VERBERIE THE CENTRE OF THE RALLY—THE EPIC OF A YOUNG GIRL—MASS IN THE
OPEN AIR—FROM DAY TO DAY
10th September to 20th October, 1914
The battle finished on the tenth, and then the pursuit of the conquered
army commenced and kept the whole world in suspense, with eyes fixed on
this headlong flight towards the north, which lasted till the end of the
month, and which was to be the prelude of the great battles of the Yser.
The region round Verberie was definitely cleared of Germans and was
become once more French. The little town for some days presented an
extraordinary spectacle.
We entered the town after having received the formal assurance of the 5th
Chasseurs, who went farther on, that all the country was in our hands.
Some divisional cyclists were seated at the roadside. We asked them for
news of the 22nd, and their reply wrung our hearts. They knew nothing
definite, but they had met a country cart full of our wounded comrades,
who had told them that the regiment had been cut up.
No one could tell us where the divisional area was to be found. The
division itself appeared to have been dismembered, lost and in part
destroyed. We thought that we were the only survivors of a disaster,
and, once the horses were in shelter in an empty abandoned farm stuffing
themselves with hay, we wandered sadly through the streets destroyed
by bombardment and by fire in search of such civilians as might have
remained behind during the invasion.
A little outside the town we at last found a farm where two of the
inhabitants had stayed on. The contrast between them was touching. One
was a paralysed old man unable to leave his fields, the other was a young
girl of fifteen, a frail little peasant, and rather ugly. Her strange
green eyes contrasted with an admirable head of auburn hair, and she
had heroically insisted on looking after her infirm grandfather, though
all the rest of the family had emigrated towards the west. She had
remained faithful to her duty in spite of the bombardment, the battle
at their very door and the ill-treatment of the Bavarian soldiers who
were billeted in the farm. Distressed, yet joyous, she prepared a hasty
meal and busied herself in quest of food, for it was anything but easy
to satiate eleven men dying of hunger when the Germans, who lay hands on
everything, had only just left.
She wrung the neck of an emaciated fowl which had escaped massacre,
and, by adding thereto some potatoes from the garden, she served us a
breakfast, washed down with white wine, which made us stammer with joy,
like children. One needs to have fasted for five days to have felt the
cutting pains of hunger and of thirst in all their horror, to appreciate
the happiness that one can experience in eating the wing of a scraggy
fowl and in drinking a glass of execrable wine tasting like vinegar. She
bustled about, and her pitying and motherly gestures touched our hearts.
While we ate she told us the most astonishing story that ever was, a
story acted, illustrated by gestures, which made the scenes live with
remarkable vividness.
She told us how, faithful to her oath, she was alone when the Bavarians
came knocking at her door, how she lived three days with them, a butt
for their innumerable coarsenesses, sometimes brutally treated when the
soldiers were sober, sometimes pursued by their gross assiduities when
they were drunk; how one night she had to fly half naked through the
rain, slipping out through the vent-hole of the cellar, to escape being
violated by a group of madmen, not daring to go to bed again, sleeping
fully dressed behind a small copse; how at last French chasseurs had put
the Bavarians to flight and had in their turn installed themselves in the
farm, and how among them she felt herself protected and respected.
She attached herself to her new companions, whom she looked after like a
mother for three days. Then they went away, promising to return, and she
was left alone.
But the next day at dawn, uneasy at the row that came from the town, she
decided to go in search of news. She put on a shawl and slipped through
the brushwood and thickets as far as the first houses. She was afraid of
being seen, and made herself as small as possible, keeping close to the
walls, crossing gardens and ruined houses. The terrible noise increased,
and she went towards it. She wanted to see what was going on, and a fine
virile courage sustained her. The shells fell near her; no matter, she
had only a few more steps to go to turn the corner of a street. She
arrived on the _place_ as the battle was finishing.
Her fifteen chasseurs were there, fifteen corpses at the foot of the
barricade. One of them, who still lived, raised himself on seeing her,
and held out his arms towards her. Then, forgetting all danger, in a
magnificent outburst of feminine pity, she braved the rain of fire and
dashed to the centre of the _place_. She knelt by the young fellow,
enveloped him in her shawl to warm him and rocked him in her arms till he
closed his young eyes for ever, thankful for this feminine presence which
had made his last sufferings less bitter.
While she remained kneeling on the pavement wet with blood, a last big
calibre shell knocked over, almost at her feet, a big corner house, which
in its fall buried the German and French corpses in one horrible heap.
She fell in a faint on the stones, knocked over by the windage of the
shell, which had so nearly done for her.
During the latter part of her discourse she straightened her thin figure
to the full, her strange eyes sparkled, and she appeared to be possessed
by some strong and mysterious spirit which made us tremble. She became
big in her rustic simplicity—big, as the incarnation of grief and of
pity, and the peasant in her gave place to a living image of the war—an
image singularly moving and singularly beautiful.
* * * * *
From the next day Verberie became in some degree the rallying point
for all soldiers who had lost touch with their units. Elements of all
sorts of regiments, of all arms, of all races even, arrived on foot,
on horseback, on bicycles, in country carts. There were dragoons,
cuirassiers, chasseurs, artillerymen, Algerian Light Infantry and
English. Bernous, khaki uniform, blue capes, rubbed shoulders with
dolmans, black tunics and red trousers.
In this extraordinary crowd there were men from Morocco mounted on Arab
horses and wearing turbans; there were “Joyeux” who wore the tarboosh,
and ruddy English faces surmounted by flat caps. All the uniforms were
covered with dirt and slashed and torn. Many of the men had bare feet,
and some carried arms and some were without. It was the hazard of the
colossal battle of the Marne, where several millions of men had been at
grips, which had thrown them on this point. All were animated by the same
desire for information, and particularly of the whereabouts of their
respective regiments. From every direction flowed in convoys, waggons,
artillery ammunition waggons, stragglers from every division and from
every army corps. The mix-up and the confusion were indescribable. One
heard shouting, swearing, neighing of horses, the horns of motor-cars,
and the rumble of heavy waggons, which shook the houses.
Faces drawn with fatigue were black with dust and mud and framed in
stubbly beards. Everyone was gesticulating, everyone was shouting and
a bright autumn sun, following upon the storm, threw into prominence
amongst the medley of clothing the luminous splashes of gaudy colours and
imparted an Oriental effect to the crowd.
* * * * *
Having eaten, washed and rested, I walked the streets, drinking the
morning air and taking deep breaths of the _joie de vivre_, of the
strength and vitality mingled with the air. I looked on every side to
see whether I could not find some acquaintance in the crowd, some stray
trooper from my regiment.
So it was that the hazard of my walk brought me to a scene which moved
me to tears and which rests graven so deeply on my memory that I can see
its smallest detail with my eyes shut. The Gothic porch of the church,
with its fine sculptures of the best period, was open, making in the
brightness of the morning a pit of shade, at the foot of which some
candles shone like stars. On the threshold of the porch, gaily lighted
by the morning sun, a priest, whose fine virile face I can still recall,
held in his hand the enamel pyx, and his surplice of lace of a dazzling
whiteness contrasted with the muddy boots and spurs. One could guess
that after having traversed some field of battle, consoling the wounded
and the dying, he had dismounted to officiate in the open air under the
morning sun.
Before him, on a humble country cart and lying on a bed of straw, were
stretched the rigid bodies, fixed in death, of two chasseurs who had
fallen nobly while defending the bridge over the river. All around,
kneeling in the mud of the porch, a semicircle of bareheaded soldiers,
overcome by gratitude and humility, were assembled to accomplish a last
duty and pay their last respects to the two comrades who were lying
before them and who were sleeping their last sleep in their blood-stained
uniforms, and assisted at the supreme office. The priest finished the _De
profundis_, and in a clear voice pronounced the sacred words “_Revertitur
in terram suam unde erat et spiritus redit ad Deum qui dedit illum._”
The officiant gave the holy-water sprinkler to the priest, who sprinkled
the bodies and murmured “_Requiescat in pace._” “Amen,” responded the
kneeling crowd, and a great wave of religious feeling passed over the
kneeling men, the greater part of whom gave way to overmastering emotion.
I can still see a big devil of an artilleryman, with his head between
his hands, shaken by convulsive sobs. Having given the absolution, the
priest raised the host sparkling in the sunlight for the last time and
pronounced the sacramental words. I moved off, deeply affected by the
grandeur of the scene.
* * * * *
By the 12th a good number of 22nd Dragoons and some officers of the
regiment had rejoined at Verberie. We formed from this débris an almost
complete squadron under the command of Captain de Salverte, who had
succeeded in getting through the lines by skirting the forest.
I again found my officer, M. Chatelin, whom I had last seen in the little
clearing near Gilocourt, surrounded by lurking enemies, and whom I had
hardly dared hope to see again alive; also M. de Thézy, my comrade Clère
and others.
We were all sorry to hear that Lieutenant Roy had fallen on the field
of battle with several others, and that Major Jouillié had been taken
prisoner. As for Captain de Tarragon, it was stated that he might have
escaped on foot with his orderly and that he might be somewhere in
the neighbourhood with a contingent of escaped men, but any precise
information was wanting.
The night before I had slept in the drawing-room of the château belonging
to M. de Maindreville, the mayor. Its appearance merits some brief
description, so that those who are still in doubt as to the savagery of
the Germans may learn to what degree of bestiality and ignominy they are
capable of attaining.
This fine drawing-room was a veritable dung heap. The curtains were torn,
the small billiard-table lay upside down in the middle of the room, a
litter of rotting food covered the floor, the furniture was in matchwood,
the chairs were broken, the easy-chairs had had their stuffing torn out
of them and the glass of the cabinets was smashed. One could see that all
small objects had been carried off and all others methodically broken.
On the first floor the sight was heart-breaking. Fine linen, trimmed
with lace, was soiled with excrement; excrement was everywhere, in the
bath, on the sheets, on the floor. They had vomited on the beds and
urinated against the walls; broken bottles had shed seas of red wine on
the costly carpets. An unnamable liquid was running down the staircase,
obscene designs were traced in charcoal on the wall-papers and filthy
inscriptions ornamented the walls.
I have told enough to give an idea of the degrading traces left by a
contemptible enemy. I have exaggerated nothing; if anything, I have
understated the truth.
And this is the people that wants to be the arbiter of culture and of
civilisation! May it stand for ever shamed and reduced to its true level,
which is below that of the brute beast.
* * * * *
On the morning of the 12th, under the command of Captain de Salverte
we crossed the Oise by a bridge of boats, the stone bridge having
been destroyed by dynamite some days before. We went north to billet
at Estrée-Saint-Denis, which was to be the definite rallying point of
the 22nd Dragoons. We were followed by several country carts, full
of dismounted troopers, saddles, lances, cloaks and odds and ends of
equipment.
Acting on very vague information, I set out on the 13th to look for
Captain de Tarragon. I was mounted on a prehistoric motor bicycle,
requisitioned from the village barber. I scoured the country seeking
information from everyone I met. I received the most contradictory
reports, made a thousand useless detours and was exasperated when
overtaken by night without having found any trace of him.
I followed the road leading to Baron and to Nanteuil-le-Haudoin, along
which but a few days before the corps of Landwehr, asked for by von
Kluck, had marched with the object of enveloping our army, and along
which it had just been precipitately hustled back. The sky was overcast
and the day threatening. At each step dead horses with swelled bellies
threatened heaven with their stiff legs. A score of soldiers were lying
in convulsed attitudes, their eyes wide open, with grimacing mouths
twisted into a terrifying smile, and with hands clasping their rifles.
Involuntarily I trembled at finding myself alone at nightfall in this
deserted country, where no living being was to be seen, where not a sound
was to be heard except the cawing of thousands of crows and the purr of
my motor, which panted on the hills like an asthmatic old man, causing
me the liveliest anxiety.
Fifteen hundred mètres from Baron, after a last gasp, my machine stopped
for ever, and, as I was ignorant of its mechanics, I was compelled
to leave it where it was and continue my journey on foot through the
darkness.
The proprietor of the château of Baron put me up for the night. As at
Verberie, everything had been burnt, soiled and destroyed. Nothing
remained of the elegant furniture beyond a heap of shapeless objects.
Next morning with the aid of a captain on the staff who requisitioned a
trap for me, I got back to Verberie and found Captain de Tarragon there.
He had slept at the farm of La Bonne Aventure, quite near to where I lay.
When he saw me, after the mortal anxieties through which he had lived,
believing his squadron lost and cut up, he was overcome by such a feeling
of gratitude and joy that I saw tears rise to his eyes while he shook me
vigorously by the hand. He had already sent forward my name for mention
in the order for the day with reference to the affair at Gilocourt and
the death of poor Dangel. I was recommended for the military medal,
and my heart swelled with pride and joy, while I was carried back to
Estrée-Saint-Denis, stretched out in a country cart with a score of
dismounted comrades.
A few days afterwards I was promoted corporal and proudly sported the red
flannel chevrons bought at a country grocer’s shop.
* * * * *
Once the half-regiment was reconstituted after a fashion, though many
were missing (a detachment of fifty men without horses having returned to
the depot), we were attached to the 3rd Cavalry Division, which happened
to be in our neighbourhood, ours having left the area for some unknown
destination. Until the 1st of October our lot was bound up with that of
the 4th Cuirassiers, who marched with us.
On the 23rd of September, as supports for the artillery, we were present
at violent infantry actions between Nesle and Billancourt. The 4th Corps
attacked, and the furious struggle extended over the whole country. My
troop was detached as flank guard and, in the thick morning fog, we
knocked up against a handful of German cavalry, whom, in the distance, we
had taken for our own men.
We charged them at a gallop, and we noticed that they were tiring and
that we were gaining on them. One of them drew his sabre and cut his
horse’s flanks with it, whilst a non-commissioned officer turned and
fired his revolver without hitting us; but, thanks to the fog, they got
away. We did not tempt providence by following them too far for fear of
bringing up in their lines.
At night we were sent to reconnoitre some fires which were reddening the
horizon and which, from a distance, seemed vast conflagrations. We came
upon a bivouac of Algerian troops, who were squatting on their heels,
warming themselves, singing strange African melodies and giving to this
corner of French soil an appearance of Algeria.
On hearing the sound of our horses they sprang to arms with guttural
cries, but when they had recognised that we were French they insisted on
embracing our officer and danced round us like children.
We billeted at Parvillers in a half-destroyed farm, and there at daybreak
a sight that suggested an hallucination met our eyes. Some ten German
soldiers were there in the courtyard dead, mowed down by the “75,” but
in such natural attitudes that but for their waxen colour one could have
believed them alive. One was standing holding on to a bush, his hand
grasping the branches. His face bespoke his terror, his mute mouth
seemed as if in the act of yelling and his eyes were dilated with fear.
A fragment of shell had pierced his chest. Another was on his knees,
propped against a wall, under cover of which he had sought shelter from
the murderous fire. I approached to see where his wound was and it took
me a moment to discover it, so intact was the corpse. I saw at last
that he had had the whole of the inside of his cranium carried away and
hollowed out, as if by some surgical instrument. His tongue and his eyes
were kept in place by a filament of flesh, and his spiked helmet had
rolled off by his side. An officer was seated on some hay, with his legs
apart and his head thrown back, looking at the farm.
All these eyes fixed us with a terrifying immobility, with a look of
such acute terror that our men turned away, as if afraid of sharing it;
and not one of them dared to touch the magnificent new equipment of the
Germans, which would have tempted them in any other circumstances. There
were aluminium water-bottles and mess tins, helmet plates of shining
copper and sculptured regimental badges dear to the hearts of soldiers,
and which they have the habit of collecting as trophies.
The dawn of the 25th broke without a cloud over the village of Folies. A
heat haze hid the early morning sun. The enemy were quite near, and the
sentries on the barricades gave the alarm. The cuirassiers and dragoons,
leaving their horses under cover, had been on watch in the surrounding
country since the morning to protect the village and the batteries of
“75’s,” which were firing from a little way back.
A non-commissioned officer and I had remained mounted. M. de Thézy
sent us to investigate some horsemen whose shadows had loomed through
the mist and whom we had seen dismount in an apple orchard near the
village of Chocques. We set off at a quiet trot, convinced that we had
to deal with some French hussars whom I had seen go that way an hour
before. We crossed a field of beetroot and made straight towards them.
They seemed anchored to the spot, and when we were within one hundred
mètres, and they showed no signs of moving, our confidence increased.
The fog seemed to grow thicker and our horses, now at the walk, scented
no danger. We were within fifty mètres of them when a voice spoke out
and the word “carbine” reached us distinctly, carried by a light breeze.
The non-commissioned officer turned to me, his suspicions completely
stilled, and said, “We can go on, they are French, I heard the word
carbine.” At the same instant I saw the group come to the shoulder and
a dozen jets of fire tore the mist with short red flashes. A hail of
bullets fell all around us, and we had only just time enough to put
between them and ourselves as much fog as would conceal us, for before
turning tail we had seen the confused grey mass of a column coming out of
the village. We had only to warn the artillery and then there would be
some fun.
The lieutenant of artillery was two kilomètres back perched on a ladder.
Having listened to what we had to say, he turned towards his gun and
cried through a megaphone, “2600, corrector 18.” We were already far off,
returning at the gallop to try to see the effect, and it was a fine sight.
Leaving the horses in a farm, we slipped from tree to tree. There was
the column, still advancing. A first shell, ten mètres in front of
it, stopped it short; immediately a second fell on the left, wounding
some men, and a horse reared and upset its rider. A third shell struck
mercilessly into the centre of the column and caused an explosion
which sent flying, right and left, dark shapes which we guessed to
be fragments of bodies. It rained shell, which struck the road with
mathematical precision, sowing death and panic. In the twinkling of an
eye the road was swept clean. The survivors bolted in every direction
like madmen, and the agonising groans of a dying horse echoed through the
whole country-side.
* * * * *
On the 1st of October we rejoined our division and the first
half-regiment at Tilloy-les-Mofflaines. Up to the 20th we passed through
a period of great privation and fatigue owing to the early frosts. We
were unable to sleep for as many as five days on end, and when at night
we had a few hours in which to rest, we passed them lying on the pavement
of the street, propped up against some heap of coal or of stones, holding
our horses’ reins, each huddled up against his neighbour to try and keep
warm.
Here are extracts from my diary, starting from 8th October:
_8th October._—All night we guarded the bridge at Estaires,
after having constructed a formidable barricade. Damp and
chilly night, which I got through lying on the pavement before
the bridge; drank a half-litre of spirits in little sips to
sustain me. This is the most trying night we have passed, but
the spirits of all are wonderful.
_9th October: Twenty minutes to four, two kilomètres from
Estaires, scouting amongst beetroot fields._—Has the supreme
moment come? A little while ago I firmly believed that it
had; now I am out of my reckoning, so incomprehensible and
widespread is the struggle which surrounds us.
We have evacuated Estaires and the bridge over the Lys, which
we were guarding, to rejoin our horses on foot. After some
minutes on the road the first shells burst. My troop received
orders to fight dismounted, and here we are, lying down as
skirmishers amongst the beetroot, in the midst of a heavy
artillery and musketry fire. I am on the extreme right, and a
moment ago two shrapnel shells came over and burst six or eight
mètres above my head, peppering the ground with bullets. Never,
I imagine, have I come so near to being hit.
For the moment it is impossible to understand what is going on;
the whole of the cavalry which was on in front of us—chasseurs,
dragoons and all the cyclists—have fallen back, passing along
the road on our flank. We, however, have had no order to
retire. The peasants with their wives and children are running
about the country like mad people. It is a sorry sight. A
moment ago I saw an old man and a little girl fall in their
hurry to escape from their farm, which a shell had just knocked
to pieces. They are like herds of animals maddened by a storm.
At dusk the Germans are 500 mètres off. We have orders to take
up our post in the cemetery of Estaires. I have hurt my foot
and each step in the ploughed land is a torture. I have noted a
way which will lead me to the bridge on the other side of the
town.
I brought up my patrol at the double. When I got back I saw the
troop retiring.
We passed through the town, which had a sinister look by night,
reddened by the flames from many fires. The whole population is
in flight, leaving houses open to the streets, and crowding up
the roads. All the window-panes are broken by the bombardment;
somewhere, in the middle of the town, a building is burning
and the flames mount to the sky. There are barricades in every
street. We have reached the horses, which are two kilomètres
from the town, and we grope for them in the dark. Mine is
slightly wounded in the foreleg. Long retreat during the night
(the second during which we have not slept—a storm wets us to
the skin).
Arrived at Chocques at five in the morning. We get to bed at
6.30 and we are off again at 8 o’clock. I ask myself for how
many days men and horses can hold out.
_10th October._—In the afternoon we again covered the twenty
kilomètres which separated us from Estaires. Hardly had we
settled down to guard the same bridge as yesterday when we were
sent to La Gorgue. On the way stopped in the village, as shells
commenced to fall. The 1st troop took refuge in a grocer’s,
where we were parked like sheep. A large calibre shell burst
just opposite with a terrible row. I thought that the house
was going to fall in. Lieutenant Niel, who had stayed outside,
was knocked over into the ditch and wounded. We are falling
back with the horses to La Gorgue, and we are passing a third
night, without sleep, on the road, Magrin and I on a heap of
coal. Horses and men have had nothing to eat, the latter are
benumbed, exhausted, but gay as ever.
_11th October._—We get to a neighbouring farm at Estrem to
feed the horses. They have scarcely touched their hay and
oats before an order comes telling us to rejoin at the very
place from which we have come. The Germans are trying to take
the village from the east, thanks to the bridge which they
captured the day before yesterday, but we have been reinforced
by cyclists, and the 4th Division is coming up. We are holding
on; the position is good. The belfry of the town hall has just
fallen. We are going back to Estrem.
Three hours passed in a trench without great-coats. Magrin
and I are so cold that we huddle up one against the other and
share a woollen handkerchief to cover our faces. We put up at
Calonne-sur-la-Lys. And so it goes on up to the 17th, the date
on which we re-enter Belgium, passing by Bailleul, Outersteene
and Locre. It is not again a triumphal entry on a fine August
morning, it is a march past ruins and over rubbish heaps.
At Outersteene, however, we were received with touching
manifestations of confidence and enthusiasm; an old tottering
and broken-down teacher had drawn up before the school a score
of young lads of seven to ten years old, who watched us passing
and sang the _Marseillaise_ with all their lungs, while the old
man beat the time.
The village had been evacuated only three days ago, and it
was from the thresholds of its houses, partly fallen in and
still smoking, that this song rose, a sincere and spontaneous
outburst.