IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES OF A FRENCH TROOPER, 1914-15
[Illustration: NIGHT CHARGE OF THE 22ND DRAGOONS, SEPT. 10-11, 1914.]
[Illustration: MAP ILLUSTRATING THE ROUTE FOLLOWED BY THE 22ND REGIMENT
OF DRAGOONS.]
IMPRESSIONS AND
EXPERIENCES OF A
FRENCH TROOPER
1914-1915
BY
CHRISTIAN MALLET
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916
BY
E. P. DUTTON & CO.
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
In Memoriam
TO MY CAPTAIN
COUNT J. DE TARRAGON
AND
TO MY TWO COMRADES
2ND LIEUT. MAGRIN AND 2ND LIEUT. CLÈRE
WITH WHOM
MANY PAGES OF THIS BOOK ARE CONCERNED
WHO FELL
ALL THREE ON THE FIELD OF HONOUR
IN DEFENCE
OF THEIR COUNTRY
“_Dragons que Rome eut pris pour des Légionnaires._”
CONTENTS
PAGE
Frontispiece 9
The 22nd Regiment of Dragoons 11
CHAPTER
I.—Mobilisation—Farewells—We leave Rheims 13
II.—Across the Border into Belgium—Life on Active
Service from Day to Day—After the Germans
had Passed through—The Retreat 26
III.—How we Crossed the German Lines—The Charge
of Gilocourt—The Escape in the Forest of
Compiègne 43
IV.—Verberie the Centre of the Rally—The Epic of
a Young Girl—Mass in the Open Air—From Day
to Day 74
V.—The Two Glorious Days of Staden 97
VI.—The Funeral of Lord Roberts—Nieuport-Ville—In
the Trenches—Ypres and the Neighbouring
Sectors—I Transfer to the Line 110
VII.—The Attack at Loos 144
Index 165
FRONTISPIECE
This picture by Carrey represents the night charge of a squadron of 22nd
Dragoons against German trenches near Compiègne. During the night of
September 9th, the squadron leader, who had received orders to endeavour
to intercept and capture a large enemy convoy, suddenly came under a
hot fire from German trenches. In the darkness it was impossible to
choose his country, but the position before him must be attacked, and,
signalling the charge, he led his squadron at the trenches. As the first
line rose to the jump the Germans scuttled out in panic, only to be
ridden down and destroyed. With the 22nd are shown two troopers of the
4th Dragoon Guards, belonging to the 2nd British Cavalry Brigade. Both
had fought at Mons, but during the retirement had lost their regiment,
and after wandering about for some days fallen in with the 22nd Dragoons
and fought for some weeks in their ranks. Whilst still under heavy
fire, one of these Englishmen, throwing the reins of his horse to his
companion, dismounted and ran to and rescued a French trooper whose
horse had fallen dead and pinned him to the ground; on rejoining their
own regiment their French commanding officer gave them the following
certificate of service:
“I, the undersigned, certify that T..... and B....., troopers,
belonging to the 4th Dragoon Guards, lost themselves in the
neighbourhood of Péronne on the 20th August, and joined up with
my squadron, and have since then formed part of it and engaged
in all its operations. On the night September 10-11 my squadron
received orders to capture a German convoy, and found itself
surrounded by the retreating enemy.
“T..... and B..... took part in a charge by night against
entrenched infantry, and helped in the fighting on the
outskirts of the forest of Compiègne.
“They are both men of fine courage and high training, and have
given me every satisfaction.
“(_Signed_) A. DE S.,
“_Captain_, 22nd Dragoons.”
(_Le Temps._)
THE 22ND REGIMENT OF DRAGOONS
AUSTERLITZ 1805
JENA 1806
EYLAU 1807
OPORTO 1809
The 22nd Regiment of Dragoons was raised in 1635 under the name of “The
Orleans Regiment,” and took part from 1639 to 1756 in all the great wars
in which the French were engaged before the Revolution. From 1793 to 1814
the regiment was continually at work, first under the Republic and then
in Napoleon’s armies.
It saw service in the Army of the Sambre and Meuse, 1794-1796; the
Army of the Rhine, 1800; the Grande-Armée, 1805; in the war in Spain,
1808-1813; the Campaign in Saxony, 1813; the Campaign in France, 1814.
The regiment was disbanded in May, 1815, and was not raised again until
September, 1873.
Impressions and Experiences of a French Trooper, 1914-15
CHAPTER I
MOBILISATION—FAREWELLS—WE LEAVE RHEIMS
Of all my experiences, of all the unforgettable memories which the war
has woven with threads of fire unquenchable in my mind, of all the hours
of feverish expectancy, joy, pain, anguish and glorious action, none
stands out—nor ever will—more clearly in my recollection than the day
when we marched out of Rheims. Nothing remains, except a confusion of
disconnected memories of the days of waiting and of expectation, days
nevertheless when one’s heart beat fast and loud. A bugle-call sounding
the “fall-in” lifts the curtain on a new act in which, the empty years
behind us, we are spurring our horses on into the eternal battle between
life and death.
On the thirtieth of July, 1914, I did not believe in the possibility
either of war or of mobilisation—nor even of partial mobilisation—and I
refused to let my thoughts dwell on it.
The good folk of Rheims, excited and anxious, gathered from time to
time in dense crowds outside the building of the Société Générale, on
the walls of which the latest telegrams were posted up, then broke up
into knots of people who discussed the situation with anxiety and even
consternation. At the Lion d’Or, where I turned in for dinner on the
terrace under the very shadow of the cathedral, I called for a bottle of
Pommery, saying jocularly that I must just once more drink champagne; a
message telephoned from a big Paris newspaper reassured me, and in the
peaceful quiet of a fine summer’s night I returned to my quarters with a
light heart.
As I was turning into bed I caught a glimpse through the barrack window
of the two Gothic towers of the cathedral, standing high above the city
as if in the act of blessing and guarding it.
All was quiet: the silence was only broken from time to time by the cry
of the swallows as they skimmed through the clear air.
War, I repeated to myself, it is foolish even to think of, and this talk
of war is but the outcome of some disordered pessimistic minds; and with
that I went to sleep on my hard little webbed bed ... for the last time.
Towards midnight I woke with a start, as though someone had shaken me
roughly. Yet all was still: the barracks were rapt in sleep. Near by
me only the loud and heavy breathing of the twelve men who made up the
number occupying the room could be heard, as I lay on my back, wide
awake, waiting, for I now felt that the signal would surely come which
should turn the barracks into a very hive of bees.
Five minutes passed—perhaps ten—then a deafening bugle call which made
the very walls vibrate, calling first the first squadron, growing in
volume as it called the second, louder still the third, like the roar
of some beast of prey as it summoned ours; then it died away as it got
farther off across the barrack square where the fifth squadron was
quartered.
It was the call to arms.
The sleepy troopers, half awake, sat up in their beds with a
start—“Hulloa!—what? What is the matter?... Are we really mobilising?”
Then followed the sound of heavy boots in the corridors, heavy knocks on
the doors, the silence of the night was a thing of the past and had given
place to deafening clatter.
In a few seconds every man was on his feet without any clear idea as
to what was forward. The sergeant-major called to me: “Mallet—run and
warn the officers of the squadron to strap on their mess tins with their
equipment and assemble in barracks as quickly as possible.”
So it’s serious, is it? and in a flash the truth, the very reverse of
what I had been trying to believe, forced itself upon me and paralysed
all other power of thought. Whether it breaks out to-morrow or in a
month’s time, it is war—relentless war—that I seem to see like a living
picture revealed.
The impression masters my mind as I turn each corner of the dark streets
and open spaces, and the cathedral with its twin towers, so peacefully
standing there, is transformed into a giant fortress watching over the
safety of the country-side.
A man comes out of a house on the _place_ and runs after me, I hear his
heavy shoes striking the pavement behind me; breathless he blurts out the
question, “Is war declared?”
“War ... yes ... that is to say, I don’t know.”
I continue on my way to carry out my orders with enough time left to run
up to my own rooms and get some money and clean linen.
I got back to barracks as dawn was spreading over the sky, and found our
commandeered horses being brought in by civilians and soldiers in fatigue
overalls. An elderly non-commissioned officer shrugged his shoulders and
said in a low voice, “Commandeered horses being brought in already!—that
does not look very healthy.”
At the time of the Agadir affair things did not get as far as that, and
the incident forced itself on my mind as proof that war was inevitable.
Packing and preparation were over and the men, waiting for orders, were
wandering about the square, and in the canteen, which they filled—still
half dark as it was—one heard shouts of joy and high-pitched voices
telling the oldest and most threadbare stories.
But the canteen-keeper—friend of us all—with red eyes and shaking voice,
was talking of Bazeille, her own village, burned by the Germans in 1870,
where her old father and mother still lived. She is horrified at the
thought of another invasion of the soil of France.
“The Bosches here? No, indeed, Flora, you are talking wildly; never you
doubt, we will send them to the right-about and back to Berlin at the
point of our toes—give us another glass of white wine—the best—that’s
better worth doing.”
“Well, well!”
At the table where I sat with my own particular friends, all were in high
spirits, all talking the greatest nonsense, becoming intoxicated with
their own words as they romanced of heroic charges, of wonderful forced
marches and highly fantastic battles; I alone remained somewhat serious
and heavy of heart, and abused myself for being less free of care than
they in the face of this triumph of manliness and youthful high spirits;
yet in spite of myself, I watched them, these comrades of mine, day in,
day out, to whom I should become more closely allied still by war, and
tried to pierce the mists of the future, grey and threatening, and to
discern what was to be the fate of each.
There they sat: Polignac, who was to be taken prisoner a short four weeks
later, and who still languishes in a Westphalian fortress; Laperrade, who
was to fall dead with a lance head through his chest as he defended his
officer; Magrin, fated to die, when spring came, with a bullet through
his heart; Clère, whom death was to claim three days after having
heroically won his commission, and all the rest of them, too many to name
here, but of all of whom I cherish in my heart a recollection not only
tender but full of pride that they were my friends.
Yet the day passed in a fever of expectation and excitement. The smallest
piece of news, or the greatest absurdity told by the latest man from the
guard-room of the 5th, or the stables of the 2nd, or by “the adjutant’s
orderly,” flew like the wind round the barracks, increased in volume,
became distorted, took shape no one knew how and in the end was believed
by all—until some still more ridiculous tale took its place.
There were waggish fellows, too, who wandered from group to group with a
serious look on their faces, saying, “Well, it’s come now; I have just
heard the Colonel give the order to stand to horses,” and until evening,
when we were again crowded inside the canteen, it was the same hunger for
news, the same excitement, the same desperate longing to know what was
happening.
Only at seven o’clock did we get the official news, and although it came
as no surprise, the whole barrack was stunned by it. Squadron orders
issued at seven o’clock gave us three hours to prepare to march, as
prescribed by the rules governing the movements of covering troops, to
which we belonged. In three hours we should be on the way to an unknown
destination; to ourselves fell the honour of being the advance guard;
to us the task of guarding and watching the frontiers whilst the rest
of the army was mobilising; and with keen pride in the fact, we held up
our heads and thrust out our chests, whilst our faces took on a look of
confidence in our power to conquer. Even the humblest trooper seemed
transfigured, and in that moment I realised, perhaps for the first time,
the high soul of France.
But the news soon spread beyond the barracks. Rheims, although some
twenty minutes’ walk away, somehow learned it, and almost immediately all
the town flocked to the barrack gates. I say all the town because all
classes together hurried there pell-mell—not only those with a brother or
son or a friend amongst the troops about to set off, but those who were
drawn by ties of friendship with the regiment, and those who came from
mere curiosity. The crowd, which got larger and larger, beat upon the
iron gates like waves breaking vast and black on a rocky shore. Old women
came to give a last kiss to their sons; old men, too, pensioners who
had fought in ’70, whose hands trembled as they pressed those of their
boys, distracted little shop girls who held their lovers passionately
in their arms—silk frocks and broadcloth mingled together in one vast
crowd swayed by deep emotion, brave and placid, though its heart was near
breaking—every sob was stifled, every mouth drawn with sorrow yet tried
to laugh, and it was cheerily that the last partings took place, the last
touching and heartfelt “God speed” was said.
How great a country to possess such children! Soon the gates could no
longer bar the passage of the crowd which swept like a torrent through
the outer square, overwhelmed the sentries, and threatened to engulf
everything.
As the hour of departure grew nearer, the farewells became more animated.
Then the bugles sounded through the barracks the order for “majors to
join the Colonel,” next captains and others of commissioned rank; there
was a scurrying of officers to and fro before the orderly room, and
Colonel Robillot himself could be seen standing on the doorstep watching
the scene with a look of pride and indulgence in his eyes.
At nine o’clock, as I was standing some distance apart in a corner
of the square with friends who had come to bid me a last farewell, a
non-commissioned officer, touching me on the shoulder, warned me that my
troop was about to fall in, and I had to break off my adieux.
From that moment I was to think no more of myself. All was over with
affairs that bound heart or fancy. The supreme moment had come when words
no longer count, and when the eyes try to fill themselves with one last
gaze upon those whom one is leaving—goodbye to family, to love, to self,
to the joy of the living—all one’s soul goes out in this last gaze.
This look would say, “Farewell, I will be brave, never doubt it, don’t
cry, don’t suffer regrets.” This look embraces all that life has meant up
to now, whether of joy or sorrow. It is final—a farewell, a promise—it
signifies the end—all one’s very soul is in one’s eyes.
And, in effect, no sooner was my back turned and I stood at my horse’s
side than all other thoughts left me. I forgot that I had perhaps said
a last farewell, in face of the essential importance of assuring myself
that nothing of my equipment should be forgotten, that my horse is
soundly shod, of tightening up the girths and seeing that my blanket was
properly folded, and, automatically, I went on repeating to myself, “Let
me see ... I have my lance, my sword, my carbine[1] ... have I thought
of everything?” and seemed to look disaster in the face on finding that
I had no water-bottle—what was I to do? The very bottle that Flora, the
canteen-keeper, had filled with boiling soup in her motherly way—“Oh, my
water-bottle”—a real calamity it seemed—empires might crumble; I should
have no soup to-morrow morning—all my outlook on war is shrouded in gloom.
Still it was no time to behave like a child. One by one each trooper
led his horse into the huge barrack square, where spots of light from
electric torches carried by the officers indicated where each troop was
to take up its position.
On the chalky ground of the square, showing grey in the darkness, what
looked like parallel black lines were growing longer. They were lines of
troops, growing into squadrons and increasing until they became the whole
regiment. Behind them were the baggage waggons, the travelling forges,
machine-guns, commandeered carts, the cyclists’ detachment and all the
rest.
The riding school lay between us and the outer square, which was filled
with light and alive with the impatient crowd crushing forward to see us
ride out of the narrow way kept open for us, and the time dragged as we
waited for every man to be in his place and for the signal to move out.
The horses, impatient at standing still, would paw the ground, and now
and again a long-drawn neigh would break the silence. At last a figure
appeared in silhouette—it was the Colonel.
“Mount!” The two majors repeated the command, and in each half-regiment
its two captains, first, then the subalterns and non-commissioned
officers repeated it.
A wave seemed to flow from troop to troop like an eddy in a pool, and,
sitting rigid in our saddles, our lances held upright, we waited the
final order, which was to decide our future and direct us towards the
unknown.
“March!” Quitting the dim light of the inner, we came suddenly into the
brightly lit outer square, where thousands of hands were held up to bid
us a frenzied farewell.
A cry from the crowd followed as we dragoons, sitting like statues, our
helmets drawn well down over our faces lest we should betray any sign of
emotion, passed out of the barracks which many were never to see again,
amid the cheers of a multitude, and the noise of thousands of feet which
grew less and less distinct as we rode on.
“I say, old pals, don’t forget your sweethearts,” cried a little street
girl standing on the edge of the foot-path, and that was the last word I
heard as Rheims became more and more indistinct in the darkness, whilst
we pushed on towards the east.