QUIET DAYS
On October 2nd I made an excursion to Sedan to replenish a few items
of my equipment. I was offered a seat in Lieutenant Kollmann’s covered
car, which made this journey daily, and we tore along northward through
the thin veil of mist which floated over fields and meadows.
As we reached the bridge at Le Chesne, a Landsturm man stepped into
the road, swinging a white flag. We stopped, and an officer stepped
forward, saluted courteously and asked to see our pass. This is
curious, I thought, this car ought to be pretty well known, and is
manned besides by an officer and two chauffeurs, all in uniform.
However, when our papers had been examined, he explained that the watch
had been made stricter, as it had been found that there were so many
spies about, who were even bold enough to dress up in German uniforms,
so that one could not be too careful.
The railway to Vouziers was clearly not yet equipped with sufficient
rolling-stock to meet the demands made upon it, for the great road on
the lines of communication to the 4th Army were still encumbered with
endless transport trains.
“What do the letters E.K.K. mean, that I see on all these cars?” I
asked my travelling companion.
“_Etappen Kraftwagen Kolonne_” (Mechanical transport trains for lines
of communication), he replied. “They carry food and ammunition like all
the others.”
Thereupon we chatted awhile about this wonderful life which goes on
behind the front, about all these threads by which an army hangs in an
occupied country, and about the many types of armed wayfarers on foot,
on horseback, and in wagons. We talked about the villages, crops, herds
of cattle, and the wretched humans wandering about like strangers and
prisoners in their own land. They are utterly cut off from the outside
world, for there are no paths so secret and so subtle that news from
France can reach them. How the war is progressing, they have no idea.
They have not had a newspaper, not a letter, for close on two months.
All they hear is an occasional rumour spread by some free-lance and
intended to make them put difficulties in the way of the invading army.
“But what on earth do they live on?” “Oh, there are plenty of potatoes
and poultry, besides the corn still ungathered in the fields. And there
are still plenty of cattle, for you can see them yourself grazing by
the roadside. Sheep and pigs are equally plentiful, but the one thing
there is not much left of is wine. For when the French Army passed
through it did not stint itself, and then we came and took the rest.
But we pay for everything and nobody will be the loser by what we take.
Matches and paraffin disappeared long ago, and so there is nothing left
for the inhabitants but to go to bed, like the chickens, with the sun.”
Presently we arrived, drove across Place Turenne, attended to our
business and met again at the Croix d’Or for lunch. Here every room
was still taken up and the restaurant was well filled as usual. The
proprietor was very contented and admitted that he was doing a roaring
trade, provided that his “_bons_” were redeemed after the war. The
town now wears a Prussian air, uniforms, soldiers and patrols wherever
one looks. We were glad to sit for a while by the window and look out
upon the square. Officers are busily walking hither and thither on
the business of the lines of communication of the 4th Army, from the
Base Commander’s Office to the _Palais de Justice_, where the Base
Inspectorate is located, and from the _Palais de Justice_ to some other
public building where some German authority has taken up its quarters.
As they pass the grey-clad sentries with their gleaming bayonets, they
are always greeted with a smart military salute.
I cannot take my eyes from this window, the warlike, active scene
outside fascinates me, and yet everything is done quietly and
deliberately, and the greatest order reigns everywhere. Here is a row
of cars ranged up in single file with carbines fastened to the screen
in front of the driver’s seat, ready for use when wanted. Several of
the cars are provided with a sort of superstructure of two iron hoops
carrying a sharp narrow iron rod which starts from the front of the
car and slopes upward over the heads of the occupants, coming to an
end just in front of the hood. One might think it was the framework
of a tent in case it became necessary to spend the night in the car.
But this was not the case. The object of the contrivance is to cut or
at least deflect telephone wires which might have been maliciously
stretched across the road to injure travelling officers. When driving
at high speed in the dark and coming up against one of these wires, one
has every prospect of being decapitated.
But the most interesting part of it all was to watch the civil
population, the natives of Sedan. Here come two bareheaded girls
accompanied by a boy in a cap and cloak. Walking backwards and forwards
between the hospitals are nurses in white or black head-dress, but
always with the Red Cross band round the arm. A couple of them are
following a stretcher carried by ambulance men, on which lies a
seriously wounded soldier taken from a train. On the other side of the
square a couple of elderly women come plodding along with enormous
bundles--doubtless washing for officers, who pay them well to look
after their wants. I always feel the deepest compassion for these poor
creatures. They have lost their country and their liberty, and the war
has deprived them of their husbands and sons and ruined their homes. It
is the poor who suffer most, the rich and well-to-do have fled in time
and taken their valuables with them, leaving nothing but their empty
and deserted houses. Yet here and there a wealthy citizen has elected
to stop, or perhaps left his servants to guard his house and home. Such
families will find their possessions absolutely untouched. In the house
where officers have lived, not a pin will be out of place. But during
the repeated advances of an army, after the officers have departed from
their quarters and left them absolutely intact, it no doubt happens now
and again that soldiers subsequently billeted there may not treat the
effects with the same respect.
Here come a couple of ladies of the higher bourgeoisie, perhaps mother
and daughter, dressed in black and with long black veils. Are they in
mourning for fallen relatives, or perhaps for the fate of France? As
a matter of fact, the more well-to-do women always wear black. They
_cannot_ but mourn. They understand better than the common people the
position of unhappy France and how unfortunate the policy has been
which brought them into this great, sanguinary war. If one lives for a
few days at the same spot and passes the same houses several times,
and maybe greets the old women standing alone or with their children in
the doorways, one of them may occasionally nod pleasantly and answer
“_Bon jour, monsieur_,” but the next one hardly takes any notice. The
first may be well off and hope to see her menfolk once more, the other
is probably brooding over her grief and sorrow, for she knows nothing,
has nothing, and has lost all hope. Those who cook, bake, wash, mangle
and “do” for the Germans are always contented, at least on the surface.
The storm has already travelled past them. Whatever they do, they
cannot change their fate and must make the best of what is left.
One would have to be of stone, were one not to feel pity also for the
old men. Here come a couple slowly walking across the square. Look at
their wrinkled faces, their careworn features, their sharp profiles,
black eyes and great grey moustaches. They are very plainly dressed and
wear felt hats on their heads. They walk bent after their day’s work,
if they have had any. Look at the corners of their eyes in profile,
with all their lines showing, and watch the moist glance and forlorn
expression of the eye. These eyes have ceased to cry and see no light
ahead. But ask for once the old people if _they_ wanted the war and
if they think it is for France’s good. No, they, the old men and the
women of all ages, bear no blame for the nameless misery that is now
spreading over France.
I cannot tear myself away from the window. The bizarre life outside
is running its even course. In the centre of the square, inside the
lamp-posts and the iron railing stands the great Turenne on his stone
plinth, scarred and green with age. He stands there like a ghost and
an anachronism, and looks down with imperturbable calm on those dim
distant ages whose blood-drenched waves are lapping round his feet.
Everything that has been destroyed by the French in order to render
the German advance more difficult, and everything that has been laid
waste by the ravages of war itself has long since been mended by the
German Army and its organisation. The railways are running, new bridges
replace the wrecked ones, telegraph and telephone lines have been laid
down, water-systems have been repaired and the electric light is now
burning as brightly as ever in times of peace. Times of peace! It seems
as if an eternity had flown since those days. The clocks in the houses
have stopped, there are no French hands to set them going. The great
clocks in the church towers alone denote the flight of time. It is
German time that they show, and it is important that they should be
working, not so that the priests may know their hours of duty, for they
need no clocks, but in order that the transport trains, the soldiers,
the sentries and the green-clad military police posted round Turenne’s
statue and at other points may know when they shall relieve or be
relieved--and last, but not least, in order that the civil population
may know how long it is to nightfall. Anyone found loitering in the
dark is shot if his papers are not in perfect order and if he cannot
show that he is out on a lawful and proper errand.
But the clock-tower strikes its five deliberate strokes and it is
time for us to return to Vouziers, if we mean to arrive before it is
quite dark. I cast a final glance at the houses opposite, where some
windows are open and give me little snapshots into the interior--not
of domestic French life, but of German billeting scenes; other windows
are closed and further protected by green and white shutters. I have
reached this stage in my reflections, when a tall gentleman comes
up to me and introduces himself as Baron Bleichröder of Dresden. He
is wearing a uniform which I cannot quite place within the somewhat
narrow limits of my military knowledge, and I therefore hit upon the
simple question, “What are you doing here, Baron?” “I have brought
with me twenty-nine motor-lorries of _Liebesgaben_ for the troops,” he
answers. “The lorries are filled to the roof with little parcels of
cigars, cigarettes, pipe-tobacco, underclothing, socks, handkerchiefs,
newspapers, chocolate and other things the soldiers like.”
At last we took our leave and proceeded in a south-westerly direction,
with the rapidly setting sun before us on our right. There was
something remarkable about the sunsets at this time. To-night it was
a glowing, burning red, and the sky around was tinted in the same
gorgeous colouring. But it made me think of the long, bloody trail now
stretching from Belfort to the sea in the north-west, a distance of
about four hundred miles. Here the soldiers lie in an unbroken row of
trenches, so closely together that a word of command or a piece of news
can be repeated from ear to ear from Middelkerke to Altkirch; allowing
only one man for every metre, this makes a total of six hundred
thousand men. But the density is in reality far greater, and one is
almost stunned at the thought that Germany, which in the east, too, has
an enormous front to protect and stands in arms at many other points,
is yet always able to fill the gaps with fresh, perfectly trained men.
It is true that, numerically, the Allies are three times stronger than
Germany and Austria-Hungary and that they--the self-conscious British,
and the French, so rightly proud of their cultured refinement--have
instituted a regular import of black and brown human material from
distant continents. But in real soldiers the Germans are superior.
Practically speaking their country is clear of enemies--with the
exception of six hundred thousand prisoners--and they are fighting out
their fight on enemy territory.
Saturday, the 3rd of October, passed very quietly.
It is pleasant to be able to rest now and again, when otherwise one
is always on the move. I dined at one o’clock with Professor Zinsser
and the doctors under him. The table was laid in the garden. Over our
heads we heard the buzz of German biplanes and _Gotha Tauben_. A cheery
and willing Franciscan friar waited at table and joined animatedly in
the conversation. After dinner the distinguished old _pater_ Müller
came to call. Now and again a batch of French prisoners marched
past. A couple of them were carrying a sick German to the railway
station, whilst others were carting coal to the hospitals in barrows.
I photographed a band of eighteen men on their way to dinner. One can
see even in the picture that they are in the best of spirits, well
cared for and sheltered against cold and rain. Some scenes I witnessed
between prisoners and their guards were inordinately comical. On one
such occasion I saw a German gaoler pat his French prisoner on the
shoulder and say in a fatherly, patronising voice, “_Hier hast du
eine Cigarrette, mein Bursch_” (Here is a cigarette for you, my lad),
whereupon the Frenchman gave a friendly nod, accepted the cigarette
with a smile and a _merci_, and lit it from the German’s pipe. Among
the soldiers one sees no signs of national hatred. But in the French
press it glows like a consuming fire. Not to speak of the venom of the
English newspapers!
[Illustration: PATER MÜLLER, PROFESSOR ZINSSER AND A FRANCISCAN FRIAR]
In the evening I spent a few moments with some Jesuits employed in
the service of the Red Cross. They had some sanguinary tales to tell
of places they had recently visited, particularly Rossignol. I might
fill whole books with these horrible stories about streets drenched in
blood, fallen soldiers and hand-to-hand fighting in towns and villages,
where every house has to be stormed whilst death is being rained upon
the attackers from the windows. But this is not part of my task, and I
have made it my duty to speak in the main only of what I myself have
seen and experienced.
In the Argonne forest much blood has flowed, as I myself have seen
in its northern part, both from the east and west, when with the 5th
and the 4th Army respectively. Although the whole of the front has
developed more or less into a siege war with trenches, communicating
trenches, barbed-wire entanglements and _trous-de-loup_, this applies
even in a larger measure to this forest region. Here the engineer
troops have had much work to do, and it is the generals of the
Engineers who lead the advance. To progress quickly is _impossible_.
The forest, so badly kept that it would horrify a northern
sylviculturist, is very difficult to advance in. In certain places one
has to cut one’s way step by step through shrub and undergrowth. This
sort of country is easy to defend, and the French understand their
business well. At night or in a fog, the Germans push forward a thin
line of infantry about fifteen paces distant from one another. After
having advanced as far as the conditions allow, the men dig themselves
in. This gives rise to a chain of pits which afterwards, by continued
digging longitudinally, are united into a continuous trench. When the
men have made themselves at home in this new position and extended
it, a further area in front of the one occupied is cleared by fire,
whereupon the fresh advance is made. In this way the forest is swept
clean. It must be taken step by step, tree by tree, for--as I have
already pointed out--the defenders have organised even the tree-tops
for defence, and have mounted machine guns there. In the gloom of the
undergrowth it is not always easy to distinguish friend from foe. On
the occasion of my visit it was not advisable for anyone to come too
close to the Argonne forest unless his duties called him there. In
certain cases the risk seemed even greater for those behind the firing
lines than for those in the advanced positions, for the French usually
fired too high. Their shots mostly passed over the heads of their
nearest opponents, who, by the way, were remarkably well concealed.
This is not to be wondered at, for when the enemy is almost upon one,
accurate shooting becomes difficult. The parts of the forest which have
already been taken by the Germans look very strange. The ground is
streaked with trenches and communicating trenches joining the former
together, and the trees are often charred and stripped by the fire.
The French are cleverer at artillery than infantry shooting. One of the
doctors here told me that of the 2500 patients he had had to attend to,
not quite ten per cent had been hit by rifle bullets; a few had been
wounded by sword cuts or bayonet thrusts, but all the rest had been
struck by shell splinters and shrapnel bullets. If the ammunition were
better, the effect of the French artillery fire would be appalling.
On Sunday morning, the 4th of October, at 5 o’clock, the kindly
Franciscan friar came to call me. I dressed hurriedly, and accompanied
by a Catholic soldier on orderly duty in von Behr’s house I wandered
off to the “Home for the Aged,” in the chapel of which the birthday
of St. Francis was to be celebrated with mass and song. No daylight,
no moonlight; the heavy hand of night still grips the earth. A damp
mist floats over Vouziers and the stone paving is wet. Here and
there an electric lamp is engaged in an unequal struggle against the
darkness. Now and then a few hurried steps are heard--monks on the way
to mass. In front of a house used for some military purpose tramps a
sentry--otherwise the street is still and silent.
On reaching our goal we step into a tiny garden, and are presently
in the chapel. It is already filled with worshippers. Here sit the
Elizabeth sisters from Essen in their white veils, and the St. Vincent
sisters from Hildesheim in black veils; the Franciscan friars have
already taken their places. Several Catholic soldiers occupy the
galleries, where presently I join them.
At the altar the statues of saints are illumined by tall candles, just
being lit, but the two candelabras are not yet brought into use. It
is still so dark outside that the stained-glass windows shut out all
light and are illumined only from the inside. The features and dress
of the Virgin Mary and St. Helena in their leaden setting are scarcely
discernible.
A friar in a vestment embroidered in white and gold, surrounded by
four other friars equally gorgeously attired, steps up to the altar.
Suspended from long, fine chains they carry censers with glowing
charcoal, on which one of them sprinkles an aromatic powder. Light
blue clouds of smoke ascend to me in the gallery and instantly recall
to my memory similar scenes from the Uspenskij Sobor in Moscow and
Taschi-lunpo in desolate Tibet.
Now begins the Latin altar service. One of the priests chants, and the
congregation responds with the constantly recurring refrain: “_Per
omnia secula seculorum. Amen._” “_Oremus_” comes from the altar, and
again “_Per omnia secula seculorum. Amen_” from the congregation.
Next comes the sermon. The preacher chooses for the subject of his
discourse the life of St. Francis. Prayers coupled with his name are
this day being offered up throughout the world. The congregation cannot
better celebrate his memory than by fulfilling their duties on behalf
of human love and charitableness, and by doing their part towards the
relief of the sufferings of wounded soldiers.
The stained-glass windows begin to brighten. Day is breaking outside.
The congregation sings a German song in honour of St. Francis. A friar
once more steps up to the altar and rings a little bell. I cannot take
my eyes off these friars and sisters, who have come straight from the
battlefields and hospitals, and whose thoughts are now so peacefully
centred round the name of the great patriarch. How moved they seem,
how eagerly they make the sign of the cross to betoken their piety!
In a picture opposite the choir the crucified Christ looks down from
the height of His agony on to the kneeling figures. “_Per omnia secula
seculorum, Dominus vobiscum. Gratias agimus Domino Deo nostro. Unus
est Deus, unus est Dominus._” The bell rings once more, the censers
are swung on their chains, and it almost seems as if the Virgin Mary
and Saint Helena had stepped out of the gloom around the altar and had
approached us.
The attendant friars greet one another by placing their hands on one
another’s shoulders and head. Holy Communion is administered to the
congregation, and once more the eternal refrain is chanted: “_Per omnia
secula seculorum._” It makes one think of all the brave ones dying
out in the trenches and of the flower of the male youth of two noble
nations which is being sacrificed on the altar of shell fire. Maybe
the thoughts of the nuns and monks, too, are more taken up with the
strife now shaking the world to its foundations, than with the peace
surrounding the name of the Holy Francis. Perhaps the thought of all
the soldiers who have died before their eyes is clouding their mental
vision. It cannot be easy to die when one is young and strong, and
has all one’s life before one. But the honour of the country demands
that its men be sacrificed. Their memory shall live “_per omnia secula
seculorum_.” _Coronas decoris meruerunt._
The candelabra on the communion table are now lighted. But they are no
longer needed, daylight once more reigns outside and Saint Helena’s
features now look down clearly on all beholders. Round her lips plays a
smile full of gentleness and goodness. She, the friend of the helpless
and suffering, seems to rejoice to see so many brethren and sisters
devoting their best energies to the relief and care of wounded and
dying soldiers.
But now the devotions are over and my Franciscan friar leads me to
the colonnade, where the sisters give us coffee with beautiful white
wheaten bread and marmalade. Here we spend an agreeable hour together
before parting.
The Protestant field service was held at half-past nine. The worship
took place at a quiet street corner under the open sky, a safer place
than the fields outside the town, where a large gathering of people
would make a welcome target for a French airman’s bombs. A few hundred
soldiers and some fifty officers forgathered here. An octette from the
regimental band began playing a psalm--we Swedes know it well--it has
been sung before the blue and yellow standards of Gustavus Adolphus,
before the Carolins at Narva, on the banks of Vabitj, on the plains
of Ukraine, and has brought solace and comfort to the poor forgotten
prisoners in Siberian thraldom: _Ein feste Burg ist Unser Gott_. The
soldiers joined in with their strong clear voices. Perhaps one ought
to have seen and heard this sort of thing to realise what Swedes and
Germans have in common. At one time we gave each other the noblest
and the best that we possessed. The Lutheran faith preserved by the
sword of Gustavus Adolphus was the seed and life germ which has given
birth to that Germanic culture which to-day is fighting for its
existence. None of us can escape the responsibility for the inviolable
preservation of the common heritage. Our German brethren are now
shedding their hearts’ blood in a cause which in equal measure concerns
ourselves, and for which Sweden’s greatest Kings gave their all and
their lives.
Pastor Marguth of Hessen conducted the service from some stone steps.
He was attired in a black gown and, like all other chaplains of the
Field Army, he wore round the arm a white and violet band. Taking the
Epistle to the Romans as his subject, he spoke on the strength which
the Gospel gives. From that he passed to the stirring world conflict
which now filled everyone’s thoughts. He spoke of the irresistible
power sometimes imparted to a people with the knowledge that it has a
ruler who likewise is a real leader. The Emperor had done all within
human power to avert the war, he said. The Emperor wanted peace, but
when he was forced into the war he knew what his position was and
understood what the people asked of him, and trusting in his people he
did not hesitate to strike a blow for Germany’s existence and future.
He spoke of the nation’s sense of duty, which is the first prerequisite
of victory. The people _know_ what they must do when duty calls. “We
must thank God for His infinite grace in thus making us united and
strong in our time of trial, in our direst but also our greatest hour.”
Then he touched upon the spirit of the soldiers and their firm resolve
to fight to the last drop of blood and not to give way until the last
man and the last horse has fallen. He spoke with simple eloquence, no
flowers and no phrases. He spoke manfully with cheerful confidence
and an unshakable faith in victory, and the German words roused a
ringing echo from the old French houses opposite. “_Vater unser, der
du bist im Himmel._... _Der Herr segne Euch und behüte Euch._” In
conclusion another psalm was intoned. It was sung in swelling, rousing
tones, as if they were on the eve of the triumphal entry through the
Brandenburger Tor in Berlin. Here they stood, these broad-shouldered,
sturdy Teutons, in the hey-day of youth and strength, with eyes
flashing beneath their helmets--eyes whose vision would perhaps be
dimmed for ever to-morrow in the trenches. I thrilled with emotion as
I heard the ringing song, and thought: These men may know the art of
dying, but their nation can never die. And this thought led to the
reflection: I am sorry for the Powers who have combined to destroy it;
what rivers of blood will flow before _they_ learn to understand that
their aim, the destruction of Germany, is unattainable!
“Und wenn die Welt voll Teufel wär
Und woll’n uns gar verschlingen,
So fürchten wir uns nicht so sehr,
Es soll uns doch gelingen.
Der Fürst dieser Welt,
Wie saur er sich stellt,
Tut er uns doch nichts,
Das macht, er ist gericht,
Ein Wörtlein kann ihn fallen.”[20]
[20] And if the world with devils teemed,
All watching to devour us,
Yet are our hearts from fear redeemed,
Not they can overpower us!
And let the Prince of Ill
Look grim as e’er he will,
He harms us not one whit--
For why? His doom is writ;
A Word shall quickly slay him.
(_Congregational Hymn Book_ version, slightly modified.)
Army chaplains almost form a race of their own. They are always
cheerful, always wide-awake, self-sacrificing and dauntless. They are
the soldiers’ priests, they preach for the living and comfort and
console the dying. Creed no longer plays a part, the Protestant and
Catholic chaplains are like brothers together. There is no rivalry
between them, they have all _one_ God and _one_ aim, the welfare of
their country. One often sees chaplains hurrying along on horseback,
a cross round their neck, the black felt hat on their heads and the
white and violet band round the left arm of the field tunic. They not
infrequently wear the Iron Cross. This no doubt means that they have
stood up in the midst of the shell fire and spoken of the Resurrection
and the Life, or that with immovable calm they have remained at their
post and addressed the congregation when enemy aviators were flying
overhead. Or maybe that they have this very night in cold and rain
crept between shrubs and bushes to reach the trenches and celebrate
High Mass on Sunday for their occupants.
Once more my thoughts fly away to our own immortal times of greatness.
Pictures of solemn Carolin chaplains in boots and spurs seem to rise up
before me, men who in strength and fortitude of soul were an example
to the soldiers to be resolute and loyal unto death. I seemed to see
as through a mist the regimental chalice placed upon the altar built
up of silver tymbals, round which kneeling men and haughty officers
throng to listen humbly to the Lutheran confession of faith, and to
vow in ringing tones that in life and death alike they believe in the
forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting.
The battlefields are a sterile soil for atheism. Man is then too near
his Maker and to the threshold of eternity.
Our service ended quietly; no airmen came to disturb us, even the
guns seemed to respect the day of rest. We took a walk round the
town. The Town Hall, which looks on to an open space, has been turned
into quarters for the Landsturm Guard, which is changed at midday.
Officers also come in and out to receive their orders. Close by the
Chief Command has been accommodated in the _Palais de Justice_, whilst
another house has been chosen for the headquarters for the Commandant
of the Lines of Communication. One sees no new or handsome houses. The
streets look dull, with their monotonous, old-fashioned frontages,
not old enough to bear the picturesque impress of antiquity. The only
really attractive structure is the Church of Saint Morille; it looks
old enough, in fact I was told by a native that it dates from the
thirteenth century. Its façade is richly ornamented, but also bears the
marks of bullets from 1792, so I was told. The interior of the church
is gloomy and typically Catholic with its mighty pillars, its figures
of the Virgin, its altar ornaments, memorial tablets and votive tablets
to the Virgin.
Facing the church is a statue of Taine on a pedestal, the front of
which illustrates his genius reclining against a pile of bronze folios.
Over the doorway of a house close by I read the words: “_Hippolyte
Adolphe Taine de l’ Académie Française est né dans cette maison le 21
avril 1828._”
By the side of Taine’s statue stood three elderly citizens, busily
chatting together. What they were talking of I do not know, but perhaps
it was not hard to guess. I greeted them and they returned my greeting.
I asked for some information about the church and about Taine, and
from this we passed on to more practical subjects. It seemed that in
common with many others they had decided to stop at Vouziers. Those who
had left the town, about three thousand, had in their opinion acted
unwisely, for they would find their houses and furniture ruined, whilst
those who remained behind were able to safeguard their interests and
property. Of the coming winter they hardly dared to think. It would
be terrible, and would bring famine and destitution in its wake.
“But the Prussians will have to provide us with our daily bread.”
Their political views practically amounted to this: France cannot
gain anything by this war, but can lose much; but France will fight
nevertheless as long as there is a soldier left. To my question whether
they ever received any news, they replied: “_Non, monsieur, nous sommes
des zéros._” One feels the deepest compassion for these unhappy people
whom God and the world seem to have deserted.
On October 5th I had an opportunity of witnessing the sitting of a
court-martial of the Chief Command of the Army. It had to deal with
five cases of offences. This is not much for a whole army, when one
knows that the slightest theft from a house is punished with the utmost
severity. A more refreshing intermezzo is furnished by pay-day, which
occurs three times a month. Both officers and men receive in war time
nearly double their peace pay. Pay-day happened to come on one of the
days I spent at Vouziers. The money is paid in notes, but also in coin.
The day after, the field post had plenty to do, as from this single
place alone the soldiers sent 250,000 marks by registered letter to
their homes. A very large percentage of the enormous sums swallowed up
by the army thus returns to Germany.