ACROSS THE BORDER INTO BELGIUM—LIFE ON ACTIVE SERVICE FROM DAY TO
DAY—AFTER THE GERMANS HAD PASSED THROUGH—THE RETREAT
6th August to 5th September, 1914
It was on the 6th of August that we crossed the frontier into the Walloon
district of Belgium at Muno, to bring succour to the Belgians whose
territory had just been violated by the German Army.
In turning over my diary, I select this incident from among many
others and stop to describe it, for it seems but right to recall the
enthusiastic and touching welcome with which the whole people greeted
us—a people now, alas, crushed under the German heel. We were welcomed
with open arms—they gave without counting the cost, they threw open their
doors to us and could not do enough for the French who had come to join
forces with them and bring them succour.
There is not a trooper in my regiment, not a soldier in our whole army,
who does not recall that day with feelings of profound emotion.
From the time we left Sedan, our ears still ringing with the cheers that
had sent us on our way from Rheims, we received the heartiest of welcomes
and good wishes at every village we passed through, but once across the
frontier we were acclaimed—prematurely, as it turned out—as veritable
conquerors.
Cavalry on the march, squadron after squadron, has a marked effect on
people, and takes the semblance of an invincible rampart against which
any enemy must go down.
After seventeen hours in the saddle, with helmet, lance, carbine, sword
and full kit, now by a night-time more than disagreeable by reason of an
icy cold fog, now under a tropical sun which scorched us, all the while
in a cloud of dust, tormented by swarms of midges and horse-flies which
hung about us, and tortured by the sight of cherry trees heavy with
fruit, which hung over the road, but the branches of which were out of
our reach, we approached the frontier.
On the road we passed all the vehicles in the district which had been
requisitioned by the military, interminable convoys of them, amongst
which, irrespective of class, were humble peasant carts, old-fashioned
shaky barouches, motor-cars, with the crests of their owners blazoned on
the doors, all filled with oats and forage.
Aëroplanes followed us and passed ahead of us flying all-out towards the
east. Every now and again we had to draw to the side of the road to allow
streams of motor omnibuses drawn from the streets of Paris, filled with
chasseurs[2] and infantry, to pass by; and our teeth crunched the fine
dust that we incessantly breathed.
At length we passed by a fir wood, and a post, painted yellow and black,
showed us that we were in Belgium; then we came in sight of a village,
almost a hamlet, from which, as we drew near, there rose a noise, the
sound of singing, growing louder as we drew near—the _Marseillaise_,
sung in welcome by all the folk from the country-side, gathered at their
country’s gateway to greet us.
All joined in, women, children with shrill voices, even the old men. They
ran along after us till we reached the _place_, when the song ceased and
a thousand voices cried: “Vive la France! Vive les Français!” with such
vigour that the horses were startled and cocked their ears in alarm.
One and all brought us gifts, each according to his or her means, fruit,
bread, jam, cakes, cigars and cigarettes, pipes and tobacco. I should
fill a page with a list of what was thrust upon us. To our parched lips
women held flagons of wine or beer, which refreshed us more perhaps when
it ran down our cheeks, caked with dust, even than when it found its
way down our throats, as the jolting of our horses caused us to spill
the precious liquid. It taxed us to stuff away all the dainties in our
already overfull pockets, and we stuck cigars into our tunics between the
buttons, and flowers in the buttonholes.
A number of French nuns with white head-dresses, like huge white birds,
presented us with sacred medallions. I shall always retain graven on
my memory the agony depicted in the beautiful, sad eyes of an elderly
nun with white hair, who held out to me the last of her collection, a
scapular of the Virgin in a brown wrap, and as she did so, said to me,
“God guard you, my child.”
And in each village we passed through, that day and the days which
followed, we met with the same welcome and the same generosity. It was
the same at Basteigne, at Bertrix, at Rochefort, Beauraing, and Ave;
indeed everywhere, in the towns as in the villages, the crowd hailed us
and fed us. Belgians have handed me boxes of as many as fifty cigarettes.
After exhausting days of twelve or fourteen hours in the saddle I noticed
that the troopers, worn out with fatigue, suffering from the heat, from
hunger and thirst and intolerable stiffness, sat up in their saddles
instinctively as we approached a village, prompted by an unconscious
sense of pride in holding up their heads, and I can say, for my part,
that such a welcome as we received always banished any feelings of
fatigue.
One of our bitterest regrets was having to pass again through Belgium in
the reverse direction and to read the dumb surprise on the faces of the
people who had thought us unconquerable, but whose great hearts were full
only of commiseration for us, worn out as we were, and who, forgetful of
their own anxieties, did all in their power to help us.
A peasant woman, I remember, gave us the whole of her provisions,
everything that remained in her humble dwelling. The enemy were then
advancing on our heels in a threatening wave, and, on my expressing
astonishment that she should strip her shelves bare in this fashion, she
shook her fist towards the horizon in a fury of rage and exclaimed: “Ah,
sir, I prefer that you should eat my provisions rather than leave them a
crumb of bread.”
Up till the 19th August we had advanced in Belgium; the retreat of the
division commenced that same day from Gembloux. We kept on seeking,
without success, to get in touch with the German cavalry. Nothing but
petty combats took place with insignificant details, a troop at most, but
more often with patrols, reconnaissance parties and little groups who
surrendered on our approach in a contemptible fashion.
I saw a German major, Prince R——, accompanied by two or three troopers,
surrender themselves while still some two hundred mètres from one of our
weak patrols. They threw down their arms and put up their hands. It was a
sickening sight.
Everywhere the enemy’s cavalry gave ground, vanished in smoke, became a
myth for our regiment, in spite of our forced marches. Each day we spent
ten, fifteen, twenty hours in the saddle. One day we actually covered
a hundred and thirty kilomètres in twenty-two hours, and reached our
culminating point to the east, almost under the walls of Liége.
Although we hardly saw any Germans during this first month, we could,
_per contra_, follow them by the traces of their crimes.
By day, from village to village, lamentations spread from one horizon to
the other, and I regret not having noted the names of the places which
were the scenes of the atrocities of which I saw the sequels. I regret
not having taken the names of the unhappy women whose children, brothers
and husbands had been tortured and shot without motive, not to speak of
the outrages which they themselves had undergone, not to speak of the
assaults of lechery and Sadism of which they had been the victims. They
alluded to these in a fury of rage or made an involuntary confession in
an agony of humiliation and grief.
By night a furrow of fire traced the enemy’s path. The Germans burnt
everything that was susceptible of being burnt—ricks, barns, farms,
entire villages, which blazed like torches, lighting the country-side
with a weird light.
We entered villages of which nothing remained except smoking and calcined
stones, before which families, who had lost their all, grieved and wrung
their powerless hands at the sight of some black débris which had once
been all their joy, their hearth and home.
I wish particularly to insist that these deeds were not the result of
_accident_, for we were daily witnesses of them for a whole month. I
still shiver when I think of the confidences which I have received. The
pen may not write down all the facts, all the abominations, all the
hateful things, all the lowest and most degrading filthiness inspired by
the imagination of crazy erotomaniacs. It was always Sadism which seemed
to guide their acts and predominate amongst their misdeeds.
Here a mother mourned a child, shot for some childish prank; there a
young girl grieved for her fiancé, hung because he was of military age;
farther on a helpless old man had had his house pillaged and had been
brutally treated because he had nothing else to offer. At every step
we heard the story of crime, and those guilty deserve to be hung. Such
are the things of which such an enemy was capable—an enemy who refused
combat, who advanced hastily under cover of night to rob and burn a
defenceless village, and who seemed to vanish like smoke at the approach
of our troops, leaving in our hands hardly more than some drunken
stragglers unable to regain their army, or some robbers who had waited
behind to rob a house or to violate a woman, and had been taken in the
act.
We passed through all that in our endless quest, always in the saddle,
sleeping two or three hours at night, in an exasperating search for the
German cavalry, which was constantly reported to be within gun-shot, but
which disappeared by enchantment each time we approached. To give an idea
of what we endured, I have transcribed word for word the notes from my
field pocket-book describing some of these August days. These notes were
written in most cases on horseback by the roadside during a halt.
_7th August._—Torrential rain; twelve hours in the saddle; we
are worn out with fatigue; put up at Basteigne; arrived at
night. My troop is on guard. I mount duty at the bridge; we are
fed by the populace, nothing to eat from rations.
_8th August._—Réveillé 3 o’clock, mounted a last turn of duty
at the bridge till 5 o’clock. Departure; rested at midday in an
open field for dinner. While we are eating, enemy is reported
near; we follow immediately towards Liége. Don’t come up with
them. March at night till one in the morning; have done one
hundred and thirty kilomètres and twenty hours on horseback,
sleep in an open field from two to four.
_9th August._—Torrid heat, men and horses done up; billeted at
Ave after twelve hours in the saddle. First squadron ambushed.
Lieutenant Chauvenet killed. The Germans flee, burning the
villages, killing women and children.
_11th August._—Leave Ave at 5 o’clock. The heat appears to
increase, not a breath of air. For two hours we trot in clouds
of blinding dust. A regiment of Uhlans is reported. The Colonel
masses us behind a hill and we think we are going to deliver
battle; but the enemy steals away once more. Thirst is a
torture, my water-bottle lasts no time. Arrive at Beauraing at
six o’clock. Thirteen hours in the saddle.
_12th August._—We onsaddled at 5 o’clock. False alarm; wait at
Beauraing.
_14th August._—Alarm, the regiment moves off; I am left behind
to accompany a convoy of reservists. The village is barricaded,
the enemy is quite near. Only a handful of men are with the
convoy. Wait at the side of the road with Fuéminville and
Lubeké. Five dismounted men arrive, without helmets, done up,
limping, prostrated, grim as those who have seen a sight which
will for ever prevent them from smiling; the fact is that the
remains of the 3rd squadron of the 16th have been caught in
an ambush by the German infantry concealed in a wood. They
have been shot down at point-blank range without being able to
put up a fight. Never have I seen human waifs more lamentable
and more tragic. They had seen all their comrades fall at
their side and owed their lives only to the fact that they had
themselves fallen under their dead horses and to a flight of 40
kilomètres through the woods. Montcalm is amongst the killed.
The convoy marched out at half-past nine at night, at the walk,
an exasperating pace of 4 kilomètres an hour. We took all night
to do 23 kilomètres. I ask myself when we are likely to rejoin
the 22nd, even whether the 22nd still exists.
_15th August._—We bivouac near the village of Authée, with the
convoys of the 61st and 5th Chasseurs. It is dark and cold,
and this night has tired me more than my longest marches. The
waiting about unnerves us, and my blood boils when I think that
the 22nd must be on the eve of having a fight. The Germans lay
siege to Dinant eight kilomètres off. One hears the guns as
if they were alongside. Our turn is near, I think. No one is
affected thereby, and we prepare our soup to the whistling of
shells. The cannonade seems to redouble, they are giving and
taking hard knocks, and some there will be who won’t answer
their names to-night.
_Ten o’clock._—The different convoys move off. 16th, 22nd,
9th, 28th, 32nd Dragoons, etc. All at once we are stupefied
by seeing a battalion of the 33rd of the line, or rather what
remains of the battalion, some thirty terrifying beings,
livid, stumbling along, with horrible wounds. One has his lips
carried away, an officer has a crushed hand, another has his
arm fractured by a shell splinter. Their uniforms are torn,
white with dust and drip with blood. Amongst the last comers
the wounds are more villainous; in the waggons one sees bare
legs that hang limp, bloodless faces. They come from Dinant,
where the French have fought like lions. Our artillery arrived
too late, but they had the fine courage to charge the German
guns with the bayonet. The guns spit shell without cease and
the crackle of musketry does not stop. We go across country
to billet at Florennes. These last days of tropical heat
give place to damp cold. It is raining. We meet long convoys
of inhabitants who, panic-stricken, quit their houses to go
and camp anywhere at all. It is lamentable. Two kilomètres
from Florennes we “incline.” The cold is biting, in spite of
the cloak I wear. We arrive in black darkness at a village
where we bivouac in spite of the torrential rain. I rejoin
the regiment with infinite trouble; clothes, kit, horses are
dripping wet. They must stay so all night. I do a stable guard
at three in the morning without a lantern. The horses are tied
up by groups to a horseshoe. They kick and rear, upsetting the
kit and the lances in the mud; I dabble about and lose myself
in the night. The village is called Biesmérée.
_Sunday, 16th August._—The weather has cleared up. I
leave again with the regiment. We are going to put up at
Maisons-Saint-Gérard. Just before arriving there a storm bursts
and wets us through; the water runs down into our breeches.
I am as wet as if I had been dipped in a river; and one must
sleep like that ... and yet one does not die!
_17th August._—Off at 5 o’clock. We bivouac at Saint-Martin in
the meadow between two small streams. I have hurt my left foot
badly, and at times I feel an overpowering fatigue, but one
must carry on all the same. The bivouac is admirable. Big fires
warm up the soup for the troops. The little stream shimmers,
all red, and encircles the bivouac. The day ends; splendid.
Some Cuirassiers bivouac a little higher up on the village
green. We hear them singing the _Marseillaise_. We sleep in a
barn in heaps one on the top of the other.
_19th August._—The 4th squadron is on reconnaissance. We start
alone, at a venture. We are in the saddle all day. At night we
make a triumphal entry into Gembloux and we are baited with
drinks and food. The Germans are at the gates of the town and
the crowd is wildly excited. The sun goes down without a cloud,
round as a wafer. I forget the day’s fatigues and we venture
across the plain and the woods. It is an agonising moment; we
hide ourselves behind a long rick of flax; the enemy is some
hundreds of mètres off and all night we have sentries out. I
slept two hours yesterday, to-day I am passing the whole night
on foot. The cold is cruel. Now and then my legs give way and I
nearly fall on my knees. We have had nothing to eat but bread,
the chill damp gets into our bones. Some Taubes pass, sowing
agony.
_20th August._—I am one of the point party under Lieutenant
Chatelin. We fire on some horsemen at 600 mètres. The squadron
is still on reconnaissance. One could sit down and cry from
fatigue. We advance towards Charleroi, whose approaches are
several kilomètres long. A population of miners. Everywhere
are foundries, mines, factories, and for two hours unceasing
acclamation. We arrive at a suburb of Charleroi, done up,
falling out of our saddles. Interminable wait on the _place_;
night falls. The camp kit comes up at last, but the march is
not yet over, we are camping five kilomètres farther on. It
is enough to kill one. We get to Landelies. Rest at last, we
bivouac. I share a bed, with Delettrez, for the first time for
three weeks. In a bed at one side a fat old woman is sleeping.
No matter, it is an unforgettable night.
_21st August._—Landelies; rest; we satisfy our hunger; we
expect to pass a quiet day and night. At four o’clock we are
off to an alarm; we are in the saddle all night and arrive in
a little village, whose name I forget, half dead with hunger
and cold. The peasants give us bread. We have been all day on
horseback.
_22nd August._—Are we going to have a little rest? No, we
were out of bed all night and we are at it again. We do
not understand the movements we are carrying out. _Are we
retreating?_ The fatigue is becoming insupportable. We get
to Bousignies at three in the morning. On the road I lost my
horse during a halt and I found myself alone in the night and
on foot. I had all the trouble in the world to catch up the
squadron on foot. We slept two hours in the rain in a field of
beetroot. Off again at 9 o’clock. Loud firing twenty kilomètres
off. All the peasants are clearing out. They say that Charleroi
is on fire.
And so it goes on each day till the end of the month. The 26th we marched
in the direction of Cambrai; we put up at Epehy, which the enemy burnt
the following day. The peasants replied by themselves setting fire to the
crops to prevent their falling into the enemies’ hands.
At Roisel, a whole train of goods blazed in the midday heat. We went on
to Péronne. The 28th we were at Villers-Carbonel, where I was present
at an unforgettable artillery combat. I saw shells throw some French
skirmishers in the air by groups of three and four at a time. We left
Villers-Carbonel in flames, and, from that moment, we beat a rapid
retreat towards Paris, passing by Sourdon, Maisoncelle, Beauvais,
Villers-sur-Thère, Breançon, Meulan, Les Alluets-le-Roi, and, after a
last and painful stage, we put up at Loges-en-Josas, four kilomètres from
Versailles, where the fortune of war brought me to one of our own estates.
Thus it came about that my mother, who believed me to be at the other
end of Belgium, caught sight of me one fine morning coming up the central
drive to the château on foot, leading my horse, my lance on my shoulder,
followed by a long file of troopers.