OSTEND BOMBARDED
On Friday the 23rd October I was called by Dr. Kübler, who suggested a
walk to the lighthouse and to the old fortifications. So we wandered
off to the new outer harbour, where a sailor rowed us across the canal,
whereupon we continued to the flying station, where we arrived just in
time to watch the elegant ascent of a _Taube_, which circled up to a
considerable height and then disappeared towards the south-west.
The lighthouse rears its white minaret fifty-eight metres above the
ground. Tempting as it was, we refrained from climbing up to the light
to have a look at Nieuport, Furnes and Dunkerque, which can be seen
from the top.
Instead we traced our steps to the ancient fort and its moat, its
earth-clad slopes and its five guns dating from 1862. We returned by
the electric tramway. The car was filled with soldiers and civilians.
The former included an old Landsturm man, who told us that he had three
sons in the war, but where they were and whether they were still alive,
he had not the faintest notion. “I don’t grudge their dying,” he said,
“one must sacrifice all for the Fatherland.”
On returning to the promenade, we settled down on a bench by the
Kursaal and examined the British squadron through our glasses. The sky
was exceptionally clear, the weather radiant; even the sun came out to
have a peep at us.
Just before half-past twelve Captain-Lieutenant Bess came to fetch me.
He had just returned from Middelkerke, where he had been with Admiral
von Schröder. He told me that the road in which yesterday we had seen
the foliage-enshrouded wagons was now anything but safe, and that in
fact a couple of shells had been dropped there. Even the soldiers
were forbidden to show themselves on the front. Bess dissuaded me,
therefore, from attempting a second visit to Middelkerke.
He had another suggestion, combined with less risk, namely to visit
a couple of his companies of marines and inspect their quarters.
A company and a half had been billeted in the theatre, which was
only a few steps away. Outside stood a couple of 6-cm. so-called
_Bootskanonen_ (boat guns), neat-looking little guns of the same grey
colour as the armoured ships. Their ammunition wagons were lined up
along the pavement.
We stepped into the large, handsome foyer. The men had rigged up their
beds along the walls--mattresses and pillows had been requisitioned
from the Mayor of Ostend. Their arms and clothes were hanging on chairs
and coat-hangers and the tables were littered with their cups and
crockery.
The first-tier boxes had also been converted into sleeping berths or
armouries. The whole of the corridor was filled with beds. We had a
look into one or two boxes where the marines were sitting cleaning
their rifles, patching their clothes or polishing their accoutrements.
In front of us we had the handsomely decorated well of the theatre.
Only three months ago this had been the scene of every conceivable
extravagance from Paris, Brussels and London. From the box where we
were standing we would have been gazing down on row upon row of elegant
ladies intent on displaying their charms and jewellery. Not long ago
coquettish, languishing glances had been exchanged across the stalls
which now stood bare and empty. Then life was a whirl of dissipation
and excitement. The days had been spent in bathing and in lounging
in the high-backed basket chairs or basking on the sun-baked sands.
Excursions, dinners and festivities had followed close upon one another
and the evenings had been spent in the theatre in careless idleness.
Then suddenly the curtain was rung down for the last time, and the war
broke out.
We could not resist the temptation to pay a visit to the theatre
kitchen. Here stood the fat, jovial, naval cooks in their long white
coats and caps and sleeves tucked up. The caldrons were on the boil
and appetising fumes filled the atmosphere. Needless to say I was
made to taste the dishes, and a gigantic portion of _goulash_ in a
soup plate was put in front of me--stewed meat, potatoes, vegetables
and broth. “Excellent! This is even better than the food we get at
the hotel,” I thought to myself. I ate my dish with great gusto. No
wonder that German soldiers are so strong, fresh and contented-looking
when they are fed like this. If I were to be put on field diet for a
long while and could choose between officers’ and men’s fare, I would
unhesitatingly take the latter. It is wholesome, nourishing, and tasty
food, and does not encumber the soldiers’ stomachs with unnecessary
ballast. That the state of health in the German Army is as good as it
is, is to a great extent due to the excellent and ample hot food.
But it is now five minutes to one and we must not be late for dinner at
the officers’ mess, for which I, for my part, had thoroughly spoilt my
appetite. We walked up the _Rue du Cerf_. At the corner of this street
and the _Digue de Mer_, the road fronting the sea, stands the _Hôtel
Littoral_. The former street lies a few metres lower than the _Digue
de Mer_, which is perched on the dune skirting the sea. The streets
are paved with granite slabs. The last bit of the _Rue du Cerf_ forms
a slight rise. Up at the corner of the _Hôtel Littoral_ a group of
officers were standing in animated conversation, pointing to the west
and busily using their glasses. We went up to them wondering what was
up. The British squadron lay in its accustomed place to westward and
west-south-westward, perhaps a little closer in than usual--about seven
or eight kilometres away.
A destroyer had just detached itself from the rest and was making at
full speed for Ostend, parallel with the coast, as close as possible to
the shore. Presently another destroyer appeared, following in the wake
of the first. What could they want, these ruffians? Strong language was
heard--it was a piece of consummate impudence to come steaming right
under our noses like this. Evidently they were reconnoitring--but what
insolence, they must have known that we had occupied Ostend! Aha! they
suspect that there are submarines and destroyers in the inner harbour,
and want to see whether they can detect anything from outside!
Well, whatever their intentions are, we may as well go upstairs and
get ready for dinner. I stepped on to my balcony, feeling convinced
that by this time the destroyers would have turned back or gone out
to sea again. But no! They kept on the same tack as before, and at a
speed which made the foam break over their bows. My neighbours, Bess,
Haak and Kübler, were also out on their balconies with their glasses.
“Astounding insolence,” I heard them mutter. There will be something
doing presently, I thought to myself, and went in to stow away my
diaries, sketches and photographs in a handbag. Once more I cast a
glance at the bold destroyers outside. Beneath my balcony I heard an
officer shouting out orders in a stentorian voice to the effect that
the street was to be cleared and that not a man must show himself on
the front, except the sentry at the _Littoral_, but a moment later, he,
too, was called in for _Deckung_.
My friends had disappeared; I looked into their rooms, they were empty.
Then I took my glasses and hurried downstairs. Bess had warned his
colleagues against remaining on the balconies, and he thought that I
had gone down already.
In the elegant, carpeted vestibule of the hotel, where sofas, tables
and chairs stood in little groups between the huge green plants,
officers hurried to and fro, and it was plain that something unusual
was pending. “Are they going to shoot?” I asked Bess. “Oh yes, they
are going to shoot all right,” he answered with stoical calm. Through
the glass doors of the vestibule I could see clearly what was going on
at the end of the _Rue du Cerf_. Admiral von Schröder was in command
and I caught sight of Captain Tägert and his men of the naval brigade,
hurrying to bring up the two 6-cm. naval guns and their ammunition
carts which we had seen a moment ago at the theatre--there was no
other artillery available in the town for the moment. The street had
been cleared of civilians, and there were no military visible save
those required for serving and directing the little battery. I was
not allowed outside, of course, but I had time nevertheless to admire
the astounding swiftness and precision with which the two guns were
unlimbered, loaded and the range found: “Load! Ready! Fire!”
The first shot rang out. The report re-echoed down the street and the
window-panes in the hotel rattled in their frames. I went into the
restaurant, whence I had an uninterrupted view of the sea and the
leading destroyer. A moment later came the second shot. The first shell
struck the water right in front of the destroyer, but it was impossible
to tell whether it did any damage. The second shell also struck quite
close to the target.
There were several officers in the restaurant. I was standing with Dr.
Algermissen of Colmar, Lieutenant in the First Naval Reserve. The room
was very large, with eight windows looking on to the sea and two others
on to the _Rue du Cerf_. At the former little tables stood laid, and
on the east side of the room stood the large table where we used to
take our meals. Along the centre line the restaurant was supported
by four solid pillars. Algermissen and I were standing at the second
window from the west.
Directly the German shots had been fired, the two destroyers swung
round to port and at the same moment opened fire. Their guns seemed
to flash out straight at us. _Deckung!_ shouted Algermissen, and we
retired immediately behind our pillar, forgetting that it would have
been blown away like paper if a shell had struck it. Some of those in
the room followed our example, but others contemptuously disdained even
this measure of precaution, which perhaps they considered insufficient.
The leading destroyer was now about 1400 metres away. Its first shell
fell short and dropped into the sea just in front of the _Littoral_.
Tall columns of white spray showed where it had struck. Immediately
we turned our glasses on to the enemy vessel. There is another flash.
Once more we take cover, but only for the body, not for the head, for
one simply _cannot_ take one’s eyes off such a spectacle, whatever the
cost! But it would be vain to attempt to describe the excitement which
we felt between the spurt of flame from the gun and the impact of the
shell. We felt, indeed we were conscious that _we_ were the target of
the sinister monster speeding towards us through the air. It was not
fear, for if anyone had offered to take me to a perfectly safe spot in
the centre of the town, I should not have stirred. It was a mixture
of breathless excitement, intense interest and a fixed determination
not to miss the smallest detail of what was passing. That was why we
kept our glasses fixed, now on the boat, now on the point of impact.
One projectile ricochetted from the surface of the water, sprang
aloft and struck the roof coping, fifty-eight paces away from us, as
I subsequently measured. Another described a most peculiar path--how
it did it I cannot imagine--but in the end it landed on the stone
promenade nearest the sea and buried itself beside the iron railing
without bursting. There it lay for a couple of days, and the guard saw
to it that nobody went up to interfere with the fearsome object. Twice
we saw and heard the shells strike the water, dancing like flat stones
over the surface, and finally crashing into the quay wall. First we
saw the flash from the British gun, then the impact on striking the
water--then came the report. A second or so later a horrible crash
struck our ears, announcing that some house frontage had been hit,
and followed by the clatter of bricks and stones smashing on to the
pavement.
The second destroyer, which I could not see from my point of vantage,
was blazing away as cheerfully as the first. As we could not even see
_when_ she fired, the protection of our pillar was still more illusory.
The two German guns fired five or six shots each. Whether they did any
damage, I do not know. As the street sloped upward towards the front,
the recoil was very severe, and the guns had to be pulled up afresh
for each round. The laying of them was combined with considerable
difficulty. The whole affair was over in twelve minutes. The destroyers
turned almost completely round and steamed with all speed back towards
the west, firing continuously. According to the German officers they
fired about thirty rounds. They also used machine guns. But the
distance grew, and after a while the firing ceased altogether.
One can hardly be in a more dangerous situation than the one we had
been exposed to. We had been right in the middle of the shell fire,
and yet got away unscathed. The shells had struck, some in front of
us, some to the east of us, and the machine guns seemed to be trained
on the lower floor of the house adjoining the _Littoral_ on the left.
Several shots had made their way through its windows. We afterwards
discussed this remarkable whim of fate.
“How is it that not a single shot hit our hotel?” I asked. “The British
ought to have seen that the German fire was directed from our street
corner, and the men serving the guns were the only human beings in
sight on the whole front.”
“Well, it might seem so, but with the rapid movement of the ships it
must be difficult to tell where the fire comes from. Possibly they may
have had their attention fixed on the harbour, in the belief that we
had torpedo-boats lying there. Several shots went in that direction.”
“I hear,” said another, “that the _Majestic Hotel_ was struck several
times, and that one or two officers there were killed. The _Majestic_
is a large white monumental building, and the British no doubt thought
that they were making a good haul.”
“It is very significant,” added a third, “that they honoured us with
their attention just at one o’clock when they knew that all the
officers would be at dinner. Probably they thought that they would get
past unimpeded after carrying out their reconnaissance before we were
ready.”
What can have been the intention of the British? It may perhaps have
been--apart from the general reconnaissance to discover what the
Germans had in the harbour--to tempt the German artillery out of its
hiding-place. Their persistent fire, although the German reply was so
slight, would hardly have any other explanation. They gained nothing
by the affair, and did themselves and their Belgian Allies a certain
amount of material damage.
When all was quiet again we settled down to our meal, after which
Bess, Kübler and I went over to the _Majestic Hotel_. On the way we
passed the house where a shell had lodged in the coping. Some men and
women were just issuing from its gates with a lusty-looking child in a
perambulator. The elders looked frightened and perturbed. “Where are
you off to?” we asked.
“Surely you can’t expect us to remain in a house which has been shot
at,” said one of the men, and added with a touch of sardonic humour,
“these are strong pills for little children--we are going to move away.”
In the 1910 edition of “Baedeker” the _Majestic Hotel_ appears under
the name of _Grand Hotel des Bains_. Since then it has changed its
name and probably its proprietor. Its handsome white frontage had been
badly knocked about by the six shells which we had counted, and which
had torn great gaping holes in the walls. On the pavement outside lay
huge piles of stone, bricks and masonry, and we noticed the fragments
of one of the ornamental plaster angels with wings lifted for flight,
but which nevertheless, by the irony of fate, had ended its days in
millions of fragments on the stone pavement.
We went into the lobby, where cupboards, tables and chairs lay in
picturesque disorder. An hour ago the restaurant had been one of the
most elegant in Europe. Its floor was laid with rich red Brussels
carpets, the walls were decorated in white and gold and mirrors, with
magnificent chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Now the whole room
was a picture of the most ghastly devastation. Two shells had entered
just by the lower part of the long row of windows. Their splinters had
torn gaping holes in walls and ceilings. The plaster ornaments had
fallen down and now lay shivered into fragments, and the carpets had
almost disappeared beneath the thick white dust. The windows had been
smashed to atoms. Mirrors had cracked into all sorts of curious starry
shapes which threatened to collapse altogether if touched. All the
furniture lay about in little bits. The tablecloths had been torn to
shreds. Yet in the corners of the room, more particularly the western
corner, the tables were still standing, but glasses and crockery had,
of course, been smashed. I noticed the bases of claret and champagne
glasses still standing, whilst the bowls had been shivered to pieces,
leaving an edge like an irregular saw blade.
When the bombardment began some fifty officers had assembled together
for dinner in this room, and some of them had already begun to eat.
Most of them had been seated in the western end of the room, and had
thus miraculously escaped death. But at a window in the eastern corner
of the room a surgeon, Dr. Lippe, had sat down with an Adjutant of
the Naval Brigade, and they had already begun their meal when the
bombardment commenced. A shell had burst its way through the lower
half of this very window. Probably the hotel had already been struck
by a couple of shells, and as the two gentlemen had perhaps felt that
they were rather too exposed where they were, it seems that Dr. Lippe
had got up to go away, but he got no further than the other end of the
table when he was literally torn to shreds by the shell, which struck
him right in the back. What was left of his body lay flung forward on
the floor, the head resting on the arms in a pool of blood. All that
was left of the uniform was a few ragged tatters. A piece of one of
his legs was found under a table at the other end of the room, and all
the rest of him, in the form of blood-stains, organs and bowels and
their contents, were spattered about the white walls and ceiling and
the tablecloths. Dr. Schönfelder, who had hurried to the spot, could do
nothing but order the remains of his colleague to be gathered together
in a tablecloth and carried to a mortuary. The Adjutant, who was badly
wounded in the head, was taken to the nearest hospital. A fine-looking
Landsturm soldier, who was in the restaurant together with his son,
told me that all the other diners had got out of it alive, but most
of them had been hurled to the ground by the air pressure, and some
had been cut and bruised by flying splinters. They were dazed for the
moment, but soon recovered.
[Illustration: THE WESTERN END OF DINING-ROOM AT THE “MAJESTIC” SEEN
FROM THE STREET. ONE SHELL HAD CRASHED THROUGH THE UPPER PART OF THE
WINDOW]
Fate is indeed inscrutable. Why should he, who saw the danger and was
on the point of seeking a safer place, be overtaken by death, whilst
we, who stopped to observe the spectacle from another room, were
spared? I was told afterwards that our post had been far from safe. In
a confined space the risk is always far greater than out in the open.
Strictly speaking the gunners at the street corners were far safer
than we. So it came to pass that the visitors at the _Littoral_ had no
reason to complain of the inhospitable treatment they received at the
_Majestic_. If the German naval officers had been well received there,
some of us might well have shared Dr. Lippe’s fate.
[Illustration: A “DIRECT HIT” ON A HOUSE NEAR THE HOTEL LITTORAL]
A great change suddenly came over Ostend with the altered situation.
Counsels were divided as to what to do. Most people seemed to think
that the town would be exposed to renewed firing, but others thought it
unlikely that the night would bring a fresh bombardment. Orders were
issued that nobody, not even the soldiers, was to be allowed on the
front without special permission. All of the frontage looking on to the
sea was to be cleared of people, excepting the guards at the street
corners. In the evening and at night there must be no light whatever
in the windows looking on to the sea. My friends at the _Littoral_
therefore decided to move over to the _Hôtel de la Couronne_ opposite
the railway station, where a room was also prepared for me. Our luggage
was thereupon transferred to our new abode in two baggage carts.
We ourselves remained, however, at the _Littoral_ until the evening,
and some of us sat in the dark to keep Lieut. Haak company, as he had
been ordered to take a battery to the zone beyond Middelkerke. He ate
his supper, smoked his cigarette, bade us good-bye and started off
with his sailors, horses and guns. The rest of us took our supper at
the usual time in the dimly lit lobby, whereupon we said good-bye to
the amiable proprietor and servants, and brought our memorable visit
in the house to an end. From the corner of the _Rue du Cerf_ we cast a
glance westward, where the sky was lit up by the fire from the British
guns. Then we marched off to _La Couronne_ through the dim and silent
streets in a darkness unbroken but for the light from an occasional
lamp invisible from the sea.