A DAY AT ECLISFONTAINE
September 22nd. Last night the Crown Prince distributed more Iron
Crosses among the heroes of the day. At the end of the meal he
suggested that I should spend my morning with Major Matthiasz,
whose duties with the Chief Command of the 5th Army called him to
Eclisfontaine, from which point an attack was to be delivered against
Varennes and neighbouring villages which the Germans had once occupied,
but from which for strategical reasons they had been obliged to retire.
At half-past three I was called, lit my candle, opened the window and
looked out into the night. It was pitch-dark but for a star here and
there which peered out through the crowns of the trees. It was very
still, and nothing could be heard but the slow, measured tread of the
sentry crunching the garden gravel.
At four I was seated alone at breakfast. A soldier accompanied me with
a lantern to Major Matthiasz’s residence, where a young lieutenant with
an orderly stood waiting. We took our seats, wrapped in comfortable
furs, and drove out of the town, our powerful headlights showing the
way. At this early hour they were not of much use, however. A very
dense fog lay over the ground and it was dangerous to drive fast. We
accordingly made our way cautiously, the more so as the road was as
usual crowded with soldiers on foot and supply columns. There is no
rest on the lines of communication, even at night. It is wonderful
to think that this ceaseless stream of life is never for one moment
interrupted! Will there ever be an end to this incessant rattle and
tramping of feet? Truly Germany seems inexhaustible in vital and
material force.
The trees loomed up through the fog like ghostly sentinels. Yet more
eerie are the transport columns in this unaccustomed and picturesque
half-light. The grey-clad riders, with their cloaks thrown over their
shoulders, sit and dream on patient, snorting horses and seem to spring
up from nowhere out of the fog as they come within the circle of our
headlights. A horse takes fright at the light and the buzz, his rider
starts and wakes up out of his reverie; he pulls himself together and
settles down again in the saddle. The column goes on, but new riders
loom up one after the other. We hear the tramping of innumerable hoofs
against the road surface, and the wagon wheels make a smacking and
gurgling sound as they move onward through the mire, which clings to
them some little way and then drops back in shapeless clods.
By the side of the road is a reddish light which, as we approach, gains
in strength and colour; it is the camp fire of a bivouac, against which
the figures of the soldiers are sharply silhouetted. They appear to be
preparing something over the fire, coffee no doubt, or tea. Here and
there one of them has already lit his early-morning pipe. As dark and
as mist-enshrouded as the night which still enfolds the earth, is the
fate that awaits them with the coming day. There seems to be something
fateful in the air. A new fight no doubt is impending. To the soldiers
there is nothing remarkable, nothing unusual or exciting in this. To
them it is all in the day’s work--there is fighting at the front and
their fate beckons to them under the French fire. Maybe it is their
turn to-day to fall and add to the number of graves and wooden crosses
by the roadside. Maybe this dismal night has been the last in their
lives. But if so they have slept well for the last time, and the flames
of the bivouac fire give out a friendly and agreeable warmth.
The gleam of fresh fires shows through the mist; now clear, now
pale and dim, at some distance from the road. Everywhere are groups
of soldiers, soldiers, soldiers. Once we stop a moment, to allow a
frightened horse to pass. The hushed voices of the night then seem
louder, and the creaking of wagons, rattling of arms, tramping of the
horses’ hoofs or the curt orders of the officers strike our ears. The
troops are moving to the front. We are on one of the arteries of a
fighting army.
Once more we pass through Dun, whose naked walls and ruins present
a desolate sight as they are lit up by our lamps. We drive through
Romagne, which lies wrapped in fog. At the other end of the village a
vast body of horsemen blocks the way; they are what we call in Sweden,
Divisional Cavalry, in contrast to cavalry acting independently. The
standard is furled. Sabres rattle against stirrups and harness. The
horse of one of the troopers, as nervous and thoughtless as many others
of the genus _equus caballus_, frightened by the lights, begins a wild
dance in front of our vehicle. Instead of leaving the road free, the
horse rears up on his hind legs in front of the car, which cannot stop
abruptly. This ended in a tumble, which sent horse and rider spinning.
The former now seemed to realise in his troubled mind that discretion
is the better part of valour, took a jump across the ditch and cantered
off across fields and meadows. Angry at his adventure, the unseated
rider entered upon the pursuit and soon disappeared in the mist.
It is evidently quite impossible to drive fast. We wriggle along
kilometre after kilometre and constantly fresh swarms of soldiers seem
to rise up out of the fog. It is clearly the reserves of an army who
are on the march. Now the sky seems to grow lighter in the east, and
the grey coats of the soldiers appear to assume a queer, ashen-grey,
colourless tone. Here is another ammunition column and a string of
motor-wagons belonging to some hospital establishment; they look like
gigantic boxes with an enormous red cross on a white background on
their sides. There is an infantry battalion which has bivouacked for
the night and is now ready to break up and take up its prearranged
position in the column of march. A little further on we are stopped by
an artillery detachment, accompanied by its train. Even if the road
is clear of vehicles for a hundred metres or so, we pass isolated
companies of soldiers on foot, orderlies on cycles, despatch riders and
police.
It grows a little lighter and the fog lifts somewhat, but the columns
grow ever denser. An ammunition column has halted owing to some
congestion ahead. The riders have dismounted and the men on the wagons
likewise. They stand in groups, talking and smoking, with their
half-frozen hands in their breeches’ pockets. All the time the road is
packed with soldiers and we cannot drive faster than they march.
At last, at half-past six, we arrive at Eclisfontaine, a junction where
several roads unite and where by-roads and paths debouch on to the
main road. Cavalry, riding past at a sharp trot, with their horses’
bellies caked with mire and the mud spurting up round their hoofs, is
travelling in the same direction. We see at these cross-roads a few
dismounted cavalry scouts. They stand there in order to show the way
to oncoming detachments of the unit to which they belong or to which
they have been attached. Orderlies, usually in couples, fly past at
a gallop. They ask the way to Romagne and ride on directly they have
received the required information. They belong to the artillery, and
it seems to be their allotted duty to conduct ammunition columns to
certain points where fresh ammunition has been ordered.
Daylight makes further inroads. We hear the thud of the columns which
we have just passed, they come nearer and move off in different
directions. The artillery fire seems less brisk than yesterday. The
fog prevents accurate fire, but now and again a salvo is heard. On a
by-road in the village stands a row of motor-cars, evidently belonging
to superior Staff officers. We drive up and range our car behind the
others.
Whilst my travelling companions go off to investigate the situation,
I remain behind a moment to observe the busy life around me. I am now
outside a house in which a Divisional Staff has evidently taken up its
quarters; it is distinguished by a little black, white and red flag.
Opposite, in a meadow, stands a group of orderlies and the escort of
the Staff. The horses stand in a long row with the lances thrust into
the ground; the men are standing round in little groups chatting,
prepared to ride wherever they may be wanted with orders and reports.
Now and again one hears the hum of a car rushing past on some errand.
A party of eight stretcher bearers hurries past towards the fighting
line. The stretchers, drenched in blood, bear witness to the recent
removal of seriously wounded cases to a dressing station. The Red Cross
is, or should be, avoided by the fire, and its staff, therefore, carry
arms for self-defence only.
A couple of French women come walking along with water in buckets. They
have been to a well outside the village, where the water in these times
cannot be any too good. It is wonderful how calm they look, considering
that the fighting is raging round their very homes, but they are pale
and have a serious look on their faces.
The remnants of the fog hang about in wisps and patches, now lighter,
now denser, and do their best to challenge the rising sun. It is an
important day for the Germans. They are, as I have said, to attack the
enemy at and around Varennes. It is nearly eight o’clock. The infantry
is said to be engaged already. The artillery is waiting to move forward
to fresh positions, but in the meantime is doing its best to support
the advance of the infantry from the points which it is occupying.
The sound of firing increases in all directions. Close to the village
stands a heavy battery, howitzers and mortars of heavy calibre. The
duller and more distant reports come from the French lines. Sometimes
we hear four or six reports almost simultaneously, followed by a pause
before the next salvo is discharged.
[Illustration: The country round Eclisfontaine and Varennes.]
Accompanied by an officer, I follow the main road through the village
and peep into a little house, where all the wires of the field
telephone seem to unite. Half a dozen officers are seated at a long
table with receivers close to their ears and maps in front of them.
All reports of the progress of the fighting at different points are
brought in here, likewise any information about changes in the German
and French positions and any fresh requirements and wishes entailed
thereby. An officer of the General Staff seems to classify and
summarise the purport of all these communications. He traces “the new
position” on a map already filled with indications of the position of
troops. No doubt this map is later to be submitted to the Chief of
Staff. I can fancy the upshot of all this to be a telephonic order to
some reserves--perhaps some of the infantry we passed at daybreak--to
hurry forward to some point behind the firing line. I can almost see
the impulsive thrill which passes through the ranks as the will of
the High Command is made known to them. I can see in my mind’s eye
the column leaving the road and making its way to its post in little
separate detachments. Many a queer thought occurs to the untutored
layman as he looks into the smithy where the military will is forged.
No superfluous words are uttered, everything is concentrated and
concise. It cannot well be otherwise. When I walk away I feel that I
have a clearer conception of the vital part which the telephone plays
in the direction of a fight.
In the company of my friend Matthiasz I walk a little further
south-westward, following the main road to the point from which the
fighting proper is conducted. The ground rises gently towards this
point, which has a commanding position and from which one gets an
excellent view of the entire area in which the fight is raging. Here
I see the General in Command, von Mudra. Here also is the almost
octogenarian Field-marshal General Count von Haeseler, who, although he
has no command, has not been able to resist his longing to be near his
old corps, as it fights for Germany’s honour and rights. All day long
the two generals stand in the middle of the road, surrounded by several
officers. On the fringe of the road a powerful telescope has been
mounted on its tripod. A Captain is posted behind it and is closely
observing the position, and reporting when the telescope reveals any
changes in the situation. Now and again the Commander of the Army Corps
himself walks up to the telescope.
[Illustration: FIELD-MARSHAL GENERAL VON HAESELER AND GENERAL VON MUDRA
AT ECLISFONTAINE]
After I had been duly introduced to the Generals and had chatted with
them for a little while, I made the acquaintance of the other officers,
and had the situation and the object of attack explained to me. The
spot at which we were standing was not entirely without danger. A
soldier standing on the road close to the telephone house was hit by
a rifle bullet, but, curiously enough, without being wounded. He was
knocked down by the impact or perhaps by the sudden surprise. The
bullet, which had come from a great distance, had obviously spent
itself. Another man was slightly wounded, likewise by a rifle bullet.
Three shrapnel shells exploded fairly close to us, too high up to do
any damage.
The day is long, and I find time to make numerous interesting
observations. The village of Eclisfontaine and the observation station
of the Generals are the terminal points of a line of about a couple of
hundred metres in length along which the officers and I are moving.
Here I had an opportunity of talking, now to one, now to another,
whilst at off moments I sat down in the grass to make notes and observe
the line of fire. From a point near the village we had an excellent
view towards south-south-west in the direction of Varennes. On a stool
in the middle of the road sat the Chief of Division, Lieutenant-General
Count von Pfeil, fat and jolly looking. When the last traces of the
fog had disappeared, the dim, blue outlines of the Argonne became
discernible. Three kilometres away in the direction of Varennes the
ground rises to an extremely bare ridge, behind which, out of sight of
the French, a couple of German field-gun batteries are posted. We can
see them with the naked eye. Immediately to the left of this artillery
position a body of German infantry is advancing to the attack. With
the aid of the field-glasses we can see the soldiers go forward bent
almost double in order as long as possible to retain the shelter of
the height which screens the guns. It seems likely, however, that the
French have noticed the move, as shrapnel is constantly seen bursting
over these lines--one little tuft of smoke after the other, and out of
their midst a streak of lightning. Once we could count as many as eight
such cloudlets soaring simultaneously over the German infantry, and
doing their best to pour a hail of bullets over it. It must thus be at
least two batteries that are concentrating their fire on this point.
Besides the shrapnel, common shells also keep falling in the vicinity
of the attacking lines. These shells are easily distinguishable by the
dark grey columns of earth, clay and smoke thrown up on impact with the
ground.
Immediately to the south of the hill in the south-west and concealed
by it, a strong German infantry force lies entrenched. Here also the
artillery is in position. On the near side of the batteries I notice
two crescent-shaped, dark outlines on the ground, which turn out on
scrutiny through my field-glasses to be bodies of infantry apparently
at rest. This is the artillery cover. On their front the guns are
well masked, embedded in the ground and protected by shallow parapets
which resemble as closely as possible the appearance of the contiguous
ground. It is only from where we are, that is to say from behind, that
the guns are visible. So far no French infantry or cavalry has been
observed this morning; on the enemy’s side the fight is only being
conducted with artillery. The French artillery fire was said by the
German officers to be directed very well indeed, but the projectiles
often failed to burst and were therefore comparatively harmless, unless
one had the bad luck to stand right in their path.
The booming of cannon is now audible all round us, even from behind, a
battery of four 21-cm. mortars having been brought up from the village
and unlimbered only a hundred metres away from us. They make a terrible
noise and the whole ground trembles when they are discharged. I had a
peculiar feeling when standing in front of these winged messengers of
death, a consciousness of security mingled with respect, for are they
not fighting against the enemy’s positions, the duty of whose guns is
to take our lives? The four reports come so close together that there
is only a second or two in between. Then, for half a minute or
longer, one hears a whining, singing, hissing whistle overhead, and one
looks up involuntarily. The projectile is, however, only discernible
if one stands right behind the mortar as nearly as possible in the
extension of the line of fire. The four shells accompany one another
through the air and sing the same whining song in the same high pitch.
The sound arises through the air rushing to fill the vacuum behind the
advancing body, and through the friction. Sometimes it seems to die
away, but is heard again presently quite plainly, this being no doubt
due to air currents.
Time after time the four “growlers” emptied their heavy shells over
the French positions opposite, and each one was meant to cause the
death of heaven knows how many human beings. Their main task was to
drive the defenders out of Varennes, which is situated six kilometres
south-south-west of Eclisfontaine.
After the artillery had been pounding away all day, I asked an officer
what the cost had been. He made a rapid calculation for thirty-two
batteries of different types and estimated the average cost of each
round at fifty marks and the number of rounds at twelve thousand,
which would make an expense of six hundred thousand marks for a single
day, and yet this was only for a short portion of the long German
western front. Others, however, considered the estimate too high both
as regards average cost and number of shots fired. In any case the
artillery swallows up incredible sums in a war such as this, in which
it plays a greater and more powerful part than ever before.
A little troop of soldiers without rifles come walking slowly across
the fields and reach the main road between the observation station of
the General in Command and the telephone house, and they must therefore
march past us. It turns out to be a convoy of slightly wounded. This
first lot is succeeded throughout the day by others. As a rule it is
the left forearm and especially the hand that has been pierced by a
bullet, the arm being carried in a sling. Here and there a man had an
unimportant flesh wound in the shoulders, or his head had been grazed
by a bullet. Two or three of the men looked pale, but they were all in
good spirits. Their first field dressing had been applied on the field
of battle. They were now on the way to a principal dressing station to
be sorted out. Thence they were to proceed to a field hospital or to
a collecting station for wounded, from which they would be sent to a
clearing hospital and finally home.
Badly wounded soldiers are carried past us on hammock-stretchers.
Others are placed in ambulance wagons brought up to a halting-place in
some sheltered position. Every infantry battalion has its surgeon and
dressing wagon--containing medicines and dressing requisites--and staff
of stretcher bearers. We saw several of these dressing wagons drive
up on side-roads towards the batteries in the south-west in order to
establish a _Truppenverbandsplatz_ or regimental dressing station.
The “first field dressing,” which is applied in the firing line by the
wounded man himself or by some ambulance man, is merely temporary and
intended to prevent exhaustion from loss of blood until removal can
in some way or other be effected to a safer place where doctors are
available. Many of these emergency dressings are saturated with blood,
and by the evening the road was stained with little red spots of blood
which had dripped from them. No wonder, then, that now and again I saw
a pale face among the wounded.
We were busy scanning the heights opposite with our field-glasses, when
the news came that the Commanding Officer of one of the battalions
deployed in front of us, Lieutenant-Colonel Machenhauer, had been
badly wounded and that a car was wanted at once to take him to a field
hospital. Orders were immediately given that the nearest car, no matter
to whom it belonged, should immediately proceed to the spot at full
speed and fetch the wounded officer. It was not long before it returned
with the Colonel propped up in the car between two ambulance men.
Presently Captain Bernhard of the infantry came walking along without
assistance. His whole head was bandaged, but the bandages were red and
the blood was dripping down his tunic and on to the road. Just as he
had turned to give an order to his men, who were advancing to charge,
a bullet had pierced his cheek obliquely from behind and passed out
through the mouth, taking several teeth with it. It was hoped that the
lower jaw and tongue had not been seriously injured, but for the moment
he was disinclined to talk more than necessary. He was a plucky fellow
and in excellent spirits in spite of his misfortune. The only thing
that annoyed him was that the flow of blood had soiled his beautiful
tunic. But one soon gets accustomed to the wounded and their injuries
and ends by paying little attention to them.
It is no misfortune to bleed for one’s country and one’s liberty. As
human beings must needs fire on one another, it is a blessing after
all that so many of the wounded can be saved, even though they remain
cripples for the rest of their days. But unhappiest are those who are
deprived of their liberty and taken from the ranks of the defenders
of their country to meet the dismal fate which awaits the prisoner of
war. However kindly the treatment, a prisoner’s life is after all the
hardest trial that can await a soldier.
Here are some French infantrymen marching to Eclisfontaine, deprived of
their arms and accoutrements but here and there carrying a knapsack.
They are twenty-three in number and are escorted by two German soldiers
with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets. Many, perhaps the majority, wear
an indifferent expression which betrays but one thought: everything is
now lost, everything is going wrong for us. Others look very distressed
and one can see that they have been crying--France has been deprived of
their strong right arm just as she needed them the most.
I was just talking to the Brigade Commander, Major-General Bernhard,
when the Frenchmen came marching along in their tattered blue tunics
and baggy red trousers narrowing towards the tops of their “jack” or
high-laced boots. The uniforms were torn and soiled, which is not to be
wondered at after many days’ and nights’ exposure in the trenches. One
cannot well expect them to be neat and trim after such an experience.
General Bernhard stepped on to the road and ordered the convoy to
halt. He then had the Frenchmen formed up before him in a semicircle
and began to chat with some of them. One had been called out from
Auxerre[10] and had on the eleventh day of mobilisation been moved
via Bar-le-Duc to the neighbourhood of Varennes, where his regiment
had since been stationed. Every man is carefully cross-examined. All
statements are entered in the “Protocol.” Valuable information about
the enemy is thus gained. The uniforms alone tell one what troops one
has to deal with. Nor do the German commanders in this siege warfare
seem to have any difficulty in forming a pretty good idea of the
grouping of the forces on the French side. General Bernhard asked how
the prisoners had been fed before they were captured. The answers
varied considerably. Most of them were satisfied, but a couple of
soldiers said that they had only had hot food twice during the last
week, which was probably due to the fact that they were posted at a
point where it was impossible to bring them soup. Such inaccessible
posts are by no means rare. They are also considered the most dangerous.
[10] Auxerre is the station of the 4th Infantry Regiment, 17th Infantry
Brigade, 9th Infantry Division, 5th Army Corps.
Finally the prisoners were asked if they had any diaries. Eight or
nine men answered yes. The books were handed over to the General,
who retained them. In this way one frequently gets much important
information about the movement of troops on the other side, often
from apparently very trivial notes, which can only be interpreted by
an expert. General Bernhard afterwards read out to us an extract from
one of these diaries. It was the last entry made by the prisoner on
the previous day. It was as follows: “The Prussians are bombarding
Varennes. They seem to aim pretty straight, for last night one of their
shells hit General X----[11] just as he had gone to bed.” At this
General Pfeil exclaimed: “Good gracious, is _he_ dead! I met him once.”
General Bernhard told me that the French prisoners always were polite
and attentive, and replied carefully and truthfully to all questions.
In most cases they called him _Mon Général_, showing that they knew the
German insignia of rank even on the plain field-service uniform. As
regards the General himself, I noticed that he spoke to the prisoners
without the slightest trace of military stiffness and without that air
of superiority which rank and power might otherwise tend to instil.
Whilst the examination was proceeding, a French N.C.O. with a fair
beard turned to me and asked: “What are they going to do with us, sir?”
To which I replied: “They are going to offer you soup and bread, and if
you have any wounded they are going to hand them over to the doctors.”
The man looked puzzled and surprised and wondered whether what I said
was really true. He showed me one of his comrades whose neck had been
grazed by a bullet, and whom a German lieutenant immediately placed in
the hands of an ambulance man.
[11] I never noted his name and have forgotten it.
Thus I received close to the field of battle an immediate confirmation
of what I had previously noticed at the hospitals, namely that the
French prisoners in German hands are treated in a kindly and humane
manner, and for the sake of truth I wish solemnly to protest before
God that the allegations of certain foreign newspapers to the contrary
are a mean lie and a shameless calumny. Once peace is restored and the
French prisoners are allowed to return home, they will themselves be
able to testify to the treatment they have received. Some of them will
perhaps even remember Eclisfontaine.
Presently we see fresh groups of Frenchmen, taken prisoners in a
German bayonet charge. One man told us that he was called home from
Constantinople on the 5th August, another that he was a reservist and
that they began to be hard up for men. They were also examined by the
Field-marshal and his excellent Adjutant Rechberg, who spoke most
admirable French.
One group of disarmed Frenchmen comprised a Captain. He had received
a bullet through the thigh, limped badly and was supported by two
soldiers. He had a frank and noble face and one could tell that he was
a thorough gentleman. When his little band was to be examined, a chair
was brought out for him, for he looked pale and weak.
“Is your wound causing you much pain, Captain?” a German officer asked.
“None at all, it is a mere trifle,” he replied.
“Have you suffered heavy losses during the fighting?”
“Not particularly; we fill up all gaps.”
“You look tired and worn, I am sure you must have had a rough time of
it lately?”
“No, not by any means; I have been doing very well.”
“Does it distress you to be amongst the prisoners?”
“Yes,” he answered, in a low voice, without raising his head.
He was not among those who are demoralised by capture, and he was
certain to retain his pride in captivity. When the examination was over
he rose, saluted, and vanished round the bend of the road together with
his men in blue and red.
The hours quickly pass. A kindly soul gives us some ration bread and
claret. My portion was so ample that it was no charity on my part to
give half of it to a French soldier, who at once proceeded to share it
with three or four of his nearest neighbours.
By degrees even one uninitiated was able to notice certain changes
in the situation. We see the limbers being driven forward to the
two batteries in the south-south-west with the Argonne forest as a
background. The guns have been silent for a while; now they are getting
ready to begin again. Gunners and drivers are hurrying to their posts
and into the saddle, and the batteries roll away at a gallop in an
elegant semicircle and soon disappear behind the hill. They are to
accompany the infantry attack. West of the old artillery positions
fresh lines are advancing in a south-south-westerly direction. We hear
vividly the crackling, quivering sound of the machine guns advancing
with the infantry. The attackers have gained ground and are now
entrenching themselves in new positions taken from the enemy.
I return to the observation station of the officer in command. The old
Field-marshal, he who fought in 1870-1, and who ought to have been
fairly tired, had actually been induced to sit down on the cane chair
which had been brought for him. There the old soldier sits reviving
his faded memories and cannot take his eyes off the battle-scene and
the little puffs of smoke showing up where the shells have burst. His
expression is solemn and severe, his face is furrowed by deep folds and
wrinkles, his grey hairs hang round him like a mane. He seems to prefer
to be left alone with his thoughts, but if anyone walks up to speak to
him, he is full of life and vivacity.
General von Mudra, a man of fine military bearing and distinguished
aristocratic features, is standing at his tripod-stand telescope
observing the fighting. The red collar of his light-blue coat has been
turned up, in his hand he holds an ordnance map of the surrounding
country, and at his left side he carries a wallet for maps, note-books,
pencils, compasses, etc.
A third battery of German field artillery has now advanced, and is
seeking a fresh position, whilst a third wave of infantry follows the
first two in the direction of Varennes. These reserves are also moving
in open order so as not to offer a compact target for the enemy’s fire.
The men are advancing at the double, rifle in hand. They soon disappear
behind the nearest rise. The rifle fire keeps rattling away in the
valley, accompanied by the crackling of the maxim guns. Presently the
sound of tremendous cheering reaches our ears. It is evident that yet
another position has been taken.
This little action, which is but a link in the great chain, is
causing considerable liveliness in Eclisfontaine. First the ambulance
wagons of the field hospitals dash forward at full speed to the point
where the fight has taken place. Then comes another body of infantry
reinforcements, evidently to form a nucleus round which the units
scattered by the fighting may be able to assemble. Small Uhlan patrols
with vertical lances seem to be riding at a gallop along the roads
and paths leading to Varennes. At last come the steaming and fragrant
kitchen wagons with their pleased and grinning cooks perched high aloft
on the top of their paraphernalia.
But on the slopes south of us appear little groups of eight to ten men
with stretchers, accompanied by collies whose duty it is to track the
wounded lying lost and abandoned in ditches and ravines. When the dog
discovers a wounded soldier, he stays with him and barks until the
ambulance men come up with their stretchers.
The French artillery fire has now slackened, owing to their having been
compelled to move further to the rear in proportion as the Germans have
advanced.
Varennes, the little town where on June the 22nd, 1791, Louis XVI. was
recognised, captured and taken back to Paris, is now in flames, and a
brownish yellow column of smoke from its burning houses ascends into
the sky. Near it Cheppy and further on Boureuilles are also burning.
Cheppy church defiantly rears its spire aloft through the wreaths of
smoke and sparks.
To the west of us is the broad valley of the River Aire, a tributary
of the Aisne. Varennes is situated on the Aire, the eastern bank of
which is lined by the famous Argonne forest. In the south, through the
valley, Württemberg troops are advancing on Varennes, and a portion of
their right flank is busy on the fringe of the Argonne. Their advance
is plainly discernible through the tripod telescope, which now and
again I was allowed to look through. But I needed no glasses to see the
little white murderous wreaths of smoke which arose when the shrapnel
exploded right over the heads of the Württembergers. They were answered
by German spurts of fire, visible a little further away and more to the
left.
An infantry ammunition column, which had found shelter behind the
slight rise south of us, is now ordered to move forward. The nearest
way would be to follow in a south-westerly direction the main road
on which we had spent our day. But it would be too dangerous to take
this route. The dusky outlines of the column would be visible from the
new French positions and offer an excellent target, besides drawing
the fire on to the German General Staff. The column had just begun
to move down the road, when its commander was ordered to change its
direction and drive behind the town where the great mortar guns were
still posted. Only when dark has set in is it possible to advance right
up to the troops--for the present it sufficed to go as far as the
shelter afforded by the ground allowed. From the points thus reached
the ammunition has to be carried up to the firing lines in daylight if
a shortage becomes imminent. Such shortage of ammunition is however
very rare, as an increased number of cartridges is always served out
before a fight, in addition to which the cartridge belts of the dead
and wounded are also carefully emptied by the men still on their legs.
A battery of light howitzers now appears north of the main road.
It follows the southward course taken by the infantry. In the
west-south-west we notice the bursting of six shells a couple of
kilometres away, evidently intended for the advancing Württembergers.
But the centre of activity is now beginning to move away from my point
of vantage, and I see but an occasional ambulance man who has been left
behind.
In the afternoon I made a hasty panoramic sketch of the battlefield. A
young Captain provided with a map explained everything within our range
of vision. In the east-south-east a battalion of reserves lay concealed
in a hollow, in the south-east the French shrapnel kept on bursting,
and immediately to the right of the puffs of smoke was the little wood
called Bois de Cheppy. In the south-south-east the smoke from the
burning village of Very rose into the sky--it had been taken in the
course of the day. Immediately to the right, but further away, lay the
prettily situated village of Vauquois, resembling a castle on a hill
and still in the possession of the French. Immediately to the south was
the burning village of Cheppy, and in the south-south-west Boureuilles
and Varennes, both in flames. Yet a little further to the right, but
at a greater distance, the little white cloudlets formed by the German
shrapnel were sharply silhouetted against the sky. In the south-west
the church tower and roofs of Montblainville, which had just been taken
by the Württembergers, showed up above the outlines of the country
with the Argonne forest as background. Above the village, numerous
shells kept bursting, as evidenced by the little puffs of smoke--they
were intended to make the conquerors’ stay in the village as unpleasant
as possible. At 6 o’clock I counted eight burning villages, of which
however one, west of the Argonne forest, lies within the fighting zone
of the 4th Army. How many gutted homes, what appalling destruction
of private property! It is pretty certain that the inhabitants have
removed themselves and their portable valuables to a place of safety.
But what will it look like in the thousands of homes when they return!
Is it to be wondered at that one feels the deepest pity and compassion
for the innocent people who are the greatest sufferers of the war?
Surely it is not an unkindly thought towards France to strongly
condemn the policy which has brought such nameless misfortune over
the north-eastern portions of the republic. When one has seen with
one’s own eyes all the misery and grief, all the destruction and the
ruin following in the wake of war, surely one cannot with self-respect
refrain from loudly condemning the policy which alone is the cause of
it all!
“But why does not the General Staff move forward, seeing that the
troops have occupied positions six or seven kilometres in advance of
the old ones?” I ask.
“Well,” is the answer, “it is because it is impossible to extend
immediately the telegraph and telephone lines and to reorganise the
entire system of communications to meet the new situation.”
The following day Varennes was taken, and the whole machinery was
accordingly advanced a step further to the south-west.
Daylight now began to fail and the sun was sinking towards the
tree-tops of the Argonne forest. It had been an instructive day. I
had been allowed to get a glimpse of the inner working of one of the
German armies. I was deeply impressed with the sangfroid and the
relentless certainty with which everything was carried out. The whole
thing seemed like a game, which, subject to certain premises, it was
impossible to lose. Not a single soul had the slightest doubt of the
result. Whence this terrible assurance of ultimate triumph?--I need not
refer to the perfected military measures which make it certain that
it is beyond the power of Germany’s present enemies to defeat the
Empire in the field. Neither need I touch upon all that has been done
to prepare for Germany’s fateful hour and vital needs, or her readiness
on land and sea to take up the gauntlet when it is thrown down. But
there is one thing which above all needs emphasising, and that is the
_inexorable will of the German nation_. It cannot be broken, it lives
with increasing purpose. It grows stronger every day. It does not find
expression in blind and unpremeditated action, _it is conscious and
disciplined_. Its voice has penetrated deep down into the bosom of
every son and daughter of the German Empire. To the onlooker it finds
expression in the deep and silent fixity of purpose underlying every
action, but also in the dauntless courage which once animated our own
Charles XII. and his men. With unshakable confidence in its leaders,
this disciplined people fights with God for Empire and country. It
knows that all that can be done _is_ done, for all are animated with
the immutable will to strain their resources to the uttermost, in order
to attain the goal fixed by those who can discern the situation and
have prepared the line of action. Trained strength has overcome the
weakness of man. A reverse means nothing when met with such resolution.
The skill and bravery of the opponent may sometimes thwart or delay
the execution of a plan. Such things must occur. They are reckoned as
part of the game. But the inherent superiority of German leadership,
the superb strength of the German Army, the mutual confidence which
inspires those who lead and those who execute----
We rely on one another, we on him and he on us--we march inflexibly to
victory.
I witnessed that whole day in the history at Varennes, and was present
at the successes won. I marvelled over the coolness with which
everything was done, but on reflection I came to the conclusion that it
would have been unnatural for these men, in whose midst I was, to break
into expressions of triumph. What had occurred was to them merely what
should and must occur. But there was another element. War is not play.
Those who know it, speak of it with restraint. One does not boast when
face to face with its realities. On the contrary, it inspires a feeling
of humility.
Everybody still remained at the observation station or wandered up
and down along the main road. _Nachrichtenoffiziere_, or intelligence
officers, were still riding backwards and forwards, and orderlies
were keeping up constant communication between us and the fighting
line. At times the road became almost congested. On such occasions,
an officer gave out the order that as many as possible should stand
under the shade of the trees so as not to draw the French fire and thus
disturb the direction of the fight. A car arriving from the village
had been instructed to move down the hill, horsemen had been told to
dismount, and a detachment of cyclists were instructed to disperse, all
in order not to give the enemy any inkling of the whereabouts of the
General Staff by conspicuous massing of individuals.
General von Mudra still kept to his post and old von Haeseler seemed
determined to wait until the night sky was tinted red by the burning
villages. At a quarter past six I took my leave. As Major Matthiasz
seemed very busy, I arranged to have the company of Captain Suhlmann,
who was going the same way.
Thirty kilometres and a wide, straight high road--we ought to have done
it in no time. We began well at a good speed, but had not proceeded far
before the car was stopped. It was four wounded soldiers who had to go
to Stenay and asked for a lift. One of them was badly injured and very
exhausted. He was stowed away as comfortable as possible. Then we met a
string of steaming kitchen wagons carrying the conqueror’s reward, his
dinner, and later on several endless ammunition columns. We progressed
by fits and starts. The drivers of the ammunition train, who shrewdly
suspected that their dinners might be deferred, were cutting into their
loaves, but turned round to gaze attentively at our wounded with their
white or blood-drenched bandages. Further on the crowd becomes even
denser. Fresh streams of men and wagons--a new cavalry force is moving
forward. The same thing is going on throughout the immense front. Now
we come to a dead stop: we must shift to the edge of the road and try
to be patient. An aviator is passing overhead. We hear the buzz of
an aeroplane at a considerable height. The undersides of its planes
are illumined by the setting sun, but it is travelling at too high an
altitude to see whether it bears the mark of the Iron Cross or of the
Tricolor. If the airman is a Frenchman it is unpleasant to have him
right overhead, for he is certain to drop bombs. But he is probably a
German, and soon he has vanished altogether.
A batch of French prisoners adds to the congestion. I speak to the one
who is nearest. He says that out of his company only twenty-six men
were in a position to use their arms when he was taken prisoner, that
so many officers had been killed that there was hardly anybody left to
command.
As we are halting by the side of our ditch, we have an opportunity
of witnessing the distribution of forage by a supply column. A large
fatigue party come dragging huge trusses of hay. Here is another troop
of slightly wounded who are proceeding in charge of a medical service
N.C.O. from a _Leichtverwundeten-Sammelplatz_, or collecting station
for slightly wounded, to the nearest base. We are asked if we have room
for two more men. “Yes, if you can stand on the foot-board.” Yes, they
were quite agreeable, and at last we get under way with our new burden.
Here and there a horse has fallen during the day and lies cold and
stiff by the roadside. A mortar ammunition column is proceeding in our
direction. It is empty. The division stationed at Eclisfontaine has its
supply for to-morrow’s fighting already on the spot.
Now we are at Romagne and here we get badly stuck. There is a frightful
crush in the village street. It is no use trying to force our way. We
stop just in front of an emergency field hospital. The head surgeon is
standing in the street and issuing his orders for the treatment and
distribution of the newly arrived wounded. I am introduced to him and
he declines to let me go until I have seen his organisation at work. To
come to the front to study the war and not to see the field hospital at
Romagne! “No, thank you, my dear Doctor, that will never do! You have
spent the day watching the wounded come back from the fighting line
after their first temporary field dressing. You have seen the principal
dressing station at Eclisfontaine. Now you must absolutely stop for a
look at the third hospital establishment, our field hospital, where all
the wounded have to pass.”
Thus speaking the _Herr Stabsarzt_ conducts me into the beautiful and
ancient little Catholic church. I seem to step into the Middle Ages as
I enter this temple, where a hundred years ago Napoleon’s victories
had been proclaimed to rejoicing congregations. The sun is setting and
twilight is descending over France. It is dusk inside, but still light
enough to distinguish the precious stained-glass windows. At the altar
a single lantern is burning, which seems to accentuate the darkness.
The church has been turned into a hospital. It was now occupied by
eighty wounded Germans. The short pews were arranged in pairs facing
one another, forming with backs and seats roomy beds filled with straw.
Each bed thus improvised contained a badly wounded soldier. The benches
did not quite go round, and many of the wounded were lying along
the walls on straw, laid out on the stone floor. Each one had been
provided with a blanket, and the space between the beds was sufficient
for doctors and nurses to move backwards and forwards without
inconvenience. As soon as their condition permitted, the patients were
sent on into Germany to make room for fresh convoys. Only the very
seriously wounded, who could not stand the transport, were allowed to
remain to die in peace or to recover as lifelong cripples.
Up by the altar, by the light of a lantern, several young doctors
were busy round a patient who had just arrived and who was to undergo
an operation. More light was brought. The head surgeon conducted me
from bed to bed and was indefatigable in his information about the
various cases. Quiet reigned inside the church, as its doors were kept
closed, but outside the rattle of wagons and tramping of horses’ hoofs
continued. A wonderful, almost eerie silence reigned inside, one almost
felt the struggle proceeding between life and death. One might have
been in some subterranean crypt with its cold and musty atmosphere.
We could hear the deep breathing of the patients, but there was no
complaining. Now and again a soldier sighed, that was all. To complain
would have been to show inferiority to the others and to disturb their
rest. Most of them were asleep, dead-tired after the trials of the day.
We pass from one to the other and speak in whispers so as not to wake
those who are asleep or disturb the solemn spirit which had descended
over these eighty heroes who had this day gladly given their blood for
their country. Now they are dreaming their last dreams under their Iron
Crosses. Soon many of them will go to their eternal rest under the
little wooden crosses in the churchyard at Romagne. Their hearts, now
beating at fever-rate, will soon rest ice-cold under the soil of France.
Here lies a man who has received a bullet right through the most
delicate region of the abdomen. He is as pale as his tanned and
weather-beaten skin permits and his pulse is terribly weak. But his
eyes are wide open and his glance roams in unknown regions far beyond
this earth. It is certainly not the trench life, which he has just
left, that is reflected in his vacant gaze. What a wonderful contrast!
From the turmoil out there in the fighting line he is already on the
way to eternal rest. It is difficult to give a name to the heartfelt
sorrow which gripped the wanderer from the north before the quiet death
struggle of the nameless soldier. In the midst of all his comrades
he seemed so alone and abandoned. One could not help thinking of his
people at home, still full of hope but who would soon weep bitter
tears. “He won’t live till sunrise, I suppose?” I asked the doctor.
“No, he is growing cold already”--but the memory of the brave does not
grow cold, does not die.
A school-house close to the church had also been requisitioned by the
field hospital, and its rooms, usually filled with French children
learning their _Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité_, are now occupied by
wounded Germans. Here, too, is an atmosphere of deathly torpor and
fatigue. One of the school-rooms has been turned into an operating
theatre. In the field one has to do what one can to make the best of
the resources at hand. A couple of young surgeons, dressed in white
from top to toe, were standing by the side of the leaf of a table
rigged up on high trestles, on which a handsome and fresh-looking
young soldier lay stretched out. He had had both feet shot through,
but was in good spirits nevertheless. “Please don’t slash me about,”
he ordered, with some conviction. A sister of mercy, the only one so
near the front--for usually the organisation in the fighting zone is
purely military--now undid the emergency dressings, which, clotted with
the blood, had become a shapeless mass. It hurt a bit when the clotted
blood was cleaned away and the wound laid bare, but the soldier bit his
lips and made no sound. The left leg was crushed above the ankle and
even the uninitiated could see that it was a very nasty wound. For the
moment there was nothing to be done. His feet were put in splints and
a fresh bandage applied, and he thanked the doctors very heartily for
having been so kind. Soon after he was carried by two attendants to an
empty bed and seemed determined to go to sleep and forget all about it.
“Will he keep his feet?” I asked. “Yes, as regards the one there is no
danger, but the other, the one that has just been bandaged--well, we
shall see in two or three days; of course, I shall do my best, but ...”
and he shook his head. A number of captured wounded Frenchmen had been
accommodated temporarily on beds of straw in a store-room. Here they
were to receive their first attention. At the moment they were busy
eating bread and a nourishing hot soup of rice and vegetables. They had
a fine appetite and seemed to be in good spirits; a couple of them went
as far as joking and laughing at each other’s remarks. To my question
how they were, one replied: “Monsieur, had we always been as well off
as during the last fortnight, we should never have had much cause to
grumble.”
Outside in the street stood a whole row of wounded, both French and
German, who were anxious to get in and receive a little attention.
Fighting was still proceeding and fresh lots were expected during the
hours of the night. There was no rest for the doctors. The Frenchmen
stood in a batch by themselves. I went up to one of them. He had his
entire head enveloped in a bandage so that I could hardly see anything
but eyes and nose. In reply to my question where his bullet had hit
him, he pointed with his left hand to the left side of his cranium
and then to the underside of his lower jaw. I asked my friend the
head surgeon if it was really possible for a man to stand and walk
about and see and hear with a vertical shot right through his head. He
answered that the man had not yet been examined, but that all sorts
of remarkable wounds occurred. The bullets take the queerest paths
through the wretched human body, which is often proof against the most
appalling injuries.
My experienced doctor friend said of the Frenchmen that they were
wonderfully patient. They would stand for any length of time waiting
for care and attention without betraying by word or gesture the
slightest impatience. It may almost be said to be the rule that when
a doctor goes up to one of the Frenchmen to take charge of him, the
wounded man remarks: “There are other men amongst my comrades who are
in greater need of help than I am. I can wait.” Or: “Sir, be good
enough to attend first to that man over there--he is the father of a
family and his wife is in poor circumstances.” I have heard the same
from other German doctors. Here is another reason why the German
Medical Corps treat the French wounded with so much sympathy. I do not
know how many thousands of French soldiers are lying wounded at German
hospitals, but those who survive the complications of their wounds and,
when peace comes, return to their homes, will be as many witnesses in
the service of truth.
Thus charity, in the guise of medical science, follows in the track
of cruel and relentless war. What are all these doctors, assistants,
sick attendants, sisters of mercy, these endless medical trains, but
guardian angels wrestling with the angel of death for the lives of the
wounded? What are the ambulance wagons, the stretchers and the faithful
and intrepid collies, but friends and allies of the poor wounded,
bringing in their harvest on the bloody battlefields? Here is the
atonement which follows war hand in hand, just as the emblem of the Red
Cross combines the colour of blood with the symbol of Christian love.
“Doesn’t the soldier get nervous and terrified at the sight of all
these dead? I should have thought that he would realise that the danger
which he runs is just as great as that of those who have already
fallen?”
“No, he hardly notices the dead bodies. ‘You are dead, you poor devils,
but I am still alive and do not mean to die.’ That is how he reflects.
It is as if the sight of the fallen had steeled him in the face of the
danger. And yet he may sometimes come across the bodies of friends so
swollen that the buttons burst from the uniforms, and with blackened,
grinning features staring up into the sun and rain.”
“But surely the bodies are not left above ground?”
“No, as soon as the firing has died away on the battlefield, the
civil population, or, if it has fled, our own soldiers, must inter
the dead pell-mell in common pits, often without any attempt at a
burial service. This can follow afterwards. The chief thing is that
the dead disappear so as not to give rise to sickness and epidemics by
putrefaction.”
The time was now approaching when I ought to be back at Stenay. I said
good-bye to the head surgeon of the Romagne field hospital and hurried
with Captain Suhlmann into the car, where our seven invalids had been
waiting. Our headlights had now been lit and once more we penetrated
into the maze of the never-ending transport columns. Does night then
bring no rest at all?
At the edge of a ditch we saw two wounded soldiers sitting. They
shouted and gesticulated to us to stop. We asked them what they
wanted. It turned out as usual that they wanted a lift, they had not
the strength to go any further. We pointed out, as they could see for
themselves, that we had no room. Oh, that did not matter. They could
sit on the knees of a couple of others. And they squeezed into the car.
We now had a complement of twelve persons in a car made for six. One
of the new arrivals was quite a character. He began by telling us that
the Crown Prince had shaken hands with him that very day at Romagne
and had asked him how he felt. Later on he told us that he had been in
the storming party at St. André. He had even overheard his Colonel, as
the day of St. André broke, say to the General in Command: “This will
be a bloody day’s work.” And the Chief had answered: “Are you afraid?”
But the Colonel was not afraid. When the time came he led the way and
was immediately shot. The young soldier, on the other hand, had come
through without a scratch. To-day he had been relieved of a couple
of toes, a loss which did not seem to affect his good spirits in the
least. He chatted away almost unconsciously, but he had quite forgotten
how many of his foes had come into contact with his bayonet. The part
he had not liked was when the French shot from trees. It was like
shooting game.
At last we arrived home and the sentries at Madame du Vernier’s iron
gates looked surprised at the curious company I had brought with me.
In the hall I asked a footman to let me see Herr von Behr--for I had
arrived an hour late, but that could not be helped. The Crown Prince
and his suite had finished supper, but remained at table to keep me
company whilst between the mouthfuls I recounted my impressions of this
eventful day.