"We never speak of them. But we think of them a good deal."
Still a little closer to war. The parc du genie--engineers park. BEHIND
We inspected hills of coils, formidable barbed wire, far surpassing
that of farmers, well contrived to tear to pieces any human being
who, having got into its entanglement, should try to get out again.
One thought that nothing but steam-chisels would be capable of
cutting it. Also stacks of timber for shoring up mines which sappers
would dig beneath the enemy trenches. Also sacks to be filled with
earth for improvised entrenching. Also the four-pointed contraptions
called chevaux de frise, which--however you throw them--will always
stick a fatal point upwards, to impale the horse or man who cannot
or will not look where he is going. Even tarred paper, for keeping the
weather out of trenches or anything else. And all these things in
unimagined quantities.
Close by, a few German prisoners performing sanitary duties under
a guard. They were men in God's image, and they went about on
the assumption that all the rest of the war lay before them and that
there was a lot of it. A General told us that he had mentioned to
them the possibility of an exchange of prisoners, whereupon they
had gloomily and pathetically protested. They very sincerely did not
want to go back whence they had come, preferring captivity,
humiliation, and the basest tasks to a share in the great glory of
German arms. To me they had a brutalised air, no doubt one minor
consequence of military ambition in high places.
Not many minutes away was a hospital--what the French call an
ambulance de premiere ligne, contrived out of a factory. This was
the hospital nearest to the trenches in that region, and the wounded
come to it direct from the dressing-stations which lie immediately
behind the trenches. When a man falls, or men fall, the automobile
is telephoned for, and it arrives at the appointed rendezvous
generally before the stretcher-bearers, who may have to walk for
twenty or thirty minutes over rough ground. A wounded man may
be, and has been, operated upon in this hospital within an hour of
his wounding. It is organised on a permanent basis, for cases too
serious for removal have, of course, to remain there. Nevertheless,
these establishments are, as regards their staff, patients, and
material, highly mobile.
One hospital of two hundred beds was once entirely evacuated
within sixty minutes upon a sudden order. We walked through small
ward after small ward, store-room after store-room, aseptic
operating-room and septic operating-room, all odorous with ether,
and saw little but resignation, and not much of that, for patients
happened to be few. Yet the worn face of the doctor in charge
showed that vast labours must have been accomplished in those
sombre chambers.
In the very large courtyard a tent operating-hospital was
established. The white attendants were waiting within in the pallid
obscurity, among tables, glass jars, and instruments. The surgeon's
wagon, with hot-water and sterilising apparatus, was waiting without.
The canvas organism was a real hospital, and the point about it was
that it could move off complete at twenty-five minutes' notice and set
itself up again in any other ordained location in another twenty-five
minutes.
Another short ride, and we were in an aviation park, likewise tented,
in the midst of an immense wheatfield on the lofty side of a hill.
There were six hangars of canvas, each containing an aeroplane
and serving as a dormitory; and for each aeroplane a carriage and
a motor--for sometimes aeroplanes are wounded and have to travel
by road; it takes ninety minutes to dismount an aeroplane. Each
corps of an army has one of these escadrilles or teams of
aeroplanes, and the army as a whole has an extra one, so that, if an
army consists of eight corps, it possesses fifty-four aeroplanes. I am
speaking now of the particular type of aeroplane employed for
regulating artillery fire. It was a young non-commissioned officer with
a marked Southern accent who explained to us the secret nature of
things. He was wearing both the Military Medal and the Legion of
Honour, for he had done wondrous feats in the way of shooting the
occupants of Taubes in mid-air. He got out one of the machines,
and exhibited its tricks and its wireless apparatus, and invited us to
sit in the seat of the flier. The weather was quite unsuitable for flying,
but, setting four men to hold the machine in place, he started the
Gnome motor and ran it up to two thousand revolutions a minute,
creating a draught which bowed the fluttered wheat for many yards
behind and blew hats off. And in the middle of this pother he
continued to offer lucid and surprising explanations to deafened
ears until his superior officer, excessively smart and looking like a
cross between a cavalryman and a yachtsman, arrived on the
scene swinging a cane.
It was natural that after this we should visit some auto-cannons
expressly constructed for bringing down aeroplanes. In front of
these marvels it was suggested to us that we should neither take
photographs nor write down exact descriptions. As regards the
latter, the Staff officers had reason to be reassured. No living
journalist could have reproduced the scientific account of the
sighting arrangements given to us in an esoteric yet quite
comprehensible language by the high priest of these guns, who was
a middle-aged artillery Captain. It lasted about twenty minutes. It
was complete, final, unchallengeable. At intervals the artillery
Captain himself admitted that such-and-such a part of the device
was tres beau. It was. There was only one word of which I could not
grasp the significance in that connection. It recurred. Several times I
determined to ask the Captain what he meant us to understand by
that word; but I lacked moral courage. I doubt whether in all the
lethal apparatus that I saw in France I saw anything quite equal to
the demoniac ingenuity of these massive guns. The proof of guns is
in the shooting. These guns do not merely aim at Taubes: they hit
them.
I will not, however, derogate from the importance of the illustrious
"seventy-five." We saw one of these on an afternoon of much
marching up and down hills and among woods, gazing at horses
and hot-water douches, baths, and barbers' shops, and deep dug-
outs called "Tipperary," and guns of various calibre, including the
"seventy-five." The "seventy-five" is a very sympathetic creature, in
blue-grey with metallic glints. He is perfectly easy to see when you
approach him from behind, but get twenty yards in front of him and
he is absolutely undiscoverable. Viewed from the sky, he is part of
the forest. Viewed from behind, he is perceived to be in a wooden
hut with rafters, in which you can just stand upright. We beheld the
working of the gun, by two men, and we beheld the different sorts of
shell in their delved compartments. But this was not enough for us.
We ventured to suggest that it would be proper to try to kill a few
Germans for our amusement. The request was instantly granted.
"Time for 4,300 metres," said the Lieutenant quickly and sternly, and
a soldier manipulated the obus.
It was done. It was done with disconcerting rapidity. The shell was
put into its place. A soldier pulled a string. Bang! A neat, clean, not
too loud bang! The messenger had gone invisibly forth. The prettiest
part of the affair was the recoil and automatic swinging back of the
gun. Lest the first shell should have failed in its mission, the
Commandant ordered a second one to be sent, and this time the
two artillerymen sat in seats attached on either side to the gun itself.
The "seventy-five" was enthusiastically praised by every officer
present. He is beloved like a favourite sporting dog, and with cause.
At the side of the village street there was a bit of sharply sloping
ground, with a ladder thrown on it to make descent easier. "This
way," said one of the officers.
We followed him, and in an instant were in the communication
trench. The change was magical in its quickness. At one moment
we were on the earth; at the next we were in it. The trench was so
narrow that I had to hold my stick in front of me, as there was no
room to swing the arms; the chalky sides left traces on the elbows.
The floor was for the most part quite dry, but at intervals there were
muddy pools nearly ankle-deep. The top of the trench was about
level with the top of my head, and long grasses or chance cereals,
bending down, continually brushed the face. An officer was uplifted
for the rest of the day by finding a four-leaved clover at the edge of
the trench. The day was warm, and the trench was still warmer. Its
direction never ceased to change, generally in curves, but now and
then by a sharp corner. We walked what seemed to be an immense
distance, and then came out on to a road, which we were instructed
to cross two by two, as, like the whole of the region, it was subject to
German artillery. Far down this road we could see the outlying
village for which we were bound. . . .
A new descent into the earth. We proceed a few yards, and the
trench suddenly divides into three. We do not know which to take.
An officer following us does not know which to take. The guiding
officer is perhaps thirty yards in front! We call. No answer. We climb
out of the trench on to the surface desolation; we can see nothing,
nothing whatever, but land that is running horribly to waste. Our
friends are as invisible as moles. There is not a trace even of their
track. This is a fine object-lesson in the efficacy of trenches. At
length an officer returns and saves us. We have to take the trench
on the extreme right. Much more hot walking, and a complete loss
of the notion of direction.
Then we come out on to another portion of the same road at the
point where a main line of railway crosses it. We are told to run to
shelter. In the near distance a German captive balloon sticks up
moveless against the sky. The main line of railway is a sorrowful
sight. Its signal-wires hang in festoons. Its rails are rusting. The
abandonment of a main line in a civilised country is a thing
unknown, a thing contrary to sense, an impossible thing, so that one
wonders whether one is not visiting the remains of a civilisation
dead and definitely closed. Very strange thoughts pass through the
mind. That portion of the main line cannot be used by the Germans
because it is within the French positions, and it cannot be used by
the French because it is utterly exposed to German artillery. Thus,
perhaps ten kilometres of it are left forlorn to illustrate the imbecile
brutality of an invasion. There is a good deal more trench before we
reach the village which forms the head of a salient in the French
line. This village is knocked all to pieces. It is a fearful spectacle. We
see a Teddy-bear left on what remains of a flight of stairs, a
bedstead buried to the knobs in debris, skeletons of birds in a cage
hanging under an eave. The entire place is in the zone of fire,
and it has been tremendously bombarded throughout the war.
Nevertheless, some houses still stand, and seventeen civilians--
seven men and ten women--insist on remaining there. I talked to
one fat old woman, who contended that there was no danger. A few
minutes later a shell fell within a hundred yards of her, and it might
just as well have fallen on the top of her coiffe, to prove finally to her
the noble reasonableness of war and the reality of the German
necessity for expansion.
The village church was laid low. In the roof two thin arches of the
groining remain, marvellously. One remembers this freak of
balance--and a few poor flowers on the altar. Mass is celebrated in
that church every Sunday morning. We spoke with the cure, an
extremely emaciated priest of middle age; he wore the Legion of
Honour. We took to the trenches again, having in the interval been
protected by several acres of ruined masonry. About this point
geography seemed to end for me. I was in a maze of burrowing,
from which the hot sun could be felt but not seen. I saw stencilled
signs, such as "Tranchee de repli," and signs containing numbers. I
saw a sign over a door: "Guetteur de jour et de nuit"--watcher by
day and by night.
"Anybody in there?"
"Certainly."
The door was opened. In the gloom a pale man stood rather like a
ghost, almost as disconcerting as a ghost, watching. He ignored us,
and kept on watching.
Then through a hole I had a glimpse of an abandoned road, where
no man might live, and beyond it a vast wire entanglement. Then we
curved, and I was in an open place, a sort of redoubt contrived out
of little homes and cattle-stables. I heard irregular rifle-fire close
by, but I could not see who was firing I was shown the machine-gun
chamber, and the blind which hides the aperture for the muzzle was
lifted, but only momentarily. I was shown, too, the deep
underground refuges to which every body takes in case of a heavy
bombardment. Then we were in the men's quarters, in houses very
well protected by advance walls to the north, and at length we saw
some groups of men.
"Bonjour, les poilus!"
This from the Commandant himself, with jollity. The Commandant
had a wonderful smile, which showed bright teeth, and his gestures
were almost as quick as those of his Lieutenant, whom the regiment
had christened "The Electric Man."
The soldiers saluted. This salute was so proud, so eager, that it
might have brought tears to the eyes. The soldiers stood up very
straight, but not at all stiffly. I noticed one man, because I could not
notice them all. He threw his head back, and slightly to one side,
and his brown beard stuck out. His eyes sparkled. Every muscle
was taut. He seemed to be saying, "My Commandant, I know my
worth; I am utterly yours--you won't get anything better." A young
officer said to me that these men had in them a wild beast and an
angel. It was a good saying, and I wished I had thought of it myself.
This regiment had been in this village since the autumn. It had
declined to be relieved. It seemed absolutely fresh.
One hears that individual valour is about the same in all armies--
everywhere very high. Events appear to have justified the assertion.
German valour is astounding. I have not seen any German
regiment, but I do not believe that there are in any German regiment
any men equal to these men. After all, ideas must count, and these
men know that they are defending an outraged country, while the
finest German soldier knows that he is outraging it.
The regiment was relatively very comfortable. It had plenty of room.
It had made a little garden, with little terra-cotta statues. It
possessed also a gymnasium ground, where we witnessed some
excellent high jumping; and--more surprising--a theatre, with stage,
dressing-room, and women's costumes.
The summit of our excitement was attained when we were led into
the first-line trench.
"Is this really the first-line trench?"
"It is."
Well, the first-line trench, very remarkably swept and dusted and
spotless--as were all the trenches beyond the communication
trench--was not much like a trench. It was like a long wooden
gallery. Its sides were of wood, its ceiling was of wood, its floor was
of wood. The carpentry, though not expert, was quite neat; and we
were told that not a single engineer had ever been in the position,
which, nevertheless, is reckoned to be one of the most ingenious on
the whole front. The gallery is rather dark, because it is lighted only
by the loop-holes. These loop-holes are about eight inches square,
and more than eight inches deep, because they must, of course,
penetrate the outer earthwork. A couple of inches from the bottom a
strong wire is fixed across them. At night the soldier puts his gun
under this wire, so that he may not fire too high.
The loop-holes are probably less than a yard apart, allowing enough
space in front of each for a man to move comfortably. Beneath the
loop-holes runs a wooden platform for the men to stand on. Behind
the loop-holes, in the ceiling, are large hooks to hang guns on.
Many of the loop-holes are labelled with men's names, written in a
good engrossing hand; and between the loop-holes, and level with
them, are pinned coloured postcards and photographs of women,
girls, and children. Tucked conveniently away in zinc cases
underground are found zinc receptacles for stores of cartridges,
powders to be used against gas, grenades, and matches.
One gazes through a loop-hole. Occasional firing can be heard, but
it is not in the immediate vicinity. Indeed, all the men we can see
have stepped down from the platform in order to allow us to pass
freely along it and inspect. Through the loop-hole can be
distinguished a barbed-wire entanglement, then a little waste
ground, then more barbed-wire entanglement (German), and then
the German trenches, which are less than half a mile away, and
which stretch round behind us in a semicircle.
"Do not look too long. They have very good glasses."
The hint is taken. It is singular to reflect that just as we are gazing
privily at the Germans, so the Germans are gazing privily at us. A
mere strip of level earth separates them from us, but that strip is
impassable, save at night, when the Frenchmen often creep up to
the German wire. There is a terrible air of permanency about the
whole affair. Not only the passage of time produces this effect; the
telephone-wire running along miles of communication-trench, the
elaborateness of the fighting trenches, the established routine and
regularity of existence--all these also contribute to it. But the air of
permanency is fallacious. The Germans are in France.
Every day of slow preparation brings nearer the day when the
Germans will not be in France. That is certain. An immense
expectancy hangs over the land, enchanting it.
We leave the first-line trench, with regret. But we have been in it!
In the quarters of the Commandant, a farm-house at the back end
of the village, champagne was served, admirable champagne. We
stood round a long table, waiting till the dilatory should have arrived.
The party had somehow grown. For example, the cure came, amid
acclamations. He related how a Lieutenant had accosted him in
front of some altar and asked whether he might be allowed to
celebrate the Mass. "That depends," said the cure. "You cannot
celebrate if you are not a priest. If you are, you can." "I am a priest,"
said the Lieutenant. And he celebrated the Mass. Also the Intendant
came, a grey-haired, dour, kind-faced man. The Intendant has
charge of supplies, and he is cherished accordingly. And in addition
to the Commandant, and the Electric Man, and our Staff Captains,
there were sundry non-commissioned officers, and even privates.
We were all equal. The French Army is by far the most democratic
institution I have ever seen. On our journeys the Staff Captains and
ourselves habitually ate with a sergeant and a corporal. The
corporal was the son of a General. The sergeant was a man of
business and a writer. His first words when he met me were in
English: "Monsieur Bennett, I have read your books." One of our
chauffeurs was a well-known printer who employs three hundred
and fifty men--when there is peace. The relations between officers
and men are simply unique. I never saw a greeting that was not
exquisite. The officers were full of knowledge, decision, and
appreciative kindliness. The men were bursting with eager devotion.
This must count, perhaps even more than big guns.
The Commandant, of course, presided at the vin d'honneur. His
glance and his smile, his latent energy, would have inspired
devotion in a wooden block. Every glass touched every glass, an
operation which entailed some threescore clinkings. And while we
were drinking, one of the Staff Captains--the one whose English
was the less perfect of the two--began to tell me of the career of the
Commandant, in Algeria and elsewhere. Among other things, he
had carried his wounded men on his own shoulders under fire from
the field of battle to a place of safety. He was certainly under forty;
he might have been under thirty-five.
Said the Staff Captain, ingenuously translating in his mind from
French to English, and speaking with slow caution, as though
picking his way among the chevaux de frise of the English
language:
"There are--very beautiful pages--in his--military life."