A DAY AT DUN
September 23rd. I had intended leaving the 5th Army that day, but at
our meeting on the previous evening Crown Prince William had been kind
enough to ask if I could not stay one day longer. This hospitality
was the more acceptable, as I wanted to inspect the pretty, but
unfortunately badly damaged little town of Dun on the Meuse.
[Illustration: WRECKED HOUSES AT DUN ON THE BANK OF THE MEUSE]
When, therefore, the Crown Prince, called away by duty, motored that
morning to Romagne, I accompanied Chamberlain von Behr in one of the
Staff cars, and after an early and rapid run to Dun was ceremoniously
handed over to the Commandant of the base there, Lieutenant-Colonel
Betz. The latter was only just up when we entered his quarters at
the Villa Saint Claude, belonging to a M. Thiébaut of Nancy. But he
appeared, big, strong and pleasant, and assured me that I should be
well looked after at Dun. To begin with I kept him company while he
breakfasted, and he gave me an account of how Dun was taken by the
Germans and how by far the greater part of the serious damage to the
houses in the main street was done by French shells. But this belongs
to the general history of the war, and I have pledged myself to speak
of nothing but what I have seen with my own eyes.
A civilian who wanders about a recently conquered town, in which the
invader’s troops are quartered, looking at everything and sketching
this, that and the other, is rightly regarded by sentries and patrols
as a highly suspicious character. He is rigorously watched and tracked;
he will notice that someone is following him like a shadow; finally he
will be arrested and directed with cold military precision to accompany
his captor to the proper examining authority. Little adventures of
this kind might be quite amusing and exciting to me, knowing that they
would always have a happy ending; but I had no time for them, and was
grateful when Lieutenant-Colonel Betz told off a non-commissioned
officer to escort me on my rambles through Dun.
First we crossed to the east side of the Meuse, where the high road
between Montmédy and Verdun runs through a fine avenue. This road joins
on to the main street of Dun, in the northern half of which the backs
of the houses, wrecked by shell fire, are reflected in the river as
ruins and heaps of débris. In the southern part of the same street
the hospital service has requisitioned those buildings that have been
spared by the shells. Here, too, we find a little garden, enclosed by
a fence, which is used as a mortuary, and to which soldiers who have
died in hospital are brought. Four dead men were now lying on a grass
plot in the shade of the trees. They were dressed in their uniforms
and had their caps on. Wrapped in blankets and with a white cloth over
the face, they lay there waiting until there were enough of them to
be lowered in a batch into the big grave that was kept ready in the
churchyard. I went up to them and raised the cloths. The features were
cold and stiff, yet infinitely calm, and bore no trace of the hard fate
and severe suffering the dead had undergone. I stopped in particular
before a soldier who
“seemed to be resting from a game.
His aspect as undaunted as before,
But paler far.”
He was a fine-looking fellow and his face seemed carved in
marble. He lay as in a deep and heavy sleep, with eyes and lips closed,
oblivious alike of the cannon’s roar and of ether fumes, of fatherland
and songs of victory. The soil of France was receiving him in its
embrace, and his relatives would never bring wreaths to his grave.
Nevertheless, as we know, the fallen do not vanish without a trace,
since every soldier wears round his neck a little disc, giving his
regiment and his number. All that remains to be done is to turn up the
roll of his unit to find the dead man’s name and home. In clearing the
battlefield the discs are collected, and with their help the lists of
killed are drawn up.
A steep and narrow road leads up to the crest of the hills that form
the eastern boundary of the Meuse valley. On the very edge of the
slope stands the handsome and noble church of Notre Dame de Bonne
Garde, which dates from the time of the Emperor Charles V. It is
characteristic of this part of France that the churches, even of quite
insignificant places, are veritable pearls from an architectural and
artistic point of view.
The porch is decorated with a little silvered statuette of Joan of
Arc. On entering the nave we find on the left, behind an iron railing,
a group of painted figures, three feet high, representing John the
Baptist baptising Christ. Immediately opposite is a Pieta, on the altar
of which helmets, knapsacks and bayonets form a sharp contrast with
the ecclesiastical objects. But the floor between the railing and the
altar is strewn with straw, and there soldiers have their simple beds.
Notre Dame de Bonne Garde! Under her protection German sentries are now
finding safe quarters.
Inside the rail under the chancel arch which separates the choir from
the nave, the high altar is surrounded by camp mattresses of straw.
Some wooden chairs stand about a table and on the floor arms and
equipment are heaped pell-mell. Where French priests formerly said
mass, foreign soldiers now sit writing field postcards to their homes.
On the arms of a silver candelabra stockings are hung to dry, and from
niches and altarpieces saints and apostles look down with disconsolate
eyes upon rifles and carbines, bayonets, belts and ammunition pouches,
which lie scattered over the seats in the nave. Even the sacristy has
been transformed into a bedroom. The priestly vestments of red velvet
and gold brocade hang untouched in their cupboard, and on the arms of
the chairs outside it hangs the soldier’s modest equipment of small and
well-worn objects, together with a cloak or two, tattered and worn from
the life of the trenches and sooty from the flames of camp-fires. The
sacred vessels are touched by nobody. In the German Army it is strictly
forbidden to commit depredations on the property of the Church, the
State or private persons; and so it was here at Dun.
The havoc of shells, on the other hand, is one of the privileges
of war. Into the lower part of a buttress facing west a shell has
penetrated the brickwork to about a third of its length. It is a
_Blindgänger_, that is, one which has failed to burst on contact. It
seems inadvisable to move a thing of this kind, and it will probably be
allowed to stay where it is as a souvenir of the war. The shell is a
French one, and its object, like that of the others that destroyed Dun,
was to drive the Germans out of the place again or at least to make
the first hours of their occupation as warm as possible. A projectile
has badly damaged another buttress and several grave-crosses in its
neighbourhood. Large blocks of masonry have crushed in their fall
a flat gravestone lying close against the wall of the church. Many
shrapnel holes may be seen round the clock-face on the tower, and a
small house beside the church has been destroyed by two shells.
We went out into the churchyard and turned our steps first to the
railing at the edge of the slope. From here a magnificent view is
displayed. Right under us lies Dun like a little map, and we can
clearly see all the houses that have been ravaged by the French shells.
We also have a bird’s-eye view of the valley of the Meuse, with the
almost deserted road to Verdun on the south, and on the south-west the
road to Romagne and Varennes, filled as usual with whole strings of
transport columns, cavalry and hooting motor-cars.
The graveyard itself offers an affecting sight. A shell has fallen in
the midst of the tombstones, forming a fresh grave, which however did
not expose any of the dead. But now peace reigns among these French
crosses, which are often decorated with wreaths of coloured beads,
expressing sorrow and loss in simple but eloquent words: _Nos Parents,
Regrets, Souvenir_.
To us all these names are unknown. They are modest townsmen of Dun and
peasants from the neighbourhood who are taking their long rest in the
churchyard. But the gravestones are always costly and handsome, and one
can see that even the poor gladly part with their savings in order to
honour the memory of their dear ones in the city of the dead.
How simple, in contrast, are the memorials raised to soldiers who have
died in the hospitals of Dun! Two strips of wood nailed together in
the form of a cross, that is all. There one may read such epitaphs
as the following: _Ein unbekannter Soldat._--_Ein Landwehrmann,
Kanonier._--_1. Comp. I. R. 22._[12] _Ein deutscher Krieger_ ✠ _16/9
1914._--_Zwei Französische Krieger 21/9._ Curiously enough, _deutsch_
is spelt with a small d, but _Französisch_ with a big F; why, I
don’t know--perhaps from some kind of unconscious politeness towards
foreigners. The cross signifying “dead” is carved in the glorious shape
of the Iron Cross. Here, too, is the big grave prepared for those
who are slumbering in the garden down below. By one of the new graves
a dog howls plaintively. Perhaps he is lamenting his master--it is a
very common thing for the German soldiers to adopt for the sake of
company French dogs without a master, who take to them and follow them
faithfully.
[12] No. 1 Company of the 22nd Regiment of Infantry.
[Infanterie-Regiment Keith (1. Oberschlesisches) No. 22, quartered at
Gleiwitz in peace time.]
In a special little chapel at the side of the churchyard are buried the
priests, natives of Dun, who have died there.
We descend by another way, a steep lane between ruined houses. One of
them has been exposed by the fall of the outer wall, and one can see
the interior of a room, the bed standing in its place with blankets and
pillows, while a mirror has fallen down and been smashed to pieces.
Through the dark, gaping holes in the heap of débris surrounding the
house one can see into the kitchen in the basement.
One or two saw-mills and workshops driven by water-wheels had stood
by the side of the river, but now nothing was to be seen but the most
terrible devastation where formerly they had been. Machinery, belts and
wheels lay twisted together into rubbish among charred beams. Close by
were to be seen the remains of a bridge, which crossed the river in two
spans, and which was blown up by the French when they had to evacuate
the place. They also blew up the western span of the three-arched stone
bridge over the Meuse, which carries the high road and the main street.
With great skill and rapidity the German engineers have replaced the
wrecked arch by a wooden bridge.
The railway to Dun has been repaired by the Germans, and the station
showed a scene of animation and traffic which the little town can
scarcely have witnessed before. All the storehouses and baggage-rooms
were literally packed with mountains of provisions, ready-baked loaves,
tinned foods, meat, sacks of flour and oats, and even with wine. These
warehouses had a smell like a grocer’s shop. The supply columns are
loaded at new and old platforms and then go forward to the troops.
I sketched here one of these columns, consisting of requisitioned
farmers’ carts, drawn by horses also requisitioned at the seat of
war, only two to each cart. The long lines of vehicles are brought up
to their loading stations by special roads marked out by placards.
Everything is done rapidly, but in silence and with unfailing accuracy.
When a column is ready, you hear a shout to the horses, a crack of
the whip, and the procession moves forward with creaking wheels on its
way to Romagne. I noticed that--in addition to finger-posts--pickets
have been posted to guide the traffic and prevent dangerous congestion
at cross-roads. This is quite necessary, as column after column is
constantly passing along the main road. Here was one, for instance, the
wagons of which were marked “Fs. A..., III. Btl. (Mrs.) I. MK”--that
is, Foot Artillery Regiment, 3rd (Mortar) Battalion, 1st ammunition
column, and then the number of the wagon in the column. The stores at
Dun supplied amongst others the army corps whose guest I had been the
day before.
In a field quite close to the station was a base slaughterhouse and
cattle depot. Here all the cattle collected from the neighbourhood were
assembled in a space enclosed with posts and barbed wire. A fenced-off
portion was drenched with blood from the slaughter, and here lay
immense piles of ox-hides. One felt certain that these would be turned
to good account. An enclosure for pigs was equally well filled. There
was thus beef and pork in plenty; the troops would not go hungry. The
day’s requirements for 1000 men amount to 2 oxen or 6 pigs or 19 sheep,
of an average weight respectively of 500, 90 and 40 kilogrammes. The
depot is replenished by degrees. In most cases the troops do their own
slaughtering; the animals being taken to the front by the provision
columns.[13] At Dun there was also a field-bakery detachment with its
attendant wagons, ovens and tents, and surrounded by a fragrant odour
of new-baked bread. Each of these detachments is capable of supplying
23,000 rations of bread in twenty-four hours, working uninterruptedly.
[13] During more mobile operations the troops requisition their own
cattle, so far as the local resources allow.
We also visited the courtyard of a private house, where food was served
out to a thousand French prisoners three times a day in separate
batches. A kitchen on a grand scale with gigantic caldrons has been
installed in a shed in the yard. When the hour strikes, the prisoners,
drawn up in single file, have to step up and hold out their bowls to
a cook, who fills each bowl with a single dip of his ladle. He is
incredibly expert and rapid in his movements, and never spills a drop.
Probably the condition of the French prisoners will one day disclose
the fact that they have not been subjected to a starvation diet.
[Illustration: FRENCH PRISONERS AT VOUZIERS WAITING FOR THEIR DINNER]
Here again I sketched a few types: a gilder, an official and a workman,
all from Paris, as well as one of their German guards, a strapping
Landwehr man. I remember I had half finished the portrait of a young
French soldier--of the 113th Infantry Regiment,[14] of aristocratic,
melancholy appearance, when the word of command was given that the
batch that had been served was to be taken to its quarters and the next
lot brought up. At my request, however, my model was allowed to stay
behind. He was a bank clerk from Blois, of a highly _sympathique_ and
amiable nature. Perhaps some day he will remember that sitting at Dun;
I shall not forget him.
[14] The 113th regiment of infantry of the line belongs to the 5th Army
Corps, and is garrisoned at Blois. Parisians as a rule belong to the
4th Army Corps.
[Illustration: BANK CLERK FROM BLOIS. PRISONER AT DUN]
While I was sketching the soldiers from Paris, I had a dense crowd of
onlookers round me, and I threw out to them the following impertinent
question:
“What are you really fighting for?”
“We have absolutely nothing to fight for,” replied one fellow with a
defiant air, and he was seconded with much animation by another man
opposite.
“You have your country to fight for, I suppose?” I went on.
“We _have_ no country,” answered the two malcontents.
I asked a sensible fellow who was standing behind me what sort of
persons they were, and was told: “They are notorious anarchists.”
One may be tolerably certain that they would never have dared to answer
like that on the other side of the firing lines. And if they had done
so, they would have been torn to pieces by their comrades, who, even if
they did not know how and why war had broken out just now, nevertheless
understood that the future of France was at stake, nay, perhaps her
existence as a first-class Power. On the other hand, they were all
agreed in regretting the war, and expressions such as these constantly
recurred: “_Cette malheureuse guerre_--_Cette guerre inutile_--_C’est
terrible_--_C’est très, très malheureux pour tout le monde_.” But even
to this criticism of the war a reservation must be added. For not a
spark of the enthusiasm with which the French soldiers went into the
fire is left after they have been taken prisoners. Their hope has then
vanished and nothing is left but the regret that they can no longer be
of use to their country.
But it was now one o’clock, and I was engaged to dine with Colonel
Betz at the officers’ mess, where a party of a dozen assembled at a
big round table. The mess was installed in a private house, very plain
but well preserved, although a few shots or splinters of shell had
made their way through its walls. Even the piano had been pierced by a
bullet, but its tone was still irreproachable. At this table, again,
the German officers spoke with unmixed respect of the French soldiers
and their commanders. They are equal and worthy opponents, they are
real, fully trained soldiers, not mercenaries who fight for money. They
fight for their lives with skill and with the courage of despair.
After dinner I continued my ramble and visited amongst other places
a hospital, where trained Red Cross sisters were at work. Finally I
halted in the main street and sketched it and the bridge. A sheet was
stretched right across the street, and on it was written, in enormous
letters that nobody could help seeing, a notice that all empty vehicles
returning from the front must be reported at the headquarters of the
officer in command, where they would find out whether there were
any wounded to be transported home. One constantly sees all kinds
of directions, on calico, paper, planks and on whitewashed walls,
to drive carefully, to keep to the right, as well as information of
the distances in kilometres, the names of villages, where different
roads lead, the position of the headquarters and other local offices,
especially that of the hospital, and many things besides. Here, as
in everything else, an exemplary orderliness prevails. Nobody needs
to ask, he has only to follow the painted directions. As regards
finger-posts and milestones, however, the French had done a good deal
in advance; the notices which had to be added concerned the German
lines of communication.
The day was drawing to a close as I walked along the principal street
of Dun with Colonels Betz and Fretzdorff. Fresh bands of French
prisoners--“Red trousers,” as the German soldiers call them--had come
in during the day and were now standing with their guards outside
headquarters, waiting for orders as to their further destination. The
prisoners were patient and calm as usual. Some sat on a bench chatting,
others on the kerbstone; but the majority stood with their hands in
their trouser-pockets, looking at the movement of the Prussians around
them. They had never seen the German Army and its inner life at so
close quarters. While fighting, the combatants see very little of each
other; and now these Frenchmen had the strange sensation of standing
quite close to their enemies without a shot being fired and without
there being any question of slaughter. A couple of squadrons of Uhlans,
armed with lances, sabres and carbines, were just riding past in close
column. Their horses’ hoofs clattered on the stone pavement and the
rattle of their arms and stirrups echoed in the narrow space between
the houses. The prisoners watched the hostile cavalry attentively but
calmly: “They are still in the game; we are out of it,” they appeared
to be thinking, and one would have to have a heart of stone not to feel
great pity for them.
Colonel Betz told me how desperate things became sometimes, just
at this spot, when columns of different kinds met in the street at
night, troops marching through and motor-ambulances with severely
wounded men anxious to get on. It would be all right if there were any
possibility of keeping the street lighted, but the garrison was short
of everything in the shape of illuminants, and a street could not very
well be lighted with beacons. It was paraffin lamps that were wanted at
suitable intervals, and presumably such lamps are now burning at night
in the street of Dun, so that the supply columns no longer need get
blocked and delay each other.
[Illustration: A FOOD COLUMN COMPOSED OF COMMANDEERED FARMERS’ CARTS]
It had been arranged that at about half-past six I should look out for
the Crown Prince and his staff as they passed through Dun on their
way back from Romagne. The time was approaching, and we were on the
watch. The traffic had not decreased at all, rather the reverse. For a
moment it looked like a block, and it would have been a nice thing if
the Crown Prince had arrived just then. We crossed the bridge and were
outside the town, when the aristocratic-looking cars, bearing the mark,
_General Ober Kommando V. Armee_, came tearing along at full speed.
Beside the chauffeur of the first one sat the Crown Prince himself
in a cloak with a high collar. He made a sign to me to get in and I
took my seat behind him. Then he talked for a while to the officers of
the lines of communications, and after that we started. But now the
pace was slow, as we happened to meet an infantry regiment. The men
took hold of their helmets by the spike, raised them aloft and gave a
rousing cheer, as if they were charging a French position. But this
time the cheer was meant for the Commander of the 5th Army and the heir
to the throne, and we drove through a roaring sea of loud hurrahs.
Gradually the ranks thinned out and finally came the stragglers--for
there are footsore men even in the best marching army of all--in small
groups of two or three, but they cheered as wildly as the rest. Last of
all a solitary man stood by the side of the road. He, too, joined in
with all the strength of his lungs. When the Crown Prince had reassumed
his motor goggles and turned up the collar of his cloak he was not
easily recognised, especially by the men of the transport columns we
met, who had their horses to look after. But his Imperial and Royal
Highness turned half round to me and said unassumingly that nothing
pleased him more than to find that he was supported and understood
by the soldiers. He considered it the first duty of a prince to show
himself worthy of the confidence of his whole people, and for his own
part he could not imagine a greater happiness than to occupy such a
position in the minds of the German people.
We reached home in due course and sat down to table. The spirits of the
company were as cheerful and unconstrained as usual, though one would
have expected high-sounding speeches, toasts and cheering. For Varennes
had been taken and news had come of Weddigen’s exploit at sea.[15]
But no speeches were made and there was no cheering at all. The Crown
Prince received the news with the same dignified calm as the others;
he was glad, but not a muscle of his face moved, only his eyes shone
with a moister brightness. The conversation then turned for a while
on the question whether the effect of the submarines on the floating
forts would be as great as that of the 42-cm. howitzers against the
land fortresses. For that matter, subjects of conversation were never
wanting at this table, where the spirit of comradeship was always held
sacred. The imperturbable calmness of the Germans, especially of the
higher ranks, in the face of success aroused my wonder and admiration,
as it had done the day before and as it has often done since. And again
the thought rose within me of the immense moral strength of the German
military power and the conscious will of the German people in its fight
for life.
[15] This refers to the sinking of the _Cressy_, _Aboukir_ and _Hogue_
by torpedoes.--Tr.
Immediately outside Dun, on the north side of the road to Romagne, lies
a solitary grave, covered with wreaths round its cross. In it reposes
a captain, who held out with his little band in the thick of the fire
when the French were shelling their own town, and who fell at last at
his post. His memory lives among the German soldiers at Dun, fresh as
the flowers which are constantly renewed on his grave. And he is only
one among millions. Life is the least they can give to the fatherland.
The virtue of bravery is not a rare one; history has often borne
witness to its existence; but the inflexible fulfilment of duty, which
distinguishes the Germans in their hour of destiny, has few parallels.
Such a nation _cannot_ be conquered.
Dinner had been going on for some time when Professor Widenmann, the
body-physician, came in and took his place. He had been at a hospital,
looking after our friend, Baron von Maltzahn, who had been the victim
of a motor accident in the course of the day. The car, while going at a
terrific pace, had skidded at a corner of the wet road and turned over.
Von Maltzahn lay underneath and had the whole weight of the car on his
chest. He had a couple of ribs broken, a broken leg, concussion of the
brain and general shock. His condition was rather alarming, but the
professor had good hopes of his recovery.
That professor is a man one would never forget. We took to each other,
more especially as he had travelled all over the world. He had seen a
great deal of Africa, and had been very near the summit of Kilima Njaro
when he was forced to turn back by wind and weather. We had mutual
friends far and near, and long after the others had gone to their rooms
we sat up chatting--on that evening, which was my last with the German
Crown Prince, the Crown Prince of Prussia.
On the following day, September 24, we made a very early breakfast,
after which the cars of the Chief Command of the Army again drove up to
the château. I thanked his Imperial and Royal Highness the Crown Prince
with all my heart for the great hospitality which had been shown me and
for all the memorable things I had had the opportunity of seeing while
with his proud army. After a vigorous shake of the hand and a friendly
_Auf Wiedersehen!_ the energetic young Imperial Prince got into his car
and went off to his duty.
[Illustration: ROAD ACROSS BRIDGE AT DUN]
[Illustration: LANDWEHR SOLDIER, GAOLER AT DUN]
As for myself, I was not to leave till twelve o’clock, as there was
no convenient car going direct to Main Headquarters before then.
Sitting by myself in Madame du Vernier’s château was far too slow, and
I preferred a walk to the great base hospital, where the chief staff
surgeon, Professor Sick of Leipzig, showed and explained everything to
me in the most obliging way. We went from ward to ward and spoke to
many of the patients, both German and French. The largest ward had room
for forty beds. Over the head of each was a paper giving the wounded
man’s number, name and regiment. On a folding table by the side of
the bed stood a number of medicines and a glass of water, and in many
cases a little Bible, some field postcards and portraits of relations
at home. There was also a chart showing the wounded man’s temperature
from day to day. Wards, beds and everything were excellent, which was
not to be wondered at, since the building was a hospital in peace time.
My visit concerned in particular my friend Baron von Maltzahn, who lay
wrapped and bandaged in an officers’ ward. His condition was better
to-day, and I was able to sit chatting with him for a good while. He
agreed with me that it was a stupid thing to choose a motor accident,
when there were so many other ways of getting killed in war. Not till
several weeks later was von Maltzahn sufficiently recovered to be
able to stand the journey to his home; but as late as the middle of
November, when I saw him again in Berlin, he was still limping and had
to use a stick.
I then said good-bye to Madame Desserrey and her charming daughter, and
made a hasty portrait of Mademoiselle Blanche, which, however, by no
means did her justice. After the conclusion of peace I was to write and
remind her of the hours we had spent together during the war.
To conclude with a trifling anecdote: I was standing in the road in
front of the château, making a hurried sketch of it. Then up came a
sentry and addressed me in a rough tone:
“It is forbidden to draw the Crown Prince’s quarters!”
“O-oh?”
“Give me your sketch-book.”
“Here you are.”
“If you have no permit I shall turn you away.”
“You can’t turn away the Crown Prince’s guests.”
“Anybody can say that. Where is your identification?”
I then handed him my _Ausweis_, signed “von Moltke,” Chief of the
General Staff. He took the paper, read it and gave it back, stood to
attention, saluted and begged my pardon. Whereupon I assured him that
he had only done his duty, which was always refreshing and pleasant to
see.
[Illustration: THE CROWN PRINCE’S HEADQUARTERS AT STENAY]