the summit the same elaborate works had been built to hold this high
ground. We watched other attacks under curtains of fire as the British
pressed on. Sometimes we could see the Germans moving out in the open
from their dugouts at the base of the hill in St. Pierre Divion and
driven to cover as the British guns sniped at them with shrapnel.
Resistlessly the British infantry under its covering barrages kept on
till the crest and all its dugouts and galleries were gained, thus
breaking back the old first-line fortifications stage by stage and
forcing the German into the open, where he must dig anew on equal terms.
The capture of Thiepval did not mean that its ruins were to have any
rest from shells, for the German guns had their turn. They seemed fond
of sending up spouts from a little pond in the foreground, which had no
effect except to shower passing soldiers with dirty water. However much
the pond was beaten it was still there; and I was struck by the fact
that this was a costly and unsuccessful system of drainage for such an
efficient people as the Germans to apply.
XXX
FIVE GENERALS AND VERDUN
Sixty miles an hour to meet General Joffre--Joffre somewhat like
Grant--Two figures which France will remember for all time--Joffre
and Castelnau--Two very old friends--At Verdun--What Napoleon and
Wellington might have thought--A staff whose feet and mind never
dragged--The hero of Douaumont, General Nivelle--Simplicity--Men who
believe in giving blows--A true soldier--A prized photograph of
Joffre--The drama of Douaumont--General Mangin, corps commander at
Verdun--An eye that said "Attack!"--A five-o'clock-in-the-morning
corps--The old fortress town, Verdun--The effort of
Colossus--Germany's high water mark--Thrifty fighters, the
French--Germany good enough to win against Rumania, but not at
Verdun.
That spirited friend Lieutenant T., at home in an English or a French
mess or walking arm-in-arm with the _poilus_ of his old battalion,
required quick stepping to keep up with him when we were not in his
devil of a motor car that carried me on a flying visit to the French
lines before I started for home and did not fail even when sixty miles
an hour were required to keep the appointment with General Joffre--which
we did, to the minute.
Many people have told of sitting across the table in his private office
from the victor of the Marne; and it was when he was seated and began to
talk that you appreciated the power of the man, with his great head and
its mass of white hair and the calm, largely-molded features, who could
give his orders when the fate of France was at stake and then retire to
rest for the night knowing that his part was done for the day and the
rest was with the army. In common with all men when experience and
responsibility have ripened their talents, though lacking in the gift of
formal speech-making, as Grant was, he could talk well, in clear
sentences, whose mold was set by precise thought, which brought with it
the eloquence that gains its point. It was more than personality, in
this instance, that had appeal. He was the personification of a great
national era.
In view of changes which were to come, another glimpse that I had of him
in the French headquarters town which was not by appointment is
peculiarly memorable. When I was out strolling I saw on the other side
of the street two figures which all France knew and will know for all
time. Whatever vicissitudes of politics, whatever campaigns ensue,
whatever changes come in the world after the war, Joffre's victory at
the Marne and Castelnau's victory in Lorraine, which was its complement
in masterly tactics, make their niches in the national Pantheon secure.
The two old friends, comrades of army life long before fame came to
them one summer month, Commander-in-Chief and Chief of Staff, were
taking their regular afternoon promenade--Joffre in his familiar short,
black coat which made his figure the burlier, his walk affected by the
rheumatism in his legs, though he certainly had no rheumatism in his
head, and Castelnau erect and slight of figure, his slimness heightened
by his long, blue overcoat--chatting as they walked slowly, and behind
them followed a sturdy guard in plain clothes at a distance of a few
paces, carrying two cushions. Joffre stopped and turned with a
"you-don't-say-so" gesture and a toss of his head at something that
Castelnau had told him.
Very likely they were not talking of the war; indeed, most likely it was
about friends in their army world, for both have a good wit, a keen and
amiable understanding of human nature. At all events, they were enjoying
themselves. So they passed on into the woods, followed by the guard who
would place their cushions on their favorite seat, and the two who had
been lieutenants and captains and colonels together would continue their
airing and their chat until they returned to the business of directing
their millions of men.
* * * * *
It was raining in this darkened French village near Verdun and a passing
battalion went dripping by, automobiles sent out sprays of muddy water
from their tires, and over in the crowded inclosures the German
prisoners taken at Douaumont stood in the mud waiting to be entrained.
Occasionally a soldier or an officer came out of a doorway that sent
forth a stream of light, and upstairs in the municipal building where we
went to pay our respects to the general commanding the army that had won
the victory which had thrilled France as none had since the Marne, we
found that it was the regular hour for his staff to report. They
reported standing in the midst of tables and maps and standing received
their orders. In future, when I see the big room with its mahogany table
and fat armchairs reserved for directors' meetings I shall recall
equally important conferences in the affairs of a nation that were held
under simpler auspices.
This conference seemed in keeping with the atmosphere of the place:
nobody in any flurry of haste and nobody wasting time. One after another
the officers reported; and whatever their ages, for some would have
seemed young for great responsibilities two years before, they were men
going about their business alert, self-possessed, reflective of the
character of their leader as staffs always are, men whose feet and whose
minds never dragged. When they spoke to anybody politeness was the
lubricant of prompt exchange of thought, a noiseless, eight-cylinder,
hundred-horse-power sort of staff. If the little Corsican could have
looked on, if he could have seen the taking of Douaumont, or if
Wellington could have seen the taking of the Ridge, I think that they
would have been well satisfied--and somewhat jealous to find that
military talent was so widespread.
The man who came out of the staff-room would have won his marshal's
baton in Napoleon's day, I suppose, though he was out of keeping with
those showy times. I did not then know that he was to be
Commander-in-Chief; only that all France thrilled with his name, which
time will forever associate with Douaumont. At once you felt the dynamic
quality under his agreeable manner and knew that General Nivelle did
things swiftly and quietly, without wasteful expenditure of reserve
force, which he could call upon when needed by turning on the current.
There was a stranger come to call; it was a rainy night; we had better
not drive back to the hotel at Bar-le-Duc, he suggested, but find a
billet in town, which was hospitality not to be imposed upon when one
could see how limited quarters were in this small village. Some day I
suppose a plaque will be put up on the door of that small house, with
its narrow hall and plain hat-rack and the sitting-room turned into a
dining-room, saying that General (perhaps it will be Marshal) Nivelle
lived here during the battle of Verdun. It is a fine gift, simplicity.
Some great men, or those who are called great, lack it; but nothing is
so attractive in any man. No sentry at the door, no servant to open it.
You simply went in, hung up your cap and took off your raincoat.
Hundreds of staffs were sitting down to the same kind of dinner with a
choice of red or white wine and the menu was that of an average French
household. I recall this and other staff dinners, in contrast to costly
plate and rich food in a house where a gold Croesus with diamond eyes
and necklace should have been on the mantelpiece as the household god,
with the thought that even war is a good thing if it centers ambition on
objects other than individual gain. Without knowing it, Joffre,
Castelnau, Foch, Pétain, Nivelle and others were the richest men in
France.
A colonel when the war began, in the sifting by Father Joffre to find
real leaders by the criterion of success General Nivelle had risen to
command an army. Wherever he was in charge he got the upper hand of the
enemy. All that he and his officers said reflected one spirit--that of
the offensive. They were men who believed in giving blows. A nation
looking for a man who could win victories said, "Here he is!" when its
people read the _communiqué_ about Douaumont one morning. He had been
going his way, doing the tasks in hand according to his own method, and
at one of the stations fame found him. Soldiers have their philosophy
and these days when it includes fame, probably fame never comes. This
time it came to a soldier without any of the showy qualities that fame
used to prefer, one who, I should say, was quite unaffected by it owing
to a greater interest in his work; a man without powerful influence to
urge his promotion. If you had met him before the war he would have
impressed you with his kindly features, well-shaped head and vitality,
and if you know soldiers you would have known that he was highly trained
in his profession. His staff was a family, but the kind of family where
every member has telepathic connection with its head; I could not
imagine that any officer who had not would be at home in the little
dining-room. Readiness of perception and quickness of action in
intelligent obedience were inherent.
Over in his office in the municipal building where we went after dinner
the general took something wrapped in tissue paper out of a drawer and
from his manner, had he been a collector, I should have known that it
was some rare treasure. When he undid the paper I saw a photograph of
General Joffre autographed with a sentiment for the occasion.
"He gave it to me for Douaumont!" said General Nivelle, a touch of pride
in his voice--the only sign of pride that I noticed.
There spoke the soldier to whom praise from his chief was the best
praise and more valued than any other encomium.
When I spoke of Douaumont he drew out the map and showed me his order of
the day, which had a soldierly brevity that made words keen-edged tools.
The attacking force rushed up overnight and appeared as a regulated
tidal wave of men, their pace timed under cover of curtains of fire
which they hugged close, then over the German trenches and on into the
fort. Six thousand prisoners and forty-five hundred French casualties!
It was this dramatic, this complete and unequivocal success that had
captured the imagination of France, but he was not dramatic in telling
it. He made it a military evolution on a piece of paper; though when he
put his pencil down on Douaumont and held it fast there for a moment,
saying, "And that is all for the present!" the pencil seemed to turn
into steel.
All for the present! And the future? That of the army of France was to
be in his hands. He had the supreme task. He would approach it as he
had approached all other tasks.
* * * * *
You had only to look at General Mangin commanding the corps before
Verdun to know that attack was not alone a system but a gospel with him.
Five stripes on his arm for wounds, all won in colonial work,
sun-browned, swart, with a strong, abutting chin which might have been a
fit point for Nivelle's pencil, an eye that said "Attack!" and could
twinkle with the wisdom of many campaigns!
"General Joffre sat in that chair two hours before the advance," he
said, with the same respectful awe that other generals had exhibited
toward the Commander-in-Chief.
The time had come for the old leader, grown weary, to go; for the
younger men of the school which the war has produced, with its curtains
of fire and wave attacks, to take his place. But the younger ones in the
confidence of their system could look on the old leader while he lived
as the great, indomitable figure of the critical stages of the war.
A man of iron, Mangin, with a breadth of chest in keeping with his chin,
who could bear the strain of command which had brought down many
generals from sheer physical incapacity. Month after month this chin had
stood out against German drives, all the while wanting to be in its
natural element of the offensive. His resolute, outright solution of
problems by human ratios would fit him into any age or any climate. He
was at home leading a punitive expedition or in the complicated business
of Verdun. Whether he was using a broadsword or a curtain of fire he
proposed to strike his enemy early and hard and keep on striking. In the
course of talking with him I spoke of the contention that in some cases
in modern war men could be too brave.
"Rarely!" he replied, a single word which had the emphasis of both that
jaw and that shrewd, piercing eye.
"What is the best time to go out to the front?" I asked the general.
"Five o'clock in the morning!"
The officer who escorted me did not think anything of getting up at that
hour. Mangin's is a five-o'clock-in-the-morning corps.
Shall I describe that town on the banks of the Meuse which has been
described many times? Or that citadel built by Vauban, with dynamos and
electric light in its underground chambers and passages, its hospitals,
shops, stores and barrack room, so safe under its walls and roof of
masonry that the Germans presciently did not waste their shells on it
but turned them with particular vengeance on the picturesque old houses
along the river bank, neglecting the barracks purposely in view of their
usefulness to the conquerors when Mecca was theirs. There must be
something sacred to a Frenchman in the citadel which held life secure
and in the ruins which bore their share of the blows upon this old
fortress town in the lap of the hills, looking out toward hills which
had been the real defense.
Interest quickened on the way to the Verdun front as you came to the
slopes covered with torn and fallen trees, where the Germans laid their
far-reaching curtains of fire to catch the French reserves struggling
through mud and shell-craters on those February and March days to the
relief of the front line. Only when you have known the life of an army
in action in winter in such a climate can you appreciate the will that
drove men forward to the attack and the will of the defenders against
outnumbering guns, having to yield, point by point, with shrewd thrift,
small bands of men in exposed places making desperate resistance against
torrents of shells.
Verdun was German valor at its best and German gunnery at its mightiest,
the effort of Colossus shut in a ring of steel to force a decision; and
the high-water mark of German persistence was where you stood on the
edge of the area of mounds that shells had heaped and craters that
shells had scooped by the concentration of fire on Fort Souville. A few
Germans in the charge reached here, but none returned. The survivors
entered Verdun, the French will tell you with a shrug, as prisoners.
Down the bare slope with its dead grass blotched by craters the eye
travels and then up another slope to a crest which you see as a cumulus
of shell-tossed earth under an occasional shell-burst. That is
Douaumont, whose taking cost the Germans such prolonged and bloody
effort and aroused the Kaiser to a florid outburst of laudation of his
Brandenburgers who, by its capture, had, as Germany then thought,
brought France to her death-gasp.
On that hill German prestige and system reached their zenith; and the
answer eight months later was French _élan_ which, in two hours, with
the swiftness and instinctive cohesion of democracy drilled and
embattled and asking no spur from an autocrat, swept the Germans off the
summit. From other charges I could visualize the precise and spirited
movement of those blue figures under waves of shell fire in an attack
which was the triumphant example of the latest style of offensive
against frontal positions. There was no Kaiser to burst into rhetoric to
thank General Nivelle, who had his reward in an autographed photograph
from Father Joffre; and the men of that charge had theirs in the
gratitude of a people.
Fort Vaux, on another crest at the right, was still in German hands, but
that, too, was to be regained with the next rush. Yes, it was good to
be at Verdun after Douaumont had been retaken, standing where you would
have been in range of a German sniper a week before. Turning as on a
pivot, you could identify through the glasses all the positions whose
names are engraved on the French mind. Not high these circling hills,
the keystone of a military arch, but taken together it was clear how, in
this as in other wars, they were nature's bastion at the edge of the
plain that lay a misty line in the distance.
Either in front or to the rear of Souville toward Verdun the surprising
thing was how few soldiers you saw and how little transport within range
of German guns; which impressed you with the elastic system of the
French, who are there and are not there. Let an attack by the Germans
develop and soldiers would spring out of the earth and the valleys echo
with the thunder of guns. A thrifty people, the French.
When studying those hills that had seen the greatest German offensive
after I had seen the offensive on the Somme, I thought of all that the
summer had meant on the Western front, beginning with Douaumont lost and
ending with Douaumont regained and the sweep over the conquered Ridge;
and I thought of another general, Sir Douglas Haig, who had had to train
his legions, begin with bricks and mortar to make a house under shell
fire and, day by day, with his confidence in "the spirit that
quickeneth" as the great asset, had wrought with patient, far-seeing
skill a force in being which had never ceased attacking and drawing in
German divisions to hold the line that those German divisions were meant
to break.
Von Falkenhayn was gone from power; the Crown Prince who thirsted for
war had had his fill and said that war was an "idiocy." It was the
sentiment of the German trenches which put von Falkenhayn out; the
silent ballots of that most sensitive of all public opinion, casting its
votes with the degree of its disposition to stand fire, which no officer
can control by mere orders.
With the Verdun offensive over, the German soldiers struggling on the
Ridge had a revelation which was translated into a feeling that
censorship could not stifle of the failure of the campaign to crush
France. They called for the man who had won victories and the Kaiser
gave them von Hindenburg, whom fortune favored when he sent armies
inspirited by his leadership against amateur soldiers in veteran
confidence, while the weather had stopped the Allied offensive in the
West.
Imagine Lee's men returning from Gettysburg to be confronted by
inexperienced home militia and their cry, "The Yanks have given us a
rough time of it, but you fellows get out of the way!" Such was the
feeling of that German Army as it went southward; not the army that it
was, but quite good enough an army to win against Rumania with the
system that had failed at Verdun.
XXXI
_AU REVOIR_, SOMME!
Sir Douglas Haig--Atmosphere at headquarters something of Oxford and
of Scotland--Sir Henry Rawlinson--"Degumming" the inefficient--Back
on the Ridge again--The last shell-burst--Good-bye to the mess--The
fellow war-correspondents--_Bon voyage_.
The fifth of the great attacks, which was to break in more of the old
first-line fortifications, taking Beaumont-Hamel and other villages, was
being delayed by Brother Low Visibility, who had been having his innings
in rainy October and early November, when the time came for me to say
good-byes and start homeward.
Sir Douglas Haig had been as some invisible commander who was
omnipresent in his forceful control of vast forces. His disinclination
for reviews or display was in keeping with his nature and his conception
of his task. The army had glimpses of him going and coming in his car
and observers saw him entering or leaving an army or a corps
headquarters, his strong, calm features expressive of confidence and
resolution.
There were many instances of his fine sensitiveness, his quick
decisions, his Scotch phrases which could strip a situation bare of
non-essentials. It was good that a man with his culture and charm could
have the qualities of a great commander. In the chateau which was his
Somme headquarters where final plans were made, the final word given
which put each issue to the test, the atmosphere had something of Oxford
and of Scotland and of the British regular army, and everything seemed
done by a routine that ran so smoothly that the appearance of routine
was concealed.
Here he had said to me early in the offensive that he wanted me to have
freedom of observation and to criticise as I chose, and he trusted me
not to give military information to the enemy. When I went to take my
leave and thank him for his courtesies the army that he had drilled had
received the schooling of battle and tasted victory. How great his task
had been only a soldier could appreciate, and only history can do
justice to the courage that took the Ridge or the part that it had
played in the war.
Upstairs in a small room of another chateau the Commander-in-Chief and
the Commander of the Fourth of the group of armies under Sir
Douglas--who had played polo together in India as subalterns, Sir Henry
Rawlinson being still as much of a Guardsman as Sir Douglas was a
Scot--had held many conferences. Sir Henry could talk sound soldierly
sense about the results gained and look forward, as did the whole army,
to next summer when the maximum of skill and power should be attained.
In common with Nivelle, both were leaders who had earned their way in
battle, which was promoting the efficient and shelving or "degumming,"
in the army phrase, the inefficient. Every week, every day, I might say,
the new army organization had tightened.
With steel helmet on and gas mask over the shoulder for the last time, I
had a final promenade up to the Ridge, past the guns and Mouquet Farm,
picking my way among the shell-craters and other grisly reminders of the
torment that the fighters had endured to a point where I could look out
over the fields toward Bapaume. For eight and ten miles the way had been
blazed free of the enemy by successive attacks. Five hundred yards ahead
"krumps" splashing the soft earth told where the front line was and
around me was the desert which such pounding had created, with no one in
the immediate neighborhood except some artillery officers hugging a
depression and spotting the fall of shells from their guns just short of
Bapaume and calling out the results by telephone, over one of the
strands of the spider's web of intelligence which they had unrolled from
a reel when they came. I joined them for a few minutes in their retreat
below the skyline and listened to their remarks about Brother Low
Visibility, who soon was to have the world for his own in winter mists,
rain and snow, limiting the army's operations by his perversity until
spring came.
And so back, as the diarists say, by the grassless and blasted route
over which I had come. After I was in the car I heard one of the wicked
screams with its unpleasant premonition, which came to an end by
whipping out a ball of angry black smoke short of a near-by howitzer,
which was the last shell-burst that I saw.