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THE WHITE ROAD TO VERDUN
by
KATHLEEN BURKE
[Illustration: Frontispiece.]
Hodder and Stoughton
London New York Toronto
Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and
Aylesbury
MCMXVI
TO
DR. C.O. MAILLOUX
(NEW YORK)
MR. AND MRS. L.B. FRANKLIN
AND
JEANNETTE FRANKLIN
AND TO MY
MOTHER
WHO BY THEIR AFFECTION AND PRACTICAL
SYMPATHY HELPED ME IN ALL THE
WORK I HAVE UNDERTAKEN.
10th August, 1916.
We left Paris determined to undertake the journey to the front in the
true spirit of the French _poilu_, and, no matter what happened, "_de ne
pas s'en faire_."
This famous "motto" of the French Army is probably derived from one of
two slang sentences: "De ne pas se faire des cheveux" ("To keep one's
hair on"), or "De ne pas se faire de la bile" (or, in other words, not
to upset one's digestion by unnecessary worrying). The phrase is typical
of the mentality of the _poilu_, who accepts anything and everything
that may happen, whether it be merely slight physical discomfort or
intense suffering, as part of the willing sacrifice which he made on the
day that, leaving his homestead and his daily occupation, he took up
arms "offering his body as a shield to defend the Heart of France."
Everything might be worse than it is, says the _poilu_, and so he has
composed a litany. Every regiment has a different version, but always
with the same fundamental basis:
"Of two things one is certain: either you're mobilised or you're not
mobilised. If you're not mobilised, there is no need to worry; if you
are mobilised, of two things one is certain: either you're behind the
lines or you're on the front. If you're behind the lines, there is no
need to worry; if you're on the front, of two things one is certain:
either you're resting in a safe place or you're exposed to danger. If
you're resting in a safe place, there is no need to worry; if you're
exposed to danger, of two things one is certain: either you're wounded
or you're not wounded. If you're not wounded, there is no need to worry;
if you are wounded, of two things one is certain: either you're wounded
seriously or you're wounded slightly. If you're wounded slightly, there
is no need to worry; if you're wounded seriously, of two things one is
certain: either you recover or you die. If you recover, there is no need
to worry; if you die, you can't worry."
When once past the "Wall of China," as the French authorities call the
difficult approaches of the war zone, Meaux was the first town of
importance at which we stopped.
We had an opportunity to sample the army bread, as the driver of a
passing bread-wagon flung a large round loaf into our motor.
According to all accounts received from the French soldiers who are in
the prison-camps of Germany, one of the greatest hardships is the lack
of white bread, and they have employed various subterfuges in the
endeavour to let their relatives know that they wish to have bread sent
to them. Some of the Bretons writing home nicknamed bread "Monsieur
Barras," and when there was a very great shortage they would write to
their families: "Ce pauvre Monsieur Barras ne se porte pas très bien à
présent." Finally, the Germans discovered the real significance of M.
Barras, and they added to one of the letters: "Si M. Barras ne se porte
pas très bien à présent, c'est bien la faute de vos amis les Anglais"
("If M. Barras is not very fit, it is the fault of your friends the
English"), and from then all the letters referring to M. Barras were
strictly suppressed.
While the German Press may not be above admitting a shortage of food in
Germany, it seriously annoys the Army that the French prisoners or the
French in the invaded regions should hear of it. I heard one story of
the wife of a French officer in Lille who was obliged to offer unwilling
hospitality to a German captain, who, in a somewhat clumsy endeavour to
be amiable, offered to try to get news of her husband and to convey it
to her. Appreciating the seeming friendliness of the captain, she
confided to him that she had means of communicating with her husband who
was on the French front. The captain informed against her, and the next
day she was sent for by the Kommandantur, who imposed a fine of 50 frs.
upon her for having received a letter from the enemy lines. Taking a
100-fr. note from her bag, she placed it on the desk, saying, "M. le
Kommandantur, here is the 50 frs. fine, and also another 50 frs. which I
am glad to subscribe for the starving women and children in Berlin."
"No one starves in Berlin," replied the Kommandantur.
"Oh, yes, they do," replied Madame X. "I know, because the captain who
so kindly informed you that I had received a letter from my husband
showed me a letter the other day from his wife, in which she spoke of
the sad condition of the women and children of Germany, who, whilst not
starving, were far from happy." Thus she not only had the pleasure of
seriously annoying the Kommandantur, but also a chance to get even with
the captain who had informed against her, and who is no longer in soft
quarters in Lille, but paying the penalty of his indiscretion by a
sojourn on the Yser.
The bridge at Meaux, destroyed in the course of the German retreat, has
not yet been entirely repaired. Beneath it rushes the Marne, and the
river sings in triumph, as it passes, that it is carrying away the soil
that has been desecrated by the steps of the invader and that day by day
it is washing clean the land of France.
In the fields where the corn is standing, the tiny crosses marking the
last resting-places of the men are entirely hidden; but where the grain
has been gathered, the graves stand out distinctly, marked not only by a
cross, but also by the tall bunches of corn which have been left growing
on these small patches of holy ground. It has always been said that
France has two harvests each year. Certainly in the fields of the Marne
there is not only the harvest of bread--there is also springing up the
harvest of security and peace.
The peasants as they point out the graves always add: "We of the people
know that those men sacrificed their lives that our children might live.
Those who have died in vain for an unjust cause may well envy the men of
France who have poured out their blood for the benefit of humanity."
Looking on the crosses on the battlefield of the Marne, I realised to
the fullest extent the sacrifices, borne with such bravery, of the women
of France. I thought of the picture I had seen in Paris of a group of
mothers standing at the foot of Calvary, looking out over the fields of
small black crosses, lifting their hands to Heaven, with the words--"We
also, God, have given our sons for the peace of the world."
At Montmirail the real activity of the war zone first became apparent.
We drew the car to the side of the road and waited whilst a long
procession of empty munition-wagons passed on the way back from the
munition-parks near the fighting-line. There was a smile on the face of
every one of the drivers. Each of them had the satisfaction of knowing
that there was no chance of his returning with an empty wagon, as there
is no lack of provisions to feed the hungriest of the "75's" or any of
her larger sisters.
The fact that it is known that there is an ample supply of munitions
plays an important part in the "moral" of the troops. The average
_poilu_ has no sympathy with the man who grumbles at the number of hours
he may have to work. We heard the tale of a munition-worker who was
complaining in a café at having to work so hard. A _poilu_ who was _en
permission_ and who was sitting at the next table, turned to him,
saying, "You have no right to grumble: you receive 10 to 12 francs a day
for making shells, and we poor devils get 5 sous a day for stopping
them!"
We lunched in the small but hospitable village of Sézanne, in company
with a most charming invalided officer who informed us that he was the
principal in that district of the S.D.R.D.R. (Service de Recherche des
Rattiers) (the Principal Recruiting Officer for Rat-catchers). In other
words, he is spending his time endeavouring to persuade suitable
"bow-wows" to enlist in the service of their country. Likely dogs are
trained until they do not bark, and become entirely accustomed to the
sound of firing; they are then pronounced "Aptes à faire campagne," or
"Fit for service," receive their _livret militaire_, or
certificates--for not every chance dog is allowed in the trenches--and
are dispatched to the trenches on a rat-hunting campaign.
From Sézanne we proceeded direct to the new camp for German prisoners at
Cannantre. The prisoners were mostly men who had been taken in the
recent fighting on the Somme or round Verdun. The camp was already
excellently installed, and the prisoners were busy in groups gardening,
making bread, or sitting before great heaps of potatoes, preparing them
for the evening meal. The German sense of order was everywhere in
evidence. In the long barracks where the men slept the beds were tidy,
and above each bed was a small shelf, each shelf arranged in exactly
the same order, the principal ornaments being a mug, fork, and spoon;
and just as each bed resembled each other bed, so the fork and spoon
were placed in their respective mugs at exactly the same angle. There
were small partitioned apartments for the noncommissioned officers. The
French Commander of the camp told us that the German love of holding
some form of office was everywhere apparent. The French made no attempt
to command the prisoners themselves, but always chose men from amongst
the prisoners who were placed in authority over their comrades. The
prisoners rejoiced exceedingly and promptly increased in self-importance
and, alas! decreased in manners, if they were given the smallest
position which raised them above the level of the rest of the men.
In the barrack where they were cutting up bread for the prisoners, we
asked the men if they deeply regretted their captivity. They replied
unanimously that they were "rather glad to be well fed," which seemed an
answer in itself. They did not, however, appreciate the white bread and
stated that they preferred their own black bread. The French officers
commanding the camp treat the prisoners as naughty children who must be
"kept in the corner" and punished for their own good. In all my travels
through France I have never seen any bitterness shown towards the
prisoners. I remember once at Nevers we passed a group of German
prisoners, and amongst them was a wounded man who was lying in a small
cart. A handbag had fallen across his leg, and none of his comrades
attempted to remove it. A French woman, pushing her way between the
guards, lifted it off and gave it to one of the Germans to carry. When
the guards tried to remonstrate, she replied simply, "J'ai un fils
prisonnier là-bas, faut espérer qu'une allemande ferait autant pour lui"
("I have a son who is a prisoner in their land, let us hope that some
German woman will do as much for him").
On the battlefields the kindness of the French medical men to the German
wounded has always been conspicuous. One of my neutral friends passing
through Germany heard from one of the prominent German surgeons that
they were well aware of this fact, and knew that their wounded received
every attention. There is a story known throughout France of a French
doctor who was attending a wounded German on the battlefield. The man,
who was probably half delirious, snatched at a revolver which was lying
near by and attempted to shoot the doctor. The doctor took the revolver
from him, patted him on the head, and said, "Voyons, voyons, ne faites
pas l'enfant" ("Now then, now then, don't be childish"), and went on
dressing his wounds.
Everywhere you hear accounts of brotherly love and religious tolerance.
I remember kneeling once by the side of a dying French soldier who was
tenderly supported in the arms of a famous young Mohammedan surgeon, an
Egyptian who had taken his degree in Edinburgh and was now attached to
the French Red Cross. The man's mind was wandering, and seeing a woman
beside him he commenced to talk to me as to his betrothed. "This war
cannot last always, little one, and when it is over we will buy a pig
and a cow and we will go to the curé, won't we, beloved?" Then in a
lucid moment he realised that he was dying, and he commenced to pray,
"Ave Maria, Ave Maria," but the poor tired brain could remember nothing
more. He turned to me to continue, but I could no longer trust myself to
speak, and it was the Mohammedan who took up the prayer and continued it
whilst the soldier followed with his lips until his soul passed away
into the valley of shadows. I think this story is only equalled in its
broad tolerance by that of the Rabbi Bloch of Lyons, who was shot at the
battle of the Aisne whilst holding a crucifix to the lips of a dying
Christian soldier. The soldier-priests of France have earned the love
and respect of even the most irreligious of the _poilus_. They never
hesitate to risk their lives, and have displayed sublime courage and
devotion to their duty as priests and as soldiers. Behind the first line
of trenches a soldier-priest called suddenly to attend a dying comrade
took a small dog he was nursing, and handing it to one of the men,
simply remarked, "Take care of the little beast for me; I am going to a
dangerous corner and I do not want it killed."
I have seen the Mass celebrated on a gun-carriage. Vases made of
shell-cases were filled with flowers that the men had risked their lives
to gather, in order to deck the improvised altar. A Red Cross ambulance
drove up and stopped near by. The wounded begged to be taken out on
their stretchers and laid at the foot of the altar in order that "they
might receive the blessing of the good God" before starting on the long
journey to the hospital behind the lines.
Outside the prison-camp of Cannantre stood a circle of French soldiers
learning the bugle calls for the French Army. I wondered how the Germans
cared to listen to the martial music of the men of France, one and all
so sure of the ultimate victory of their country. Half a kilometre
farther on, a series of mock trenches had been made where the men were
practising the throwing of hand grenades. Every available inch of space
behind the French lines is made to serve some useful purpose.
I never see a hand grenade without thinking how difficult it is just now
to be a hero in France. Every man is really a hero, and the men who have
medals are almost ashamed, since they know that nearly all their
comrades merit them. It is especially difficult to be a hero in one's
own family. One of the men in our hospital at Royaumont had been in the
trenches during an attack. A grenade thrown by one of the French
soldiers struck the parapet and rebounded amongst the men. With that
rapidity of thought which is part of the French character, Jules sat on
the grenade and extinguished it. For this act of bravery he was
decorated by the French Government and wrote home to tell his wife. I
found him sitting up in bed, gloomily reading her reply, and I inquired
why he looked so glum. "Well, mademoiselle," he replied, "I wrote to my
wife to tell her of my new honour; and see what she says: 'My dear
Jules, we are not surprised you got a medal for sitting on a hand
grenade; we have never known you to do anything else but sit down at
home!'"
It was at Fère Champinoise that we passed through the first village
which had been entirely destroyed by the retreating Germans. Only half
the church was standing, but services are still held there every Sunday.
Very little attempt has been made to rebuild the ruined houses. Were I
one of the villagers, I would prefer to raze to the ground all that
remained of the desecrated homesteads and build afresh new dwellings;
happy in the knowledge that with the victory of the Allies would start a
period of absolute security, prosperity, and peace.
It was on the same day that we had the privilege of beholding some of
the 400-cm. guns of France, all prepared and ready to travel at a
minute's notice along the railway lines to the section where they might
be needed. Some idea of their size may be obtained from the fact that
there were ten axles to the base on which they travel. They were all
disguised by the system of _camouflage_ employed by the French Army, and
at a very short distance they blend with the landscape and become almost
invisible. Each gun bears a different name, "Alsace," "Lorraine," etc.,
and with that strange irony and cynical wit of the French trooper, at
the request of the men of one battery, one huge gun has been christened
"Mosquito," "because it stings."
The French often use a bitter and biting humour in speaking of the
enemy. For instance, amongst the many pets of the men, the strangest I
saw was a small hawk sitting on the wrist of a soldier who had trained
him. The bird was the personification of evil. If anyone approached, he
snapped at them and endeavoured to bite them. I asked the man why he
kept him, and he replied that they had quite good sport in the trenches
when they allowed the hawk to hunt small birds and field-mice. Then, his
expression changing from jovial good-humour to grimness, he added: "You
know, I call him 'Zepp,' because he kills the little ones" ("parcequ'il
tue les tous petits").
In one small cantonment where 200 _poilus_ sang, shouted, ate, drank,
and danced together to the strain of a wheezy gramophone, or in one word
were "resting," I started to investigate the various kinds of pets owned
by the troopers. Cats, dogs, and monkeys were common, whilst one _poilu_
was the proud possessor of a parrot which he had purchased from a
refugee obliged to fly from his home. He hastened to assure us that the
bird had learned his "vocabulary" from his former proprietor. A study
in black and white was a group of three or four white mice, nestling
against the neck of a Senegalais.
The English Tommy is quite as devoted to animals as is his French
brother. I remember crossing one bitter February day from Boulogne to
Folkestone. Alongside the boat, on the quay at Boulogne, were lined up
the men who had been granted leave. Arrayed in their shaggy fur coats,
they resembled little the smart British Tommy of peace times. It was
really wonderful how much the men managed to conceal under those fur
coats, or else the eye of the officer inspecting them was intentionally
not too keen.
Up the gangway trooped the men, and I noticed that two of them walked
slowly and cautiously. The boat safely out of harbour, one of them
produced from his chest a large tabby cat, whilst the other placed a
fine cock on the deck. It was a cock with the true Gaelic spirit: before
the cat had time to consider the situation it had sprung on its back.
The cat beat a hasty retreat into the arms of its protector, who
replaced it under his coat. Once in safety, it stuck out its head and
swore at the cock, which, perched on a coil of rope, crowed
victoriously.
Both animals had been the companions of the men whilst in the trenches,
and they were bringing them home.
A soldier standing near me commenced to grumble because he had not been
able to bring his pet with him. I inquired why he had left it behind,
since the others had brought theirs away with them, and elicited the
information that "his pet was a cow, and therefore somewhat difficult to
transport." He seemed rather hurt that I should laugh, and assured me
it was "a noble animal, brown with white spots, and had given himself
and his comrades two quarts of milk a day." He looked disdainfully at
the cock and cat. "They could have left them behind and no one would
have pinched them, whereas I know I'll never see 'Sarah' again--she was
far too useful."
Entering Vitry-le-François we had a splendid example of the typical
"motto" of the French trooper, "Il ne faut pas s'en faire." One of the
motor-cars had broken down, and the officer-occupants, who were
evidently not on an urgent mission, had gone to sleep on the banks by
the side of the road whilst the chauffeur was making the necessary
repairs. We offered him assistance, but he was progressing quite well
alone. Later on another officer related to me his experience when his
car broke down at midnight some 20 km. from a village. The chauffeur was
making slow headway with the repairs. The officer inquired whether he
really understood the job, and received the reply, "Yes, mon lieutenant,
I think I do; but I am rather a novice, as before the war I was a
lion-tamer!" Apparently the gallant son of Gaul found it easier to tame
lions than to repair motors.
We left Vitry-le-François at 6 o'clock next morning, and started "the
hunt for generals." It is by no means easy to discover where the actual
Q.G. (Headquarters) of the General of any particular secteur is
situated.
We were not yet really on the "White Road" to Verdun, and there was
still much to be seen that delighted the eyes. In one yellow cornfield
there appeared to be enormous poppies. On approaching we discovered a
detachment of Tirailleurs from Algiers, sitting in groups, and the
"poppies" were the red fezes of the men--a gorgeous blending of crimson
and gold. We threw a large box of cigarettes to them, and were greeted
with shouts of joy and thanks. The Tirailleurs are the "enfants
terribles" of the French Army. One noble son of Africa who was being
treated in one of the hospitals once presented me with an aluminium ring
made from a piece of German shell. I asked him to make one for one of my
comrades who was working at home, and he informed me that nothing would
have given him greater pleasure, but unfortunately he had no more
aluminium. Later in the day, passing through the ward, I saw him
surrounded by five or six Parisian ladies who were showering sweets,
cigarettes, and flowers on him, whilst he was responding by presenting
each of them with an aluminium ring. When they had left I went to him
and told him, "Mahmud, that was not kind. I asked you for a ring and you
said you had not got any more aluminium." He smiled, and his nurse, who
was passing, added, "No, he had not _got_ any more aluminium, but when
he is better he will _get_ forty-eight hours' punishment; he had been
into the kitchen, stolen one of our best aluminium saucepans, and has
been making souvenirs for the ladies." He made no attempt to justify his
action beyond stating: "Moi, pas si mauvais; toi, pas faux souvenir" ("I
am not so bad; I did not attempt to give you a fake souvenir").
Another of our chocolate-coloured patients found in the grounds of the
hospital an old umbrella. Its ribs stuck out and it was full of holes,
but it gave him the idea of royalty, and daily he sat up in bed in the
ward with the umbrella unfurled whilst he laid down the law to his
comrades. The nurses endeavoured to persuade him to hand it over at
night. He obstinately refused, insisting that "he knew his comrades,"
and he feared that one of them would certainly steal the treasure, so he
preferred to keep it in the bed with him.
At Villers-le-Sec we came upon the headquarters of the cooks for that
section of the front. The cook is one of the most important men in a
French regiment; he serves many ends. When carrying the food through the
communicating trenches to the front-line trenches, he is always supposed
to bring to the men the latest news, the latest tale which is going the
round of the camp, and anything that may happen to interest them. If he
has not got any news he must manufacture and produce some kind of story.
It is really necessary for him to be not only a cook but also an author.
There is a tale going the round of the French Army how one section of
the cooks, although unarmed, managed to take some twenty German
prisoners. As they went on their way, they saw the Germans in the
distance approaching them; the head cook quietly drew the field-kitchens
behind a clump of trees and bushes, placed his men in a row, each with a
cooking utensil in his hand, and as the Germans passed shouted to them
to surrender. The sun fell on the handles of the saucepans, causing them
to shine like bayonets, and the Germans, taken unawares, laid down
their arms. The head cook then stepped out and one by one took the
rifles from the enemy and handed them to his men. It was only when he
had disarmed the Germans and armed his comrades that he gave the signal
for them to step out, and the Germans saw that they had been taken by a
ruse. One can imagine the joy of the French troops in the next village,
when, with a soup-ladle in his hand, his assistants armed with German
rifles, followed by the soup-kitchen and twenty prisoners, he marched in
to report.
It is curious to note how near humour is to tragedy in war, and how
quick-wittedness may serve a useful purpose and even save life. A young
French medical student told me that he owed his life to the quick wit of
the women of a village and the sense of humour of a Saxon officer.
Whilst passing from one hospital to another, he was captured by a small
German patrol, and in spite of his papers, proving that he was attached
to the Red Cross Service, he was tried as a spy and condemned to be
shot. At the opening of his trial the women had been interested
spectators; towards the end all of them had vanished. He was placed
against a barn door, the firing squad lined up, when from behind the
hedge bordering a wood the women began to bombard the soldiers with
eggs. The aim was excellent--not one man escaped; the German officer
laughed at the plight of his men and, in the brief respite accorded, the
young man dashed towards the hedge and vanished in the undergrowth. The
Germans fired a few shots, but there was no organised attempt to follow
him, probably because their own position was not too secure. He was
loath to leave the women to face the music, but they insisted that it
was "Pour la Patrie," and that they were quite capable of taking care of
themselves. Later he again visited the village, and the women told him
that beyond obliging them to clean the soldiers' clothes thoroughly, the
German officer had inflicted no other punishment upon them.
A certain number of inhabitants are still living in the village of
Revigny. You see everywhere placards announcing "Caves pour 25," "Caves
pour 100," and each person knows to which cellar he is to go if a Taube
should start bombing the village. I saw one cellar marked "120 persons,
specially safe, reserved for the children." Children are one of the most
valuable assets of France, and a good old Territorial _Pè-père_ (Daddy),
as they are nicknamed, told me that it was his special but difficult
duty to muster the children directly a Taube was signalled, and chase
them down into the cellar. Mopping his brow, he assured me that it was
not easy to catch the little beggars, who hid in the ruins, behind the
army wagons, anywhere to escape the "parental" eye. It is needless to
add they consider it a grave infringement of their personal liberty and
think that they should be allowed to remain in the open and see all that
goes on, just as the little Londoners beg and coax to be allowed to stay
up "to see the Zepps."
Passing the railway-station, we stopped to make some inquiries, and
promptly ascertained all we wished to know from the chef de gare.
In the days of peace there is in France no one more officious than the
station-master of a small but prosperous village. Now he is the meekest
of men. Braided cap in hand, he goes along the train from carriage door
to carriage door, humbly requesting newspapers for the wounded in the
local hospitals. "Nous avons 125 blessés ici, cela les fait tant de
plaisir d'avoir des nouvelles" ("We have 125 wounded here, and oh! how
they love to have the latest news").
In addition to levying a toll on printed matter, he casts a covetous and
meaning glance on any fruit or chocolate that may be visible. Before the
train is out of the station, you can see the once-busy and in his own
opinion all-important railway official vanishing down the road to carry
his spoils to his suffering comrades. Railway travelling is indeed
expensive in France. No matter what time of day or night, wet or fine,
the trains are met at each station by devoted women who extract
contributions for the Red Cross funds from the pockets of willing
givers. It is only fair to state, however, that in most instances the
station-master gets there first.
From the time we left Revigny until we had passed into the Champagne
country, upon the return journey from Verdun, we no longer saw a green
tree or a blade of green grass; we were now indeed upon the "White Road
which leads into Verdun." Owing to an exceptionally trying and dry
summer the roads are thick with white dust. The continual passing of the
_camions_, the splendid transport-wagons of the French Army, carrying
either food, munitions, or troops, has stirred up the dust and coated
the fields, trees, and hedges with a thick layer of white. It is almost
as painful to the eyes as the snow-fields of the Alps.
I saw one horse that looked exactly like a plaster statuette. His master
had scrubbed him down, but before he dried the white dust had settled on
him everywhere. Naturally "humans" do not escape. By the time our party
reached the headquarters of General Pétain, we had joined the White
Brigade. I excused myself to the General, who smilingly replied, "Why
complain, mademoiselle? You are charming; your hair is powdered like a
marquise." The contrast with what had been a black fur cap on what was
now perfectly white hair justified his compliment.
I have never been renowned in my life for fear of any individual, but I
must admit that I passed into the presence of General Pétain with a
great deal of respect amounting almost to awe. The defence of Verdun
through the bitter months of February and March by General Pétain, a
defence which is now under the immediate control of his able
lieutenants, General Nivelle and General Dubois, has earned the respect
and admiration of the whole world. It is impossible not to feel the
deepest admiration for these men who have earned such undying glory, not
only for themselves, but for their Motherland.
No one could have been more gracious and kind than General Pétain, and
in his presence one realised the strength and power of France.
Throughout all the French Headquarters one is impressed by the perfect
calm that reigns; no excitement--not even a paper on the Generals'
desks--everything perfectly organised.
General Pétain asked me at once to tell him what I desired. I asked his
permission to go to Rheims. He at once took up a paper which permitted
me to enter the war zone, and endorsed it with the request to General
Debeney in Rheims to allow me to penetrate with my companions into the
city. He then turned to me again and asked me with a knowing smile if
that was all I required--for his headquarters were hardly on the direct
road to Rheims! I hesitated to express my real wish, when my good
counsellor and friend, with whom I was making the journey, the
Commandant Jean de Pulligny, answered for me--"I feel sure it would be a
great happiness and honour if you would allow us, General, to go to
Verdun." General Pétain appeared slightly surprised, and turning to me,
asked, "Do you thoroughly realise the danger? You have crossed the
Atlantic and faced submarines, but you will risk more in five minutes in
Verdun than in crossing the Atlantic a thousand times." However, seeing
that I was really anxious to go, and that it might be of great service
to me in my future work to have seen personally the defence of Verdun,
he added smilingly: "Well, then, you can go if you wish, at your own
risk and peril." He then telephoned to General Nivelle the necessary
permission for us to enter Verdun.
I doubt whether General Pétain realises the respect in which he is held
in all the civilised countries of the world. Probably he does not yet
understand that people would come thousands of miles to have five
minutes' audience with him, for he inquired if we were in any hurry to
continue our journey, and added with charming simplicity--"Because if
not, and you do not mind waiting an hour, I shall be glad if you will
lunch with me."
We lunched with General Pétain and his état-major. A charming and most
interesting addition to the party was M. Forain, the famous French
caricaturist, and now one of the chief instructors of the French Army in
the art of _camouflage_--the art of making a thing look like anything in
the world except what it is! He has established a series of schools all
along the French front where the _poilus_ learn to bedeck their guns and
thoroughly disguise them under delicate shades of green and yellow, with
odd pink spots in order to relieve the monotony. Certainly the
appearance of the guns of the present time would rejoice the heart and
soul of the "Futurists." It was most interesting to hear him describe
the work in detail and the rapidity with which his pupils learned the
new art. For one real battery there are probably three or four false
ones, beautiful wooden guns, etc., etc., and he told us of the _poilus'_
new version of the song "Rien n'est plus beau que notre Patrie"
("Nothing is more beautiful than our country "). They now sing "Rien
n'est plus faux que notre batterie" ("Nothing is more false than our
battery").
It was M. Forain who coined the famous phrase "that there was no fear
for the ultimate success of the Allies, if only the civilians held out!"
I was much amused at M. Forain's statement that he had already heard
that a company had been formed for erecting, after the war, wooden
hotels on the battlefields of France for the accommodation of
sightseers. Not only was it certain that these hotels were to be built,
but the rooms were already booked in advance.
It was strange to find there, within the sound of the guns--sometimes
the glasses on the table danced to the music, although no one took any
notice of that--surrounded by men directing the operations of the war
and of one of the greatest battles in history, how little war was
mentioned. Science, philosophy, and the work of women were discussed.
The men of France are taking deep interest in the splendid manner in
which the women of all the different nations are responding to the call
to service. I described to General Pétain the work of the Scottish
Women's Hospitals. These magnificent hospitals are organised and staffed
entirely by women, and started, in the first instance, by the National
Union of Women's Suffrage (Scottish Branch). He was deeply interested to
learn that what had been before the war a political society, had, with
that splendid spirit of patriotism which had from the first day of the
war animated every man, woman, and child of Great Britain, drawn upon
its funds and founded the hospital units. I explained to him that it was
no longer a question of politics, but simply a case of serving humanity
and serving it to the best possible advantage. The National Union had
realised that this was a time for organised effort on the part of all
women for the benefit of the human race and the alleviation of
suffering.
I spoke of the bravery of our girls in Siberia; how many of them had
laid down their lives during the typhus epidemic; how cheerfully they
had borne hardships, our doctors writing home that their tent hospitals
were like "great white birds spreading their wings under the trees,"
whereas really they had often been up all night hanging on to the
tent-poles to prevent the tents collapsing over their patients.
A member of the État-Major asked how we overcame the language
difficulty. I pointed out that to diagnose typhus and watch the progress
of the patient it was not necessary to speak to him, and that by the
magic language of sympathy we managed to establish some form of
"understanding" between the patients, the doctors, and the nurses.
The members of our staff were chosen as far as possible with a knowledge
of French or German, and it was possible to find many Serbians speaking
either one of these languages. We also found interpreters amongst the
Austrian prisoner orderlies. These prisoner orderlies had really proved
useful and had done their best to help us. Naturally they had their
faults. One of our lady doctors had as orderly a Viennese professor,
willing, but somewhat absent-minded. One morning she sent for him and
asked him, "Herr Karl, can you tell me what was wrong with my bath water
this morning?" "I really don't know, Fräulein, but I will endeavour to
find out."
Ten minutes later he returned, looking decidedly guilty, and stammered
out: "I do not know how to tell you what happened to that bath water."
"Nonsense!--it can't be very terrible," replied Doctor X; "what was
wrong?" "Well, Fräulein, when I went into the camp kitchen this morning
there were two cauldrons there--one was your bath water, and the other
was the camp soup; to you, Fräulein, I brought the camp soup."
We who had worked with the Serbians had learned to respect and admire
them for their patriotism, courage, and patient endurance. We felt that
their outstanding characteristic was their imagination, which, turned
into the proper channels and given a chance to develop, should produce
for the world not only famous painters and poets, but also great
inventors. This vivid imagination is found in the highest and lowest of
the land. To illustrate it, I told my neighbour at table a tale related
to me by my good friend Dr. Popovic. "Two weary, ragged Serbian soldiers
were sitting huddled together waiting to be ordered forward to fight.
One asked the other, 'Do you know how this war started, Milan? You
don't?--well then, I'll tell you. The Sultan of Turkey sent our King
Peter a sack of rice. King Peter looked at the sack, smiled, then took a
very small bag and went into his garden and filled it with red pepper.
He sent the bag of red pepper to the Sultan of Turkey. Now, Milan, you
can see what that meant. The Sultan of Turkey said to our Peter, 'My
army is as numerous as the grains of rice in this sack,' and by sending
a small bag of red pepper to the Sultan our Peter replied, 'My army is
not very numerous, but it is mighty hot stuff.'"
Many members of the units of the Scottish Women's Hospitals who had been
driven out of Serbia at the time of the great invasion had asked to be
allowed to return to work for the Serbians, and we were now equipping
fresh units entirely staffed by women to serve with the Serbian Army,
besides having at the present time the medical care of 6,000 Serbian
refugees on the island of Corsica.
General Pétain said, smiling, that before the war he had sometimes
thought of women "as those who inspired the most beautiful ideas in men
and prevented them from carrying them out," but the war, he added, had
certainly proved conclusively the value of women's work.
M. Forain expressed the desire to visit the chief French hospital of the
Scottish women at the Abbaye de Royaumont. The General laughingly told
him, "You do not realise how stern and devoted to duty these ladies are.
I wonder if you would be permitted to visit them?"
I consoled M. Forain by pointing out that surely as Chief Camoufler
(Disguiser) of the French Army he could disguise himself as a model of
virtue (_de se camoufler en bon garçon_). Certainly this son of France,
who has turned his brilliant intellect and his art to the saving of
men's lives, would be welcome anywhere and everywhere. I hastened to
assure him that I was only teasing him, and added that I only teased the
people I admired and liked. General Pétain immediately turned to the
Commandant de Pulligny--"Please remark that she has not yet teased me."
"Probably because she fears to do it, and has too much respect for you,"
replied the Commandant.
"Fears! I do not think we need talk of that just now, when she dares to
go to Verdun."
[Illustration: Memoribilia]
[Illustration: Handwritten note:
To Miss Burke
In remembrance of your very
kind visit in Verdun and of
the noble aim you pursue in
favour of our wounded and sick
soldiers. We have been extrememly
honoured that you were so kind
to dine with us to-day 26th Juli
1916
-Signatures-]
[Illustration: Menu]
[Illustration: A Handwritten Note]
Whilst at coffee after lunch the news came of the continued advance of
the British troops. General Pétain turned to me and said: "You must
indeed be proud in England of your new army. Please tell your
English people of our admiration of the magnificent effort of England.
The raising and equipping of your giant army in such a short time was
indeed a colossal task. How well it was carried out all the world now
knows, and we are reaping the harvest."
The General's Chief of Staff added: "Lord Kitchener was right when he
said the war would last three years--the first year preparation, the
second year defence, and the third year ... _cela sera rigolo_--it will
be huge sport." He quoted the phrase as Lord Kitchener's own.
Before we left the General signed for me the menu of the lunch, pointing
out to me, however, that if I were at any time to show the menu to the
village policeman, I must assure him that the hare which figured thereon
had been run over at night by a motor-car and lost its life owing to an
accident, otherwise he might, he feared, be fined for killing game out
of season!
I shall always remember the picture of General Pétain seeing us into our
car with his parting words, "You are about to do the most dangerous
thing you have ever done or will ever do in your life. As for Verdun,
tell them in England that I am smiling, and I am sure that when you see
General Nivelle you will find him smiling too. That is the best answer I
can give you as to how things are going with us at Verdun." Then with a
friendly wave of his hand we passed on our way.
After leaving the headquarters of General Pétain we were held up for
some time at a level crossing and watched the busy little train puffing
along, carrying towards Verdun stores, munitions, and men. This level
crossing had been the scene of active fighting; on each side were
numerous graves, and the sentinels off duty were passing from one to the
other picking a dead leaf or drawing a branch of trailing vine over the
resting-places of their comrades.
Above our heads circle _les guêpes_, the wasps of the French Army. They
had been aroused by the appearance of a Taube and were preparing to
sting, had the Taube waited or made any further attempt to proceed over
the French lines. However, deciding that discretion was the better part
of valour, it turned and fled. It is unwise, however, to stir up the
"wasps of France"; they followed it, and later in the day we heard that
it had been brought down near Verdun.
We were now in the centre of activity of the army defending Verdun. On
every hand we saw artillery-parks, ammunition-parks, and regiments
resting, whilst along the road a long line of _camions_ passed
unceasingly. During the whole length of my stay on the French front I
only saw one regiment marching. Everywhere the men are conveyed in the
_camions_, and are thus spared the fatigue which would otherwise be
caused by the intense heat and the white dust. There are perhaps only
two things that can in any way upset the perfect indifference to
difficulties of the French trooper: he hates to walk, and he refuses to
be deprived of his _pinard_. The men of the French army have named their
red wine _pinard_, just as they call water _la flotte_, always, however,
being careful to add that _la flotte_ is excellent "for washing one's
feet."
As we passed through the headquarters of General Nivelle, he sent down
word to us not to wait to call on him then, but to proceed at once to
Verdun, as later the passage would become more difficult. He kindly sent
down to us one of the officers of his staff to act as escort. The
officer sat by our chauffeur, warning him of the dangerous spots in the
road which the Germans had the habit of "watering" from time to time
with _marmites_, and ordering him to put on extra speed. Our speed along
the road into Verdun averaged well over a mile a minute.
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
dispatches, and have received from France the Croix de Guerre. I also
saw an ambulance marked "Lloyd's."
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 inquired 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 trench newspapers I saw the following verse:
Boches, à l'univers votre zèle importun
Fait des 'communiqués' dont personne n'est dupe.
Vous dites: "Nos soldats occuperont Verdun.
Jusqu'ici c'est plutôt 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.