AN EXCURSION TO THE FRONT AT LILLE
There came a knock at my door. “_Entrez!_” I cried as neutrally as
possible, and in stepped Duke Adolf Friedrich of Mecklenburg, young
and gay and manly. He held out both hands to me and bade me heartily
welcome to Bapaume. He hoped that I would be pleased with the few days
I was to spend there. “But this room is too small!”--“Oh no, it is
quite big enough.”--“Right. We will take all meals together, for I am
now free for several days and shall be able to take you round and show
you the sights.”
Thereupon we sat and chatted until it was time to get ready for supper
in the officers’ mess. When we entered, they were all assembled. The
large table was presided over by Infantry-General von Plettenberg,
Chief of the Garde-Corps, Adjutant-General to H.M. the Emperor and
an old friend of our own Chief of Staff General Bildt. He was a tall
man, thin and fair, a real soldier and a brave and plucky man who was
never more at home than when the bullets were whizzing round him. Like
Field-marshals von Haeseler and von der Goltz, he had the incurable
habit of always turning up at odd moments where danger loomed largest.
He had a way of walking out to the foremost trenches in the middle of
the night and drawing the French rifle fire at a range of two hundred
metres, and this merely to see how the soldiers were getting on and to
make sure that everything was in the best order. A magnificent trait,
in my opinion, for a plucky leader braces the soldiers’ courage. We
Swedes have always demanded this quality from our leaders. General von
Plettenberg was a man of quick and impulsive temperament, but he was
serious nevertheless, partly perhaps because he had recently lost a son
in the war. At table he would sit wrapped in thought for a long while,
then suddenly his eyes would fill with humour and he would break into
a jest, as when he said that it was bad for the health to go out to
the war, for they shoot so thoughtlessly and lay the guns so carelessly
that at times shells will actually drop at the very spot where one is
standing.
When the General had retired early to go about his night’s work, the
Duke asked a dozen merry and entertaining officers to join him at his
house. There we gathered in the drawing-room, cigars were lighted and
the frothing nectar was poured out. They were all in brilliant spirits.
No gloomy faces among these men, many of whom looked death in the face
every day from trenches and aircraft and on daring scouting duty.
They represented among them many of Germany’s most illustrious
families. The talk was loud and frank and gay, but when an officer of
the General Staff came in straight from the Chief Command and read out
the latest news from the eastern battlefields or from far-away tropical
seas, perfect stillness and silence suddenly came upon the room and
everybody listened intently. After that a more serious mood came over
the assembly and they began to discuss the solemn business of war.
The guests included the young Hereditary Prince Friedrich of
Hohenzollern, a beardless Apollo, related to three royal houses. He is
a nephew of the King of Roumania. In some way or other, I forget how,
he is a kinsman of the unhappy King of Belgium, and the brother-in-law
of no less a person than--ex-King Manuel of Portugal. The Prince was an
exceedingly pleasant young fellow, brimming over with good spirits and
full of jests and pranks, but I never saw him laugh.
[Illustration: HEREDITARY PRINCE FRIEDRICH OF HOHENZOLLERN AND DUKE
ADOLPH FRIEDRICH OF MECKLENBURG]
Another guest was the amiable Herr Schoelvinck, a director of Benz and
Company. He was now serving in the army with the rank of Captain and
was one of the four _parlementaires_ who were despatched to Rheims
to discuss the terms of capitulation. They were taken prisoners and
regarded as spies, and would probably have shared their usual fate
had not the Emperor appealed to the American Ambassador in Paris, who
managed to secure their release. I should say that in time to come they
will have something to tell about the reception accorded them in France.
Another of the four _parlementaires_ was also present at this evening’s
sitting, in the person of volunteer Cleving of the Royal Theatre of
Berlin, a perfectly fascinating man, full of humour, anecdote and
song. An actor with the Iron Cross is probably something out of the
ordinary, but what is there that is not striking on this endless German
front of warriors! Perhaps Cleving’s greatest charm is his genius for
accompanying himself on the guitar after the fashion of our own Sven
Scholander. The two troubadours were to have started out on a singing
tour together this autumn. But Cleving was destined to listen to a very
different kind of music--that of the shrapnel shells, and it was a very
different kind of theatre that he was about to perform in. He did not
grumble at the change. Before he had scattered joy and merriment around
him with his acting and his song, now he also bore the glory which
surrounds a warrior who has fought with honour and bravery for his
country.
Yet the war had not quite been able to part him from his guitar. He had
brought it with him and presently he settled down on a chair in our
little circle and all became silent. French _chansons_, German soldier
ditties of long ago, winter songs from 1530 and “_Die Goldene Kugel_”
with music by himself, all succeeded one another but too rapidly. To
me he seemed to keep the best to the end, when he surprised me with a
selection from our own Swedish lyrical poet Bellman.
But Cleving could sing of Mandalay, too, choosing a far prettier and
more inspiriting tune than the English one, and with other words
than Kipling’s. “But I must have a piano accompaniment for this,” he
declared. The Duke pressed a button and an orderly entered. “Bring in
a piano,” he said, “_Ja wohl, Hoheit_.” In a quarter of an hour the
doors were thrown open and four gigantic soldiers strode in, carrying a
piano. “Where have they found that, I wonder?” I asked. “Oh, I suppose
they’ve conjured it forth from some house in the neighbourhood,” the
Duke answered. And so we got the song about Mandalay, and indescribably
wistful and dreamy it sounded with its alluring refrain of “_Bei den
alten Tempeltoren_” (“By the old temple gate”).
And so our evening passed away. Time crept by imperceptibly, the hour
of midnight chimed from the clock-tower and it was nearly two when for
the last time we intoned the thundering refrain “Trarallalalala” from
one of Cleving’s Swedish adaptations.
What did they think of it, I wonder, those wretched people tossing
restlessly on their beds, though doubtless they had learnt by now the
woes of billeting? Nobody could possibly think that the Germans were
on the point of preparing for a retreat, a rumour which had spread
mysteriously among the population. No drooping spirits or depression,
the precursors of a pending catastrophe, could be discerned among the
troops billeted in Bapaume. No, their mood was such as it always is and
such as it must be in an army marching with an irresistible iron will
to victory and thinking of nothing, speaking of nothing, believing in
nothing but victory all along the line--victory even if the whole world
were to be ransacked for fresh legions to bring against it on this
front where the enemy is either shot down or taken prisoner and carried
off to Döberitz or other internment camps in Germany.
It is this _will_ to win which permeates the entire German army and
makes such a deep impression on the stranger. Enviable, admirable,
happy is the people which united marches on under its country’s
standards when its hour of fate has struck. The dead would cry out
from their lonely graves by the roadsides did not the living carry the
fight to a glorious conclusion; but their sleep is untroubled, for they
sank into it with the firm knowledge that those coming after would
give their lives and all that they held dear with the same steadfast
determination for the sake of home and country and future. No era has
ever witnessed such national greatness as that attained by the German
nation at the present day. It is an uplifting experience to have seen
the Germans in their sublime struggle, and one which can never be
forgotten by those who have been with them in this time.
The mood and spirit of the German army finds expression in song. The
officers sing in their messes, the soldiers on their marches, on their
baggage wagons, in their bivouacs. In the trenches alone there must
be silence. Perhaps the French soldiers, too, sing, but as to the
Russians, their wistful airs have doubtless died away in the soldiers’
throats during the long weary marches backwards and forwards across the
Polish plains.
After breakfast in the mess on October 30th we entered the Duke’s car
to proceed to the field of battle between Lille and Armentières. We
were four all told, the Duke’s chauffeur at the wheel, the Hereditary
Prince of Hohenzollern by his side, looking after the hooter, the Duke
and I. It had been raining and the by-roads were in a horrible state,
whilst the great main roads were slippery and unreliable and a great
wet blanket of fog darkened the whole of north-eastern France.
At first we took the great main road to Arras, which we kept to as
long as we possibly could without exposing ourselves to shell fire.
At Boiry, almost levelled to the ground by fire and shell, we turned
off to the right, but lost our way in the tangle of by-roads, until
at Croisilles we once more got on to the right track. Here the Red
Cross flag was hanging from many houses, and we saw the wounded being
carried into the hospitals. A column of light field howitzers rolled
away towards Arras. In a field some soldiers were placidly digging
potatoes, and near by old men, women and children were gathering in the
sugar-beet, which is an important item of cultivation in these parts.
At last we come out on the great main road between Cambrai and Douai.
The streets of the latter town are filled with civilians and military.
After crossing the _Pont-à-Marcq_ we reach the outer girdle of forts
at Lille, and in a few minutes we drive in through the _Porte Douai_.
The part of the town nearest this gate is in ruins. The Germans, who
at this point were advancing seven or eight battalions strong with
artillery, wanted to spare the town and tried to induce its authorities
to capitulate. The French resisted. Thereupon the Germans unlimbered
a battery inside the gate and shelled the nearest houses and streets.
The _Mairie_ and railway station were also brought under fire, the
latter in order to stop all transport facilities. The town fell without
having suffered any appreciable damage. The quarters exposed to the
bombardment and which I had an opportunity of visiting, have, however,
been reduced to ruins and the part round the _Porte Douai_ presents a
sad picture of desolation. The worst damage had been done by shells
which burst after they had penetrated into the lower part of a house.
The effect of the detonation spreads to all the storeys and everything
collapses utterly. In many cases nothing but skeletons and iron girders
remain. Otherwise Lille is quite untouched. One can pass through one
street after the other from beginning to end without noticing any trace
of shell fire. In the central parts of the town the traffic is almost
animated and there are plenty of people about. Young women of not even
doubtful virtue and dressed in almost the latest fashion flit about
like butterflies on the pavements. Many shops and hotels are open, and
seem to be carrying on as if nothing has happened. The only reminder
of war, apart from the wrecked quarters of the town, are the German
infantry, cavalry, guns and transport trains.
[Illustration: STREETS AT THE PORT DOUAI WHICH HAVE SUFFERED THROUGH
THE BOMBARDMENT]
[Illustration: OF SOME HOUSES THERE IS ONLY THE SKELETON LEFT]
Meanwhile we drive through Lille and in passing I throw a glance at
the statue of the noble Pasteur, who spent three years of his life
in the scientific faculty of the town, and of the brave Joan of Arc,
clad in armour and with her standard in her hand, sitting tall and
straight and glorious on her gilded steed. Our road now runs along
the canals, crammed with lighters, and after swinging off to the
west through deserted suburbs we emerge into the smiling countryside
slashed in all directions with meandering paths and by-ways. We have
now left the village of Lomme behind us and proceed in the direction
of Armentières. Little groves and coppices, parks and gardens, farms
and villages dot the road on both sides. The road we are travelling by
is narrow and badly cut up through the rain. We drive past a skilfully
masked battery, working at full pressure. From the enemy’s side the
booming of cannon comes nearer and nearer, but is still outvoiced by
the eternal whirring hum of the car. It is only when we slacken down
or stop that the thunder sounds alarmingly near. By a farm--or perhaps
it is a modest château--we come to a clump of trees as yet unshorn of
their leaves by the autumn winds. We drive at full speed past this
spot, which can only be about one hundred metres north of the road.
Fortunately we espy in time a young lieutenant with his two or three
men in the shadow of the trees, making the most frantic signs to us and
shouting “halt” as loudly as their lungs permit.
We pull up as sharply as the tearing pace allows and drive over a
marshy meadow up to the lieutenant, who is standing at a table littered
with maps, compasses, pens, field-glasses and other paraphernalia. He
explained that it was a matter of life and death to proceed a step
further in that direction. I felt almost inclined to believe him, for
it sounded to my ears as if we were surrounded by fire on all sides.
The nearest German infantry positions were ahead of us along a line
running from north-north-east to south-south-west, and we had German
artillery in front of us, beside us and behind us. The battery which
we had just driven past was firing salvo after salvo, and we heard the
shells whining over the tree-tops. In front of us the French batteries
were pounding away in the north, west and south-west. I felt as if
I were enclosed in a ring of fiery throats all spitting out amiable
pleasantries at one another.
Near the coppice from which the young lieutenant was making his
observations stood a 15-cm. howitzer battery. It was extremely
interesting to note the skilful manner in which the guns had been
concealed among the trees and bushes. They could not even be seen at
a very short distance, and I had to come right up to them to realise
where and how they were hidden among the boughs and branches. As an
extra safeguard they were partly covered over with leaves so as not
to be seen from above. The ammunition stores, huts for the gun crews
and provisions were as effectively hidden. For protection against the
enemy’s fire the gunners had dug the customary underground dwellings.
At the present moment they were very busy attending to their guns. “Why
don’t they shoot?” I asked. In answer the lieutenant pointed to the
south-west. “Over there, above those trees, you notice a French airman,
and it is probably his business to try to locate this battery. We have
been shooting from here and have probably done some damage on the
French side. Now they are on the prowl to find us, but so far without
success. The enemy shells are bursting just now at only 500 metres to
the south-west of us. Up to now they have not reached us, but they are
getting nearer and may hit our battery at any moment. If we were to
fire now whilst the aviator is in the air, their fire would be on us in
no time.”
[Illustration: A 15 CM. HOWITZER BATTERY]
As he spoke the airman described circle after circle above the covert.
As long as we remained at the observation post he kept circling over
the same spot. It was clear that he was seeking the answer to some
question. Perhaps he thought that the projection of his line of flight
on the earth’s surface would give the confines of a spot which might
profitably be shelled by the enemy. Our friends fancied they had seen
him signal with flags and with white and red lights. The batteries
which the Germans had opposed to them at this part of the front were
all said to be British.
The lieutenant and his men at the observation post and battery followed
the aviator’s movements with the closest attention, and special pickets
were posted under the trees to stop anyone from moving in the vicinity
when the aviator had his machine turned in such a way that he had a
free outlook in our direction. But when he swung slowly round and
turned his back on us, we were able for the moment to move more freely.
However, the circles he described were small, and it was all that we
could do to hurry from the battery to the observation post and vice
versa before he swung round again and we ran the risk of detection.
The gun crew were therefore taking it easy. Beside one of the guns the
men were eating their breakfast, beside another a man was reading aloud
from a newspaper. I took a couple of pictures of them to their great
delight.
We then took the opportunity, when the airman’s back was turned, to
hurry back across the meadow to our car under the shelter of the
trees. It was still too early to go home, and we thought we might make
another trip in the direction of the firing line to the north-westward;
accordingly we turned back to the outskirts of Lille and took the road
to St. André, Verlinghem and Quesnoy. At St. André, where a local
command was quartered, we halted awhile, the Duke asking the General
how far we might proceed in that direction. He thought Quesnoy and a
little way beyond it might be quite safe. With a little luck, we might
even see the Austrian 30.5-cm. mortars in action.
We drove off in the direction indicated and passed several large supply
columns proceeding to the front to provide the troops with fresh food
and ammunition. Patrols showed us the way to one of the Austrian
batteries. The road was very mediocre; its centre was stone-paved and
at each side was a belt about three metres wide without any sign of
paving and now converted into a sea of mud. The traffic was lively, and
it was _impossible_ to drive fast. Presently we reached the ammunition
column of the mortar battery. The fighting battery with its two pieces
of ordnance was ahead of the column, which had halted, occupying the
right half of the road, so we left the car and proceeded on foot.
The road lay a good metre higher than the ground to the right. From the
left, or south-west, the enemy shells kept dropping quite close to us.
Constantly fresh little white tufts of cloud kept forming in the sky
and out of them flashed a spurt of flame. This was a signal that the
zone of fire was spreading towards us, and we bent down instinctively
to take such cover as the road and battery-lorries afforded. We were
right under fire and might be hit at any moment. The _Deckung_ we had
was altogether insufficient, for the wagons stood at several metres
from one another. The further we advanced the denser the little tufts
of wool in the sky seemed to be. Then we met an officer who told us
that the Austrian battery was not yet working and that it would be
more than risky to continue in the direction we had taken. Probably
the whereabouts of the ammunition column had been discovered through
aviators. Although the enemy could not see it, they had trained the
fire from several batteries on the sector where it was bound to be. The
uncanny whistling sounds kept piercing the air; and so we thought it
wisest to leave this dangerous spot.
Just as we were getting near our car and had reached the road, we were
honoured with a salvo from an English battery. The four shots followed
at short intervals, and all of them seemed to be seeking our car.
The first shrapnel shell burst some ten metres above ground just in
front of us and the car, and I had a very distinct sensation of being
within its zone of dispersion and wondered that I did not feel a sudden
twinge in some part of my body. The other two shells burst a little
to the side of the first. Then came the fourth--a devilishly impudent
fellow! He came straight at us and the death-whistle rang in my ears.
He arrived from the south-west. The air seemed to hiss and splutter and
burn where he tore along. The whistling sound came nearer, passed just
over our heads and died away behind us. We all three bent down so to
bring our heads a metre nearer to the ground. This movement is entirely
instinctive, and even officers who have been many times under fire
resort to this device. But in time one gets rid of the habit, realising
how little it avails. I have subsequently heard artillery officers
say that when the whining sound seems closest and one thinks that the
projectile is upon one, it has in reality passed by. We wondered at
what height above us this shell had passed. The Duke estimated the
distance at eight or ten metres, the Prince at fifteen at the most. To
me it seemed so near that I almost expected to see my fur cap singed
by the fire. But the most remarkable thing about this amiable greeting
from the British was that whilst the three first shells burst, this
fourth one never exploded at all. Had it done so we should in all
probability have been flung to the ground. The projectile passed by us
whole and entered the soft, wet earth some distance behind us.
[Illustration: WELL-MASKED GUNS]
[Illustration: GUNNERS STUDYING THE NEWS]
As a rule there is a moment of quiet after a salvo. With a car, or
at the worst with a horse handy, one has time to seek a safer spot,
provided that the enemy artillery is aiming at the same point as
before or one is so hardened after one’s previous baptisms of fire as
to take no notice at all. We might now reasonably take it for granted
that we should be allowed a respite, and thought it safer to take this
chance of withdrawing some distance. The Duke, who struck me as an
exceptionally calm and fearless man, remarked that he did not want to
have my life and limbs on his conscience, especially as I happened to
be his guest.
So we jumped in and drove off to Lille again. To the right of us the
shells kept singing in the tree-tops, and one of them gave a wonderful
pyrotechnic display as it burst. Presently we met an ammunition column
which forced us off the track into the mire. As long as we could drive
straight on, things were all right, but when the column had passed and
we tried to climb on to the stone paving again, the wheels skidded
and the car got thoroughly stuck in the soup of mud. It almost looked
as if we were to have more compliments paid us by the British. In the
end there was no alternative but to get out of the car, which thus
lightened was able to climb once more on to the firm surface. Thereupon
we got to Lille without any further mishap.
After dining we drove back to Bapaume in pelting rain, arriving soon
after dark. The Duke had a party in the evening, and the incomparable
Cleving was there with his guitar, accompanied by Herr Kummer, one of
the four _parlementaires_ of Rheims.
[Illustration: The country round Lille and Ypres.]