houses. Everywhere shattered doors, broken cupboards, drawers thrown
open where the inhabitants had thought to try to save some of their
cherished belongings but had finally fled, leaving all to the care of
the soldiers, who protect the property of the inhabitants as carefully
as if it were their own.
It would be difficult to find finer custodians. I was told that at
Bobigny-près-Bourget there is on one of the houses the following
inscription worthy of classical times:
"The proprietor of this house has gone to the war. He leaves this
dwelling to the care of the French. Long live France." And he left the
key in the lock.
The soldiers billeted in the house read the inscription, which met with
their approval, and so far each regiment in passing had cleaned out the
little dwelling and left it in perfect order.
From the citadel we went down into the trenches which led to the lines
at Thiaumont. The heat in the city was excessive, but in the trenches it
was delightfully cool, perhaps a little too cool. We heard the men make
no complaints except that at times the life was a little "monotonous"!
One man told me that he was once in a trench that was occupied at the
same time by the French and the Germans. There was nothing between them
but sandbags and a thick wall of clay, and day and night the French
watched that wall. One day a slight scratching was heard. The men
prepared to face the crumbling of the barrier when through a small hole
popped out the head of a brown rabbit. Down into the trench hopped Mrs.
Bunny, followed by two small bunnies, and although rabbit for lunch
would have improved the menu, the men had not the heart to kill her. On
the contrary, they fed her on their rations, and at night-fall she
departed, followed by her progeny.
From all the dug-outs heads popped out, and the first movement of
surprise at seeing a woman in the trenches turned to a smile of delight,
since the _poilu_ is at all times a chivalrous gentleman. One man was
telling me of the magnificent work that had been accomplished by his
"compagnie." I congratulated him and told him he must be happy to be in
such a company. He swept off his iron casque, bowed almost to the
ground, and answered: "Certainly I am happy in my company, mademoiselle,
but I am far happier in yours."
The principal grief of the _poilus_ appeared to be that a shell two or
three days before had destroyed the store of the great _dragée_ (sugared
almond) manufactory of Verdun. Before leaving, the manufacturer had
bequeathed his stock to the army, and they were all regretting that they
had not been greedier and eaten up the _dragées_ quicker.
In the trenches near Verdun, as in the trenches in Flanders, you find
the men talking little of war, but much of their homes and their
families. I came once upon a group of Bretons. They had opened some tins
of sardines and, sitting around a bucket of blazing coals, they were
toasting the fish on the ends of small twigs. I asked them why they
were wasting their energies, since the fish were ready to be eaten
straight from the tins. "We know," they replied; "but it smells like
home." I suppose with the odour of the cooking fish, in the blue haze of
the smoke, they saw visions of their cottages and the white-coiffed
Bretonnes frying the fresh sardines that they had caught.
The dusk was now falling, and, entering the car, we proceeded towards
the lower part of the town at a snail's pace in order not to draw the
German fire. We were told that at the present time approximately one
hundred shells a day still fall on Verdun, but at the time of the great
attack the number was as high as eight hundred, whilst as many as two
hundred thousand shells fell daily in and around Verdun.
Just before we reached the entrance to the citadel, the enemy began to
shell the city, and one of the shells exploded within two hundred feet
of the car. We knew that we were near the entrance to the vaults of the
citadel and could take refuge, so we left the car and proceeded on foot.
Without thinking, we walked in the centre of the road, and the sentinel
at the door of the citadel began in somewhat emphatic French to
recommend us to "longer les murs" (to hug the walls tightly). The
Germans are well aware of the entrance to the citadel and daily shell
the spot. If one meets a shell in the centre of the road it is obviously
no use to argue, whilst in hugging the side of the wall there is a
possibility of only receiving the fragments of the bursting shell.
The subterranean galleries of the citadel of Verdun were constructed by
Vauban, and are now a hive of activity--barbers' shops, sweet shops,
boot shops, hospitals, anything and everything which goes to make up a
small city.
One of the young officers placed his "cell" at our disposal. The long
galleries are all equipped with central heating and electric light, and
some of them have been divided off by wooden partitions or curtains like
the dormitories in a large school. In the "cell" allocated to us we
could see the loving touch of a woman's hand. Around the pillow on the
small camp-bed was a beautiful edging of Irish lace, and on the
dressing-table a large bottle of eau-de-Cologne. There is no reason to
be too uncomfortable in Verdun when one has a good little wife to think
of one and to send presents from time to time.
Emerging from the galleries we met General Dubois, a great soldier and a
kindly man, one who shares the daily perils of his men. The General
invited us to remain and dine with him. He had that day received from
General Nivelle his _cravate_ as Commander of the Legion of Honour, and
his officers were giving him a dinner-party to celebrate the event. "See
how kind fate is to me," he added. "Only one thing was missing from the
feast--the presence of the ladies--and here you are."
It would need the brush of Rembrandt to paint the dining-hall in the
citadel of Verdun. At one long table in the dimly lighted vault sat
between eighty and ninety officers, who all rose, saluted, and cheered
as we entered. The General sat at the head of the table surrounded by
his staff, and behind him the faces of the cooks were lit up by the
fires of the stoves. Some short distance behind us was an air-shaft. It
appears that about a week or a fortnight before our arrival a German
shell, striking the top part of the citadel, dislodged some dust and
gravel which fell down the air-shaft on to the General's head. He simply
called the attendants to him and asked for his table to be moved forward
a yard, as he did not feel inclined to sit at table with his helmet on.
An excellent dinner--soup, roast mutton, fresh beans, salade Russe,
frangipane, dessert--and even champagne to celebrate the General's
_cravate_--quite reassured us that people may die in Verdun of shells
but not of hunger. We drank toasts to France, the Allies, and, silently,
to the men of France who had died that we might live. I was asked to
propose the health of the General, and did it in English, knowing that
he spoke English well. I told him that the defenders of Verdun would
live in our hearts and memories, that on behalf of the whole British
race I felt I might convey to him congratulations on the honour paid to
him by France. I assured him that we had but one idea and one hope, the
speedy victory of the Allied arms, and that personally my present desire
was that every one of those present at table might live to see the flag
of France waving over the whole of Alsace-Lorraine. They asked me to
repeat a description of the flag of France which I gave first in Ottawa;
so there, in the citadel of Verdun with a small French flag before me, I
went back in spirit to Ottawa and remembered how I had spoken of the
triumph of the flag of France: "The red, white, and blue--the red of
the flag of France a little deeper hue than in time of peace, since it
was dyed with the blood of her sons, the blood in which a new history of
France is being written, volume on volume, page on page, of deeds of
heroism, some pages completed and signed, others where the pen has
dropped from the faltering hands and which posterity must needs finish.
The white of the flag of France, not quite so white as in time of peace,
since thousands of her sons had taken it in their hands and pressed it
to their lips before they went forward to die for it, yet without stain,
since in all the record of the war there is no blot on the escutcheon of
France. And the blue of the flag of France, true blue, torn and tattered
with the marks of the bullets and the shrapnel, yet unfurling proudly in
the breeze whilst the very holes were patched by the blue of the sky,
since surely Heaven stands behind the flag of France."
The men of Verdun were full of admiration for the glorious Commander of
the Fort de Vaux. They told me that the fort was held, or rather the
ruins of the fort, until the Germans were actually on the top and firing
on the French beneath.
I discussed with my neighbour the fact that the Germans had more hatred
for us than for the French. He said the whole world would ridicule the
Germans for the manner in which they had exploited the phrase "Gott
strafe England," writing it even on the walls anywhere and everywhere.
He added laughingly that it should not worry the English comrades. "When
they read 'Gott strafe England,' all they needed to reply was 'Ypres,
Ypres--Hurrah!'"
He told me that he had been stationed for some time with his regiment
near the English troops, and there had been loud lamentations among the
_poilus_ because they had been obliged to say good-bye to their English
comrades. He added that the affection was not entirely disinterested.
The English comrades had excellent marmalade and jam and other good
things which they shared with their French brothers, who, whilst
excellently fed, do not indulge in these luxuries. He told me a
delightful tale of a French cook who, seeing an English soldier standing
by, began to question him as to his particular branch of the service,
informing him that he himself had had an exceedingly busy morning
peeling potatoes and cleaning up the pots and pans. After considerable
conversation he inquired of the English comrade what he did for his
living. "Oh," replied the Englishman, "I get my living fairly
easily--nothing half so strenuous as peeling potatoes. I am just a
colonel."
The clean-shaven Tommy is the beloved of all France. I remember seeing
one gallant khaki knight carrying the market-basket of a French maiden
and repaying himself out of her store of apples. I regret to say his
pockets bulged suspiciously. Whilst at a level crossing near by, the old
lady in charge of the gate had an escort of "Tommies" who urged her to
let the train "rip." This was somewhat ironical in view of the fact that
the top speed in that part of the war zone was probably never more than
ten miles an hour.
Tommy is never alone. The children have learned that he loves their
company, and he is always surrounded by an escort of youthful admirers.
The children like to rummage in his pockets for souvenirs. He must
spend quite a good deal of his pay purchasing sweets, so that they may
not be disappointed and that there may be something for his little
friends to find. I remember seeing one Tommy, sitting in the dusty road
with a large pot of marmalade between his legs, dealing out spoonfuls
with perfect justice and impartiality to a circle of youngsters. He
speaks to them of his own little "nippers" at home, and they in turn
tell him of their father who is fighting, of their mother who now works
in the fields, and of baby who is fearfully ignorant, does not know the
difference between the French and the "Engleesch," and who insisted on
calling the great English General who had stayed at their farm "papa."
It matters little that they cannot understand each other, and it does
not in the least prevent them from holding lengthy conversations.
I told my companion at table that whilst visiting one of the hospitals
in France I had heard how one Englishman had been sent into a far
hospital in Provence by mistake. He was not seriously injured, and
promptly constituted himself king of the ward. On arrival, he insisted
on being shaved. As no shaving-brush was available, the _piou-piou_ in
the next bed lathered him with his tooth-brush. The French cooking did
not appeal to him, and he grumbled continuously. The directress of the
hospital sent her own cook from her château to cater for Mr. Atkins. An
elaborate menu was prepared. Tommy glanced through it, ordered
everything to be removed, and commanded tea and toast. Toast-making is
not a French art, and the château chef was obliged to remain at the
hospital and spend his time carefully preparing the toast and seeing
that it was served in good condition. When Mr. Atkins felt so disposed,
he would summon a _piou-piou_ to give him a French lesson, or else
request the various inmates of the ward to sing to him. He would in turn
render that plaintive ditty "Down by the Old Bull and Bush." A nurse who
spoke a little English translated his song to the French soldiers.
Whilst not desiring to criticise the _rendez-vous_ selected by their
_camarade anglais_, they did not consider that "près d'un vieux taureau"
(near an old bull) was a safe or desirable meeting-place. When I
explained to the nurse that "The Bull and Bush" was a kind of _cabaret_,
she hastened from ward to ward to tell the men that after all the
Englishman might have selected a worse spot to entertain his girl. He
was at once the joy and the despair of the whole hospital, and the nurse
had much trouble in consoling the patients when "our English" was
removed.
When Tommy indulges in the use of the French language, he abbreviates it
as much as possible.
One hot summer's day, driving from Boulogne to Fort Mahon, halfway down
a steep hill we came upon two Tommies endeavouring to extract a
motor-cycle and a side-car from a somewhat difficult position. They had
side-slipped and run into a small tree. The cycle was on one side and
the side-car on the other, and a steel rod between had been rammed right
into the wood through the force of the collision.
My three companions and myself endeavoured to help the men to pull out
the rod, but the united efforts of the six of us proved unavailing. We
hailed a passing cart and tied the reins around the motor-cycle, but
immediately the horse commenced to pull the leather of the reins
snapped. Behind the cart walked a peasant. Only one adjective can
possibly describe him--he was decidedly "beery." He made no attempt to
help, but passed from one Tommy to the other, patting them on their
backs, assuring them "that with a little goodwill all would be well."
There was a dangerous glint in the younger Tommy's eye, but in the
presence of ladies he refrained from putting his thoughts into words.
Finally, his patience evaporating, he suddenly turned on the peasant and
shouted at him, "Ong, ong." It took me some time to grasp that this was
Tommy's abbreviated version of "Allez-vous en" ("Clear out"). In any
event it proved quite useless, as he continued to pat the Tommies
affectionately and to bombard them with impracticable suggestions.
We were joined later by three villagers, two gendarmes and a postman,
and all pulling together we managed to extract the rod from the tree. A
large lorry was passing, and on to it we heaved the wreckage. Up
clambered the Tommies followed by their unwelcome friend, who managed to
sit on the only unbroken portion of the side-car. This was too much for
Messrs. Atkins' equanimity. Limp with laughter, we watched them pass
from sight amidst a chorus of "Ong, ong," followed by flights of oratory
in the English tongue which do not bear repeating, but which were
received by the peasant as expressions of deep esteem and to which he
replied by endeavouring to kiss the Tommies and shouting, "Vive
l'Angleterre! Allright! Hoorah!"
Our guiding officer began to show some signs of anxiety to have us leave
before ten o'clock, but the good-byes took some time. Presents were
showered upon us--German _dragées_ (shell heads and pieces of shrapnel)
and the real French _dragées_, the famous sweet of Verdun.
We crept out of the city, but unfortunately at one of the dangerous
cross-roads our chauffeur mistook the route. A heavy bombardment was
taking place, and the French were replying. We were lucky enough to get
on to the route and into safety before any shell fell near us. It
appears that the Germans systematically bombard the roads at night,
hoping to destroy the _camions_ bringing up the food for the city, fresh
munitions, and men.
We slept that night at Bar-le-Duc and next morning saw the various
ambulances and hospitals which the Service de Santé had particularly
requested me to visit. I was impressed by the splendid organisation of
the Red Cross even quite close to the firing-line.
Passing through one tent hospital, an Algerian called out to me:
"Ohé, la blonde, viens ici! J'ai quelque chose de beau à te montrer"
("Come here, fair girl, I have something pretty to show you").
He was sitting up in bed, and, as I approached, unbuttoned his
bed-jacket and insisted on my examining the tag of his vest, on which
was written, "Leader, London." The vest had come in a parcel of goods
from the London Committee of the French Red Cross, and I only wished
that the angel of goodness and tenderness who is the Presidente of the
Croix Rouge, Mme. de la Panouse, and that Mr. D.H. Illingworth, Mr.
Philip Wilkins, and all her able lieutenants, could have seen the
pleasure on the face of this swarthy defender of France. In the next bed
was a Senegalais who endeavoured to attract my attention by keeping up a
running compliment to my compatriots, my King, and myself. He must have
chanted fifty times: "Vive les English, Georges, et toi!" He continued
even after I had rewarded him with some cigarettes. The Senegalais and
the Algerians are really great children, especially when they are
wounded. I have seen convalescent Senegalais and Algerians in Paris
spend hours in the Champs Elysées watching the entertainment at the
open-air marionette theatre. The antics of the dolls kept them amused.
They are admitted to the enclosure free, and there is no longer any
room for the children who frequented the show in happier days. These
latter form a disconsolate circle on the outside, whilst the younger
ones, who do not suffer from colour prejudice, scramble on to the knees
of the black soldiers.
The sister in charge was a true daughter of the "Lady of the Lamp."
Provided they are really ill, she sympathises with all the grumblers,
but scolds them if they have reached the convalescent stage. She carries
a small book in which she enters imaginary good points to those who have
the tables by their beds tidy, and she pinned an invisible medal on the
chest of a convalescent who was helping to carry trays of food to his
comrades. She is indeed a General, saving men for France.
Not a man escaped her attention, and as we passed through the tents she
gave to each of her "chers enfants"--black or white--a cheering smile or
a kindly word. She did, however, whilst talking to us omit to salute a
Senegalais. Before she passed out of the tent he commenced to call after
her, "Toi pas gentille aujourd'hui--moi battre toi" ("You are not good
to me to-day--me beat you"). This, it appears, is his little joke--he
will never beat anyone again, since he lost both his arms when his
trench was blown up by a land mine.
It was at Triancourt that I first saw in operation the motor-cars that
had been sent out fitted with bath tubs for the troops, and also a very
fine car fitted up by the London Committee of the French Red Cross as a
moving dental hospital.
I regret to add that a _poilu_ near by disrespectfully referred to it as
"another of the horrors of war," adding that in times of peace there
was some kind of personal liberty, where as now "a man could not have
toothache without being forced to have it ended, and that there was no
possibility of escaping a dentist who hunted you down by motor."
It was suggested that, as I had had a touch of toothache the night
before, I might take my place in the chair and give an example of
British pluck to the assembled _poilus_. I hastened to impress on the
surgeon that I hated notoriety and would prefer to remain modestly in
the background. I even pushed aside with scorn the proffered bribe of
six "boche" buttons, assuring the man that "I would keep my toothache as
a souvenir."
At one of the hospitals, beside the bed of a dying man, sat a little old
man writing letters. They told me that before the war he had owned the
most flourishing wine-shop in the village. He had fled before the
approach of the German troops, but later returned to his village and
installed himself in the hospital as scribe. He wrote from morning until
night, and watching him stretching his lean old hands, I asked him if he
suffered much pain from writer's cramp. He looked at me almost
reproachfully before answering, "Mademoiselle, it is the least I can do
for my country; besides my pain is so slight and that of the comrades is
so great. I am proud, indeed proud, that at sixty-seven years of age I
am not useless."
At one hospital I was shown a copy of the last letter dictated by a
young French officer, and I asked to be allowed to copy it--it was
indeed a letter of a "chic" type.
"CHERS PARRAIN ET MARRAINE,
"Je vous écris à vous pour ne pas tuer Maman qu'un pareil coup
surprendrait trop.
"J'ai été blessé le ... devant.... J'ai deux blessures hideuses et je
n'en aurai pas pour bien longtemps. Les majors ne me le cachent même
pas.
"Je pars sans regret avec la conscience d'avoir fait mon devoir.
"Prévenez donc mes parents le mieux que vous pourrez; qu'ils ne
cherchent pas à venir, ils n'en auraient pas le temps.
"Adieu vous tous que j'aimais.
"VIVE LA FRANCE!"
"DEAR GODFATHER AND GODMOTHER.
"I am writing to you, so as not to kill mother, whom such a shock would
surprise too much. I was wounded on the ... at.... I have two terrible
wounds and I cannot last long. The surgeons do not even attempt to
conceal this from me. I go without regret, with the consciousness of
having done my duty. Kindly break the news to my parents the best way
you can; they should not attempt to come because they would not have
time to reach me before the end.
"Farewell to all you whom I have loved.
"LONG LIVE FRANCE!"
Whilst loving his relatives tenderly, the last thought of the dying
Frenchman is for his country. Each one dies as a hero, yet not one
realises it. It would be impossible to show greater simplicity; they
salute the flag for the last time, and that is all.
From Triancourt we went straight to the headquarters of General Nivelle.
They had just brought him the maps rectified to mark the French
advance. The advance had been made whilst we were standing on the
terrace at Verdun the night before. We had seen the rockets sent up,
requesting a _tir de barrage_ (curtain of fire). The '75's had replied
at once and the French had been able to carry out the operation.
Good news had also come in from the Somme, and General Nivelle did not
hesitate to express his admiration for the British soldiers.
He said that there was no need to praise the first troops sent by
Britain to France--everyone knew their value; but it should be a great
satisfaction to Britain to find that the new Army was living up to the
traditions of the old Army.
He added: "We can describe the new army of Britain in two words: '_Ça
mord_'--it bites."
The Father of his own men, it is not surprising that General Nivelle
finds a warm corner in his heart for the British Tommy, since his mother
was an Englishwoman.