TWO MORE DAYS ON THE CHANNEL COAST
The night was calm and still, and when in the morning of the 24th
October I was called by Dr. Schönfelder’s _Bursche_ (servant), he
assured me that no shells had fallen on Ostend whilst I had been
asleep. But the roar of the artillery duel over at Nieuport was
nevertheless the first sound that greeted my ears--an incessant
hammering at the last remaining little corner of the Kingdom of
Belgium. At midday it was reported that a couple of British ships had
been hit, whereupon the entire squadron vanished in the fog.
The day was spent in visiting the troops and transports bound for the
Yser Canal front, the wounded in hospitals and the Belgian prisoners
in the Kursaal. The latter were but a small contingent of some ten
men. They, too, had been told that the Russians were only a hundred
kilometres from Berlin. What they said _en passant_ about the British
policy in Belgium and its result, I simply cannot repeat.
The proprietor of the _Littoral_, where I looked in for a moment in
passing, gave the following details of recent happenings. When the
Germans were pushing forward against Antwerp, numberless bands of
fugitives kept swarming into Ostend. The hotels were crammed and there
was a life and bustle in the town such as had never been equalled even
in the season. One ship after the other carried the fleeing inhabitants
to England and France. The great majority went to Folkestone, the
better-off to Eastbourne, Brighton and Bournemouth. But at Dunkerque no
one was allowed to land. The vessels arriving there had to continue to
Havre. Any sort of craft was good enough, even sailing boats, launches
and row-boats. The first person who fled to England was a gentleman
from Brussels who had already withdrawn to Ostend with his family. When
a German _Taube_ on September 24th dropped a couple of bombs over that
town, he interpreted this as a message and a warning that the Germans
were on the way. And so he fled precipitately across to London with
his family.
From about that time the number of fugitives increased daily. They
came in ever-increasing throngs from Antwerp, Ghent, Bruges, Termonde
and elsewhere. On October 12th the last shipload of fugitives left the
town, and after swarming with life like a beehive, it now became empty
and deserted. A few members of the Belgian Cabinet remained, but on the
13th they, too, left by a Government steamer, the _Aventi_. They had
been staying at the _Majestic_ and _Littoral_--the latter had also been
the residence of His Excellency Vandervelde.
By the 14th and 15th of October there were no steamers left at Ostend
for the fresh bands of fugitives who kept on arriving, and anything in
the nature of fishing-smacks was eagerly snapped up. The reports of
the advance of the German legions became louder and more insistent,
and the civil population which remained was in a state of the tensest
excitement, expecting to see them march in at any moment. Two hours
before the first Germans appeared the last Belgian lancer, without
helmet or sword, flung himself on his horse and galloped down the
stone-paved road towards Middelkerke. The German “advance guard” was
not formidable--it consisted of two cyclists and a horseman. It was
then half-past ten in the morning, Belgian time. The last fishing-smack
with sixty passengers had just cast off its moorings, but was compelled
to return. The next few days saw the arrival of increasing bands
of German troops, and then came the occurrences which I have just
described.
Now, on the 24th of October, the situation at Ostend was, to say the
least, interesting. Everybody expected with imperturbable calm that
something remarkable would happen. The possibility of an attempted
landing was not overlooked. The Germans were prepared for it, at any
rate. Anyone who had attempted such a step would have met with a
warm reception, for large quantities of troops had been massed along
the coast. At our hotel they realised, it seems, fairly plainly what
was on foot. The stairs were thronged at all hours of the day with
officers and men, and outside my door I heard late at night hurried
conversations about dressings and bandages, ambulances and stretchers,
and fresh batches of wounded who had been brought into the town and
lodged in deserted empty houses.
On Sunday the 25th of October the weather was brilliantly fine and as
warm as a summer’s day, but a thin film of vapour lay over the sea like
a delicate veil.
Captain Bess suggested a motor trip to Haak’s battery among the dunes
beyond Mariakerke. So we started off down the _Rue de Tourout_, dodged
about awhile in the open country and finally found our friend Haak
amongst his guns. His battery, consisting of four _French_ 7.5-cm.
guns, looked a very motley lot. The guns themselves had been taken at
Maubeuge, the horses were Belgian, and the harness and saddlery English.
[Illustration: A MAUBEUGE GUN DOING DUTY AT MIDDELKERKE]
In order, without being seen from the sea, to reach the position--well
concealed behind the crest of the dune--it had been necessary to pass
through a communicating trench which led up to it. We were thus fairly
safe and did not have to expose ourselves to any objectionable missiles
which might be thrown ashore from the English destroyers. The guns
with their grey-coloured shields were also practically invisible from
outside, as there was nothing but a small embrasure in the dune wall to
indicate where they stood.
[Illustration: GROUP BESIDE ONE OF THE GUNS OF LIEUT. HAAK’s BATTERY.
(FURTHEST TO THE LEFT ARE CAPT.-LIEUT. BESS AND LIEUT. HAAK)]
Officers and men had dug out caves for themselves, some covered with
boards, some, for the lack of something better, with sticks and twigs.
It looked quite homelike in their abodes. The sand of the dunes was
soft to lie upon, albeit a little damp on account of the advanced
autumn.
In the ridge of the dune they had contrived a little niche with boarded
floor, where an exceptionally powerful battery telescope had been
adjusted on its stand in such a way that only the lenses showed above
the crest. With the aid of this telescope we were able to scan the
mist-enshrouded sea and the sandy, sunlit coast.
We had just settled down on the edge of the communicating trench,
where we sat as close together as in a crowded tramcar, when suddenly
an officer up at the battery shouted, “_Deckung, Flieger!_” (“Cover,
aviator!”) We looked up, and right above us soared an aeroplane at a
very great height. “An English biplane,” somebody said. “No, I think
I can see the Iron Cross under the wings,” answered another. But a
third, lying on his back, with glasses focussed right on the thing,
said quietly: “I can see the red English streamer.” We were then told
to keep absolutely still. Everyone had to remain where he stood and
no one was allowed to move. Otherwise the airman might have noticed
the movement and bombs might be dropped over the guns. Now and
again he disappeared among the little white clouds; the rascal was
evidently following the coast to see what the Germans were up to in
the neighbourhood of Ostend. When he was at his nearest, we could hear
the droning of his engine. As usual, it was with a certain feeling of
satisfaction that I saw him diminish in size and gradually vanish.
Once more we took our seat on the edge of the trench and were just
being threatened with coffee when Haak, sweeping the misty horizon with
his telescope, reported that a destroyer was in sight. We went up to
have a look. Quite right; the outline of the boat was quite distinct,
though faint. The distance was gauged at three kilometres. Things
suddenly became livelier. One could not tell exactly what might happen.
The coast batteries had fired on British ships earlier in the day and
it was thought that two of them had been hit, seeing that the squadron
withdrew. Perhaps it was now returning at full strength. We had reason
to think that the ships were receiving heliographic signals from the
coast. Yesterday a couple of spies had been caught, who could not give
a satisfactory account of themselves and who, if convicted, would land
in the churchyard.
So the order rang out to man the guns. The men scuttled off to their
posts like as many rats. “Ready to fire!” The first shot rang out, and
the other three followed at short intervals. We could see where the
shells struck from the cascade of spray that formed on striking the
water, but could not tell whether any hits had been scored. In any
case, the destroyer remained where she was. She seemed to take it very
quietly but could not tell where the fire came from, and her crew had
long been inured to the rough music.
[Illustration: GUN CREW GETTING READY TO FIRE ON A BRITISH DESTROYER]
On the way back we stopped a moment at Mariakerke and peered out from
behind the cover of a house. A battery further west had also begun
to fire and the little waterspouts were clearly discernible. But the
destroyer’s guns had not seemed anxious to join in the tune and the
boat soon disappeared in the mist.
This had, however, given me an opportunity of seeing how a coast
battery is worked and what sort of a time the officers and men have of
it. Constant watchfulness day and night! “Ever ready!” That is their
motto. The discipline is of the very strictest and the officers expect
the most absolute and immediate obedience to their orders. The result
is that the understanding between officers and men is always the very
best. Such things as sour faces, grudging steps or disinclination to
obey an order are absolutely unknown. Anyone showing symptoms of this
kind would be regarded with contempt by everybody, and his life would
be made unbearable by his own comrades. The German language has a
special word, _Drückeberger_, for individuals of that type, but the
type itself is extraordinarily rare. It is no secret how disciplinary
shortcomings are punished in war time. But it is not in order to avoid
punishment that the German forces on land and sea do their duty. It is
because they all have a common end in view, Germany’s salvation in this
terrible crisis, Germany’s victory over her enemies in every part of
the world, Germany’s future and honour.
On the way home we met an ammunition column clattering along at full
speed. The drivers were riding at full “manœuvre trot” and the horses
of some wagons had even broken into a gallop. The wagons with their
murderous load rattled heavily and noisily over the stone-paved road.
It was easy to tell that the men well knew there was no time to lose
and that some coast battery was in urgent need of fresh ammunition.
These columns, when really and seriously on the move, are a joy and a
feast to the eye.
A little further on we passed a contingent of fifty French prisoners
who were being taken into safe custody under a German guard. The
fighting had shorn their red and blue uniforms of their lustre, and the
men themselves looked pale and tired. What a contrast to the marines
and gunners we had just seen! But then joyous faces are not to be
expected from prisoners of war.
In the afternoon, accompanied by Bess and Schönfelder, I made another
excursion along the ideal automobile road which skirts the coast
north-eastward, just inside the long line of dunes.
[Illustration: HALF OF CAPT.-LIEUT. BESS AND THE WHOLE OF THE AUTHOR ON
THE WAY TO BLANKENBERGHE]
In the magnificent pavilion of the Royal (Knocke) Golf Club we
inspected a platoon of marine infantry, who seemed to be having the
time of their lives. _Via_ Venduyne we went on to Blankenberghe, where
the sea promenade resembled that of Ostend, except that the population
had remained and in addition had been reinforced by numberless refugees
from Brussels and elsewhere. The hotels had been taken possession of by
well-to-do people, and the beach was filled with a motley crowd of
men, women and young girls; they all seemed more or less to be enjoying
themselves. We met a couple of naval officers, among them a cheery and
amusing corvette commander named Mönch. He told us that no British
warships had been seen in this direction. The sea had probably been
mined in this part. Not far north-east of Blankenberghe lies Zeebrugge,
the port of Bruges. The two towns are connected by a canal, which might
have been laid out with a ruler.
[Illustration: DR. SCHÖNFELDER AND THE AUTHOR ON THE DUNES AT OSTEND]
In the gloaming we drove past the great Belgian hospital on the eastern
outskirts of Ostend. A funeral was taking place in its little cemetery.
Several officers and a number of men were standing round the grave. The
naval chaplain had just finished speaking and the band was playing a
funeral march. The funeral was that of Chief-Surgeon Dr. Lippe, whose
career had been ended yesterday by the shell from the British destroyer.
In due course we got back once more to _La Couronne_ and assembled as
usual for supper at eight o’clock. The restaurant is neither as large
nor as fine as at the _Littoral_, and we missed above all the drowsy
music of the swell breaking on the beach. Our former large company
has now been split up into several little groups. Bess, Schönfelder,
Kübler and I stick together as before. The clock strikes ten, we dawdle
over our coffee and cigars discussing the war, reciting Kipling and
exchanging anecdotes. We laugh till our sides ache over Schönfelder’s
desperate efforts to repeat quickly the words: “_Didon dîna, dit-on,
du dos d’un dodu dindon._” But he got his revenge by confronting me
with the following awkward problem: What does the following sentence
sound like when spelt backward: “_Ein Neger mit Gazelle zagt im Regen
nie_”?[27]
[27] Spells the same backwards.
Such was the mood at our table, and such is the mood of the fighting
men all along the front. Anxiety as to the result, nervousness,
overwork, fear, are terms of which they do not know the meaning.
Nothing made a deeper impression on me than this wonderful calm,
this absolute certainty of victory everywhere, this incredible
superabundance of physical energy and of matériel in men, horses and
iron. It seemed to me that the German armies on the western front had
not yet realised the irresistible strength which they had at their
disposal. The apparent pause was a link in a strategic chain. When
the moment for the great decision arrived, the army would still be
in possession of its full collective strength. As yet everything was
running smoothly and easily, as if it had been merely a matter of some
well-prepared, gigantic autumn manœuvre.
As we were sitting there chatting, a petty officer from the Naval
Brigade entered and announced to Dr. Schönfelder that fresh transports
of wounded had just arrived from the vicinity of the Yser Canal. They
had been accommodated temporarily in restaurants and public-houses and
any other vacant houses that were available. The two doctors at once
rose and said good night. To my question whether I might join them
they said “by all means.” So we threw our rain-coats over us, for it
was pouring in torrents, and marched out into the pitch-black night
accompanied by the petty officer.
At first he took us to a moderately lighted low-class eating house. The
doctors threw off their tunics and put on their white operating coats.
A couple of assistants from the naval hospital section were there to
help them and had brought dressings, instruments and drugs in bags and
cases. A table was brought out into the middle of the floor under the
lights with a cushion covered with a towel for a pillow. “Bring in the
first man,” ordered Dr. Schönfelder. A little, fair-haired, sturdily
built man was carried in and placed on the table. “Name?”--“Korte.”
“Regiment?”--“Eighth company of 35th Infantry Reserve.” “Where is your
wound?”--“In the left calf.” His breeches, fitting tight over his leg,
were slit open. The first dressing, saturated with pus and clotted
blood and stiffened into a solid lump, was removed with scissors and
knife. The wound looked very unpleasant, the flesh hung in shreds, the
skin had been torn away and a nasty smell issued from the open sore.
“Please look away,” said the Doctor as the soldier tried to look at his
wound, and I did my best to attract his attention. Powder of iodoform
was sprinkled upon the wound, a few little plugs of gauze were pressed
in with pincers in order to keep the wound open for the escape of the
pus and to induce the growth of fresh skin. Shreds of dead tissue were
removed and a fresh dressing was applied. The man had been wounded four
days previously at a new bridge over the Yser Canal. It was a splinter
from a shrapnel shell that had hit him.
“Next man!” He came in limping, supported by two ambulance men. His
bullet had caught him in the head, his skull was cracked, but the
brain was evidently uninjured. He was a wonderfully plucky chap.
According to himself it was nothing to speak of, and he deferentially
asked the doctor to be so kind as to see that he was put right as soon
as possible as he wanted to get out again. He seemed a little peculiar,
however, and seemed to have had a terrible shock. The hair was cut and
shaved away, the wound was washed with sublimate and benzine. Tincture
of iodine was painted on with a brush and a piece of gauze with
iodoform applied. Thereupon he was bandaged so thoroughly that only
mouth, nose and eyes were free.
“Next man!” He was a Fleming in Belgian uniform. He had been shot
through the seat, and was treated with the same care as the German
soldiers. An ashen paleness lay over his features and he looked tired
and done-up, but seemed very grateful for the attention given him as he
was carried away from the table.
And so it went on. Every time that “next man” was called, another
wounded soldier was brought in for treatment, I had thought of making a
note of the cases, but they were too many and were dealt with in double
shifts by the two doctors.
When the whole lot had been seen to, we went out guided by a lantern.
The rain had formed great puddles in the street. “_Wer da?_” cried a
sentry, but let us pass when he saw we were doctors. We were now taken
to a house of three stories where every room was occupied. The few beds
there were, had been requisitioned, and when they were all gone the
wounded men were laid on the floor. Most of them were in a deep and
heavy sleep, dead-tired after all they had gone through. Some snored
in different keys, it was rest, rest, rest that they wanted above
everything. Now and then we heard a deep sigh, but no groaning, no
complaining. The French and Belgians are as submissive and as patient
as the Germans.
They are too many to be taken down to the emergency operating theatre.
The doctors go from bed to bed, and now and then a light is projected
to display the wound, which is treated in most cases in the way I have
described. The broken victims of war show no fear of the doctor or of
his intentions. On the contrary, they are glad that he is willing to
help them. Clenched teeth and grimaces alone show what they are going
through. Never a sound of complaint, never a word about the pain,
never an entreaty to be left in peace. In the eye of some of the badly
wounded who will be cripples for life I sometimes seem to read the
reflection: shall I ever see father and mother and brothers and sisters
again, shall I ever settle down again in our quiet home as of yore,
shall I ever go back to the workshop, to the mine, to the dock, to the
tram, to the field, or whatever may have been his former occupation.
The torn, dirty, soiled and sooty grey uniforms bore eloquent witness
to the hardships they had gone through.
We pass from house to house among the victims of war’s harvest. We were
told it was the Belgians who had been attacking--a hopeless struggle
for the last little strip which still remains to them of their country.
Finally we came into a room containing among other wounded a soldier
who had been shot through the left hand. “How do you feel?” asks the
doctor. “Oh, pretty well, though it hurts a bit.”--“Come with me down
into the bar; it is lighter there and we shall see what can be done.”
A chair is brought for the soldier, the dressing is taken off, his
hand is blue and swollen. “Will he keep his hand?” I whisper into the
doctor’s ear. “I hope so, it is not a very serious wound.” The bullet
has struck him as he was lying down in his trench and only had the left
hand exposed. Whilst the wound is being examined, I ask the soldier:
“Where are you from?”--“I am a Hamburg man, but live in Berlin.” “What
is your occupation?”--“Actor,” he answers with pathetic humour. “It is
a long way from the stage to the trench,” I remark, and he nods as he
smiles his approval. By the light of the lamp I discerned a handsome,
refined, clean-shaven face with Roman nose and solemn blue eyes. One
could see that he was thinking of life’s great tragedy. Probably he had
never played a better part than that which he had just performed out
on the battlefield with the lurid glare of the shells for footlights.
“_Gute Besserung!_” we said and patted him on the shoulder. “_Danke
vielmals_,” he replied, and went up to his bed again.
Now the round was over and we went out into the night. The rain was
pelting down, but the sound of it was drowned by the thunder of the
cannonade which after an hour’s cessation had now since 10 o’clock
become more violent than ever. No human beings were to be seen, only
here and there a sentry with the rain pouring off his greatcoat. As
we passed St. Peter’s and St. Paul’s the clocks struck twelve slowly
and deliberately. It was a terrible night for the soldiers in the open
trenches, which must by now have been half-full of water. I could not
take my thoughts off them as I entered the light and cosy warmth of
_La Couronne_. But ask them if they would like to change with you, and
the gruffness of the answer will surprise you: “No, thanks, warm beds
there will be enough of at home when the fighting is over. Just now we
are out on the country’s business, and in the trenches we stop even
if we are up to the neck in water and if it rains brimstone from the
heavens!” Such things as sentimentality and fuss are utterly unknown to
the German soldiers. They _know_ what they are doing and they want to
do nothing but their duty.
October 26th was my last day in Ostend. As nothing startling seemed
about to happen in the immediate future, I thought I might as well
return to Brussels, but now Bess came with the suggestion that we
should take a little trip to the stores and depots in the inner
harbour, to which I readily assented--Brussels, after all, was only a
couple of hours away and could wait. The stores contained all sorts of
spare parts for ships and their engines, plates, propellers, screws,
cables, compasses, a surfeit of useful things which might be wanted
at any moment. We likewise inspected a training-ship now used for
accommodating troops.
Just as we were busy over our inspection, we heard four sharp reports
from the sea. It was not the usual firing in the west, the sound came
from the north and the source of it could not be far distant. Is it
the English torpedo-boats? we wondered as we hurried into our car and
drove down towards the beach past the lighthouse. On the way we met a
naval officer who told us that the reports came from mines, which had
detonated on their own account. Some ten such explosions had been heard
during the night, and the waterspouts thrown up by the four we heard
had been visible from the coast. If we cared and had patience enough
to sit and wait among the dunes, the lieutenant had no doubt that we
should see some more.
So we went down to the belt of dunes north-west of the lighthouse,
where some men of the naval brigade were busy digging in a battery of
guns mounted on a temporary plank emplacement. They were also digging
trenches in the dunes for themselves and their ammunition boxes. Bess
showed the soldiers how to mask the guns in the best possible way with
grass and plants.
We had not been there very long before a dark column of water flung
itself into the air on the horizon. We estimated its height at thirty
metres and the distance, calculated from the interval between sight
and sound, at 5.6 kilometres. The column was almost black, as if the
water had been mixed with slime from the bottom and resembled a naphtha
fountain in the Balakhani. We at once sent a man to fetch chart and
compasses. I myself had my kodak ready, but was too late to snap this
first explosion.
However, it was not many minutes before the next water column spurted
up from the surface of the sea in the same north-north-westerly
direction as the other and accompanied by the same deafening report.
This time I was just quick enough to get a picture. A moment later two
other mines exploded, this time to the north-north-east and only about
3.3 kilometres away. We waited for two more explosions at 3 and 4.3
kilometres respectively, and had then had enough.
[Illustration: A SELF-IGNITING MINE EXPLODES]
The bearings of the six mines were pricked on the chart and in this
way the officers obtained the necessary data for determining the
position of the mine-field. Possibly it extended right across the
Channel. The mines we had noticed exploded, curiously enough, in
couples. They had clearly been laid in double or multiple lines and had
been equipped with time fuses. What the time was, we could not tell,
perhaps a week, perhaps longer. Mines of this type are employed for
the temporary blockade of a harbour, which it is intended to attack on
a more suitable occasion. But now, as it happened, the only creatures
incommoded were the fishes in the sea. The Germans, on the other hand,
were very glad to know where the mine-field lay and that the fairway
was now clear.
After dinner I learnt that a motor-car had arrived from Ghent with
one of Krupp’s engineers, and was to return immediately to that city.
Captain Jakobson, one of my friends, arranged for me to avail myself
of this opportunity, so I made ready to depart. Good-bye to Tägert,
Bess, Jakobson and Kübler and greetings to all the others--these
splendid and capable fellows who had been my companions during these
never-to-be-forgotten days and with whom I shared the memory of
dangers happily survived. Then off I went at the usual break-neck speed.
At Ghistelles I stopped for three-quarters of an hour to see
Colonel-General von Beseler, one of my old friends from the
_Gesellschaft für Erdkunde_ (Geographical Society) in Berlin. We had
much to talk about, and he related many episodes from the last few
days’ fighting on the Yser Canal. Of the result he had as little doubt
as anyone else and reiterated time after time: “We _must_ win!” Von
Beseler is one of the finest generals of the German army. It was he who
took Antwerp and he was now commanding the extreme right flank nearest
the sea. As a man he is congenial and fascinating.
I continue my journey. A convoy of French prisoners is being taken
into the interior--marine infantry, my chauffeur tells me. The road
hereabouts abounds in inns and public-houses, I wonder how many. It
would have given me something to do to count the inn signs by the
roadside. At Bruges we did not stop; at Ghent we drove up to the Base
Commandant’s office, in a narrow street, flying the German flag. A
couple of obliging officers immediately offered to assist me, but for
the moment all I wanted was to get to Brussels; if possible, I added,
I should be very grateful for the loan of a car to the capital. Yes,
there would be no difficulty about that, they assured me. General Jung
would be sure to arrange it for me. So my name was taken in to the
General and a minute later he came dashing out and greeted me with the
utmost warmth, for he remembered me well from a fête in Posen where I
had lectured in February, 1910.
“But there cannot be any question of your starting off just yet,” said
the General. “You must first sup with us at seven and a car will be
ready for you at nine.”
I did not need much pressing and spent a couple of delightful hours
with these officers. At nine to the minute the car stood ready. It was
a covered car, which was thought safer at night, and had a couple of
exceptionally powerful head-lamps. And, best of all, I had a delightful
Austrian lieutenant to keep me company--one of those in charge of
the Austrian 30.5-cm. mortars in use on the western front. It was
surpassingly interesting to listen to all that he had gone through. The
ninety minutes which separated us from Brussels were all too quickly
over.