrance
to the vaults of the citadel and could take refuge, so we left the car
and proceeded on foot. Without thinking we walked in the centre of
the road, and the sentinel at the door of the citadel began in
somewhat emphatic French to recommend us to "longer les murs"
(to hug the walls tightly). The Germans are well aware of the
entrance to the citadel and daily shell the spot. If one meets a shell
in the centre of the road it is obviously no use to argue, whilst in
hugging the side of the wall there is a possibility of only receiving
the fragments of the bursting shell.