TRENCH LIFE
Saturday the 31st of October was spent quietly and peacefully. Duke
Adolf Friedrich conducted me in the morning to the château of Vélu east
of Bapaume. We followed the great main road to Cambrai a few kilometres
and then struck off on to a by-road leading to this handsome château,
built in 1719 and taken over in 1883 by a gentleman named Goër. It is
still tenanted by a Madame Goër. The magnificent apartments were still
haunted by an old French butler, and in the dining-room the table had
just been laid for the officers who had been lucky enough to have found
this comfortable billet. The house is surrounded by a large park, and
we wandered up and down its neglected alleys on the softest of carpets
of decaying leaves. Here we strolled and chatted about our travels in
Africa and Asia, and about the new colouring that the world’s map would
certainly be given at the end of this war--when we were disturbed by
the rattling of heavy rifle fire in the neighbourhood. We at once made
for an open space in the direction of the firing, and espied a French
airman who was being hotly attacked by the German infantry, but seemed
entirely unperturbed by the interest he was arousing.
On our return to Bapaume we dined at the mess with General von
Plettenberg and his usual set. Among the company was the famous
surgeon, Professor Hildebrand of Göttingen, a sociable, learned and
altogether charming gentleman, and an old friend of the family of the
late Professor Gyldén of Stockholm. Professor Hildebrand told me among
many other interesting things that the cardinal principle of modern
surgery in the field is not to amputate except in cases of the utmost
urgency. Formerly arms and legs were amputated in a far larger measure
than at present; now the surgeons attempt to save all that there is a
possible chance of saving. Hildebrand was one of the inner circle which
often foregathered at the Duke’s house of an evening.
The excellent light of the early afternoons just at this time tempted
me to take several photographs, one or two of which I am reproducing
here. All through the day heavy ammunition and supply columns of all
kinds kept marching through the town, and the civilian element was
almost drowned by the military. In the course of my walks through the
town I witnessed many fascinating scenes of soldiers’ life.[28] Here
are a few Landsturm soldiers sitting in a circle peeling potatoes which
are afterwards to be cooked in a bucket over a coal fire. Others have
rigged up a temporary awning over benches and tables, where they are
writing their _Feldpostkarten_ home to parents and sweethearts. Another
little coterie is sipping coffee beside a kitchen wagon. In a meadow
stands a threshing machine which had just finished work for the day;
the grain is being loaded into one cart and the straw into another.
Close by an open-air barber has rigged up his shop by the side of a
train wagon. An orderly comes leading a couple of officers’ horses, and
in a field four Bavarian Landsturm men are lazily blowing clouds of
smoke out of their enormous pipes.
[28] One photograph shows a street in which the only civilians are two
young ladies.
[Illustration: TWO YOUNG LADIES ARE THE ONLY CIVILIANS TO BE SEEN]
Presently we come to the little square adorned by Faidherbe’s statue,
and further honoured by the presence of the Townhall with its handsome
façade, supported by a Gothic arcade. Here a notice board has been
posted up so that the latest war news may be studied, for a newspaper
is now being published at Bapaume composed and printed at the Town
_imprimerie_, and called _B(apaumer) Z(eitung) am Mittag_. Herr Cleving
is its editor. Its circulation is six hundred copies. The paper is not
large, only one page, in large type on thin yellow paper. I reproduce
below a text of the number of October 27th, which I have selected
because it also refers to the bombardment of Ostend, although with a
wrong date:
(1) “The fighting on the Yser-Ypres Canal front is exceedingly violent.
In the north we have succeeded in crossing the canal with a strong
force. East of Ypres and south-west of Lille our troops have advanced
slowly after severe fighting. Ostend was yesterday bombarded by the
English ships.
(2) “In the Argonne our troops have likewise made progress. Several
machine guns have been captured. We have taken a number of prisoners
and two French aeroplanes have been brought down.
(3) “East and north-east of Arras the enemy has received
reinforcements. Nevertheless our troops have succeeded in making
progress at several points. About five hundred British, including a
Colonel and twenty-eight other officers have been taken prisoners.
(4) “West of Augustovo the Russians have renewed their attacks which
have all been repulsed.
(5) “At Ivangorod 1800 Russians have been taken prisoners. South-east
of Przemysl the Austrians have scored several successes,” and finally:
“Copies for distribution among the various units may be obtained from
the Commandant of the lines of communication.”
That is all. There is nothing else to read in the number of October
27th, 1914. Short and concise sentences, written with military
precision, and above all--no lies. The _Bapaumer Zeitung am Mittag_
follows the same honourable principles as the rest of the German Press.
This Press knows its enormous responsibility towards the nation and
towards the fighting armies. For the soldiers, whose duty it is to
bear the sweat and labour of the day, and to spill their blood for
the Fatherland, nothing but the truth, the pure honest truth, is good
enough. In the Entente countries the Press has an extra and exceedingly
important duty, which the German Press is spared, namely to fire the
soldiers’ courage, and to keep burning the flame of hope among the
population. As gladdening news is rare just now, its counterfeit is
manufactured in the editorial sanctum of the newspapers. The German
Press has no need to fire the nation’s courage, for it burns with a
pure and clear flame. The German people insist that their Press shall
tell them the _whole_ truth, whether gladdening or not. Good news is
not exaggerated, bad news is not minimised. The whole nation insists on
being fully enlightened on the progress of events on all fronts, for it
will not build its hopes for the future on a tissue of falsehoods which
in the end cannot but collapse. If anything goes wrong, it is best to
know the full bearing of the disaster, so as to make good the loss and
prevent it from occurring again. In Germany the people rely implicitly
on the truthfulness of the Press and its sense of responsibility.
There hundreds of thousands of volunteers hurry to the colours without
artificial and false inducement. They come, driven by the Germanic
spirit, by national pride, by sense of duty and ambition. There is not
a single man able to carry arms who hesitates to go out and die, for it
is clear to all that if it is God’s wish that Germany shall go under,
the last German shall have fallen in the last trench before the waves
close once for all over the wreck. For these reasons the Press of the
Central Powers has in this war a far easier task to fulfil than the
Press of the enemy countries, for it has but to register the trend of
events and to announce the news from east and west and from far-away
tropical seas, but it has no need to resort to the dishonourable
makeshift of deceiving its readers and inventing tales of victory so as
to drive fresh throngs to the recruiting offices.
[Illustration: SOLDIERS READING THE LATEST NUMBER OF THE “BAPAUMER
ZEITUNG AM MITTAG”]
To return once more to the Townhall of Bapaume, every day, at the hour
that the local newspaper was published, brought fresh groups of eager
soldiers to the notice board. It was quite refreshing to stop awhile
and observe them. There they stand with their cigarettes or pipes and
hands in trouser-pockets reading through the news attentively and
slowly. Up to the present they have had little news that is not good,
but all news is taken with the same calm. At most one notices a passing
smile or a momentary gleam in the eye. The same spirit is shown if a
piece of bad news is posted, such as the loss of a warship.
Sometimes the soldiers are not content with reading, they must copy the
whole of the paper into their diary. And why? Probably because they
are on the way to the foremost trenches, where they will impart the
contents to their isolated comrades.
Duke Adolf Friedrich and I were invited to supper with Lieut.-General
von Winckler, the Grenadier _par excellence_, the Chief of all the
Grenadiers of the Guard. At seven o’clock we started out on the great
main road to Arras, but long before we reached half-way we turned off
to the left along a by-road leading _via_ Hamelincourt to Boiry. The
evening was still, the air was clear, and the moon was brilliantly
radiant. We could hear no cannonading, and yet there could be no doubt
that we were approaching the line traced in iron, blood and fire across
the face of France. At every village we were stopped by pickets who
stepped out on to the road and cried “Halt!” If you do not stop, you
get a bullet through your back. “_Armeeoberkommando_” (“Chief Army
Command”) calls the Duke, and we continue on our way. The strictest
control has to be exercised, especially at night. Not even the German
uniforms are a guarantee against spies. I feel that I am once more on
the brink of glorious and wild adventure--on the way to the field of
battle now lighted by the moon, and where every bush and tree trunk may
hide a lurking spy. But the silence is unbroken except for the rhythmic
thud of the engine.
At length we stopped at the gate of a farm, where several officers
of the General Staff came out to meet us and conducted us into an
unpretentious little house. Here we were warmly greeted by General von
Winckler himself, a soldierly figure with a fine head, distinguished,
weather-beaten, kindly features, steel-grey hair and a dark
well-groomed moustache.
We sat down to table almost at once. It would have been wrong to call
the mood of the company solemn or heavy. From the first moment lively
and interesting conversation was afoot. More cheerful officers it would
be hard to find--and yet these men had been at work since daybreak,
and might well feel tired, but they showed no traces of fatigue. The
company included the Surgeon-General of the Forces, Dr. Reichard, who
had much to tell about his experience among the wounded, also a young
lieutenant who that night was to have his first experience of trench
duty, that strange phenomenon of modern warfare. One might perhaps
have expected this youth to sit quiet and thoughtful, but he joked
and laughed and chatted with the rest of them. He was delighted that
his turn had come at last to be in the forefront of battle. He ate
his supper, drank his wine and smoked his cigarettes without giving a
thought to the cold and hardships which awaited him later in the night,
for an advanced infantry position in close touch with the enemy is in
very truth a living grave.
At nightfall the occupants of some trenches immediately west of the
village of Monchy-au-Bois, about seven kilometres from Boiry, were
to be relieved. At this point it was done every forty-eight hours.
Those who had been on duty for this length of time were then allowed
to withdraw to the rear to rest, sleep and get some hot food. I had
of course passed numberless empty trenches in Belgium, but thought
it would be far more interesting to see them with the soldiers in
possession. But when I happened to drop a hint to this effect, the
General dissuaded me very strongly from visiting his fighting line. It
would after all have been a great responsibility for him to let me go
there. At Monchy the foremost German trenches were only eighty metres
away from the French, with the distance widening to the north and
south. The men can only be relieved after dark when the night is at its
blackest. But to-night the moon shone brightly and hardly a sound was
to be heard. It was eleven o’clock, and there was probably no intention
to relieve the men in the trenches for another four or five hours.
Even if the Germans had crept along the ground like leopards through
the grass, the French would have seen their outlines and shadows. The
slightest rustle would reach their ears if they held their breath and
listened carefully; for the French do most emphatically _listen_ at
night. They are exceedingly vigilant and wakeful. If one is discovered
before having time to reach one’s trench and gain its welcome shelter,
the bullets come whizzing round in extra quick time. The greatest
danger lies, however, in the French fighting and scouting patrols, who
are thoroughly familiar with the ground and begin to prowl about at
nightfall.
To-night, the last night of this fateful month of October, it was
deemed impossible to relieve in the usual way. Only one or two men
were allowed to creep forward at a time. When there is no moonlight or
when the countryside is wrapped in fog they can advance close together
without danger. But on a night such as this the risk was almost as
great as in daylight and the very greatest caution had to be observed.
It needs long and systematic training to move troops on moonlight
nights.
Even a man with uncommon grit and courage must feel a certain amount
of excitement as he crawls through the grass on toes and elbows,
particularly as he has his rifle to think about as well. Now and again
he has to pause, either because this mode of locomotion is too tiring
or because he has to take his bearings and listen. Then he proceeds a
little further, holds his breath and listens and peers round like a
tiger on the prowl. Everything is still, but at any moment he may hear
the rattle of rifle fire and the ping of bullets. At last he sees the
trench before him like a long dark line. Will he get there without
being discovered by the French? That is the question. He hugs the earth
still closer and moves still more slowly and cautiously. Now he only
has twenty metres left, now ten. The parapet is clearly defined in the
moonlight, it is but a step or two that separates him from his goal,
and yet this step seems like a mile, for just here the danger is at
its greatest, and it is on this point that the French sharpshooters
and pickets have their attention riveted. He knows that the furrow in
the ground beneath him is two metres deep and one metre wide and full
of alert, wakeful men, but not a sound is heard, no sign of life is
seen, not even the faintest flicker from a puny fire. Not even the
scent of a cigarette strikes his nostrils, though perhaps there may be
other odours that reveal the nearness of human beings. Now he has but
a metre left, there is no sign of life from the French, and he slips
noiselessly and softly like a cat over the edge and is safe. Thereupon
one of his comrades down below rises from his shelter and creeps back
with the same caution to the ramparts behind the trenches, where he
gets hot soup and sinks into a deep and well-merited sleep.
The new-comer has forty-eight solid hours before him. At night or in
a fog he and his comrades must keep wide-awake, for then the danger
of assault is greatest. Here and there a man may be allowed to doze
off for a moment, but if a man sleeps when on duty his life is not
worth much. In day-time most of the men are allowed to rest in their
“dug-outs” under the parapet, but even then special look-outs are
always posted along the trench. They all have their own little section
of the battlefield to answer for. Within that section no life must
stir but that they are aware of it. It is chiefly movement along the
ground or the outline of some figure silhouetted against an indistinct
background that reveals to the look-out the presence of the enemy.
Clumsiness in real war is tantamount to a death warrant. The Germans
disappear like field-mice in the inequalities of the ground. But the
French, in return, are gifted with keen eyesight.
In the trench wall nearest to the enemy bowl-shaped niches or dug-outs
are excavated in the soil, providing effective protection against
overhead bursts and not infrequently against direct hits. But it is not
impossible for a shell to pitch in the wall, and in that case even the
occupants of the dug-outs are doomed. To provide against this the men
often dig out a cavern, and these caves are often so elaborate and
luxurious that it is thought fit to put up curtains at the entrance.
Along the walls of these caves straw is laid out for sleeping berths
and the little tent section included in each soldier’s packing is
often used as a blanket. When the distance between the opposing lines
of trenches, as in the case I am describing, is only eighty metres,
no light must be lit even in these subterranean caves, still less a
fire, and the air in them is therefore cold, damp and raw. But if the
nearest enemy is three or four hundred metres away, these rigid rules
are sometimes dispensed with. But even then no fire must be lit and no
naked light is allowed in the trench proper.
The soldiers bring with them dry rations intended to last for the
whole of their shift, but they are sometimes cut off through heavy and
incessant fire from all communication and are then obliged to starve
for a day or two. But even that misfortune is accepted good-humouredly.
The dangers of trench life may be realised when I say that before
Monchy-au-Bois alone the dead and wounded numbered sixty to eighty
daily. Neither dead nor wounded can be removed. If you put up as much
as a little finger above the edge of the trench the bullets come
whizzing round immediately. The dead bodies must therefore be allowed
to remain in the trench, that is to say the dead man is got rid of by
digging a grave for him in the floor of the trench. A few days ago it
happened in the trench which I am describing that a soldier was so
badly hit by a shell that he was cut in two, one half remaining locked
by a trench prop. He could not be removed without risk to the survivors
and was therefore allowed to remain. But presently he began to give
rise to a horrible stench and whatever they did the men could not get
away from the mutilated, blackened features. Sometimes arms and legs
torn away from the body are allowed to lie about at the bottom of the
trench until somebody finds time to dig them down. One gets hardened
in time. When it is for the sake of the country one does not mind
occasional horrors.
In rainy weather the trenches become almost unbearable. I saw for
myself in Belgium what they looked like. The rain-water collects in
them and they look exactly like the ditches by the side of a field,
half-filled with grey and yellow water with a scum of mire and filth.
General von Winckler told me that his men had stood in water up
to the knees for twenty-four hours without complaining and without
anyone collapsing from the effects. When the soldiers got back to
the rear they told their comrades with much droll humour of their
adventures. One would have thought that it would sour the temper to lie
steeped in mud for twenty-four hours on end. I am speaking now of the
Grenadiers of the Guard, of whom one expects that they will go through
anything. But the same applies to all German troops. You never see any
gloomy faces amongst the German soldiers, nothing but good spirits
and laughter. To fight against the inundations, the General ordered
drainage trenches to be dug, through which the rain-water escaped into
cisterns, likewise hollowed out in the soil.
In places communication between the trenches is made easier by real
saps which lead in zigzag to the front line from some suitable
declivity in the ground. In this way the work of relieving and
replacing the returning units is greatly facilitated.
The trenches do not run in straight lines, unless, as in the country
south of Antwerp, the ground is absolutely flat. Usually their length
and outline depend on the formation of the ground. As a rule they are
situated so as to offer an uninterrupted view of the enemy positions
opposite and so as to avoid dead angles. A free field of fire is the
most important consideration. A trench thus often receives a very
irregular shape, resembling a curve with numerous bends and salients.
As I have already had occasion to mention, the trenches are often
interrupted by traverses. If the trench runs in a wavy line it is not
always possible to prevent parts of it from being flanked and enfiladed
by the enemy’s artillery fire. The traverses not only prevent such
enfilading from becoming effective beyond a certain distance but also
limit the effectiveness of an explosive shell. As a rule the distance
between the traverses is only ten paces, provided always that there
has been time to improve and extend the position occupied. Behind
the various sections one often finds--as I have mentioned more than
once--deep caverns which afford more or less complete protection
against direct hits. These spaces are used as refuges if the artillery
fire becomes too unpleasant, but the trench must immediately be manned
if the enemy’s infantry shows signs of advancing to the charge.
When, as at Monchy-au-Bois, both sides have been stationary for
some length of time--in this case since the 6th October--the art of
field entrenchment usually reaches a very high pitch of perfection.
It must not be thought that these advanced firing lines are always
connected and continuous. The formations of the various units are
adapted to the conformation of the ground according to its appearance
and the possibilities which it affords. Yet there are no unprotected
or unguarded places. The intervals between the trenches are always
protected by wire entanglements or other obstacles effectively flanked
by machine guns or rifle fire. In front of the German lines at Monchy
there are numerous wide belts of wire entanglements, alternating with
deep _trous-de-loup_ with stakes at the bottom. These obstacles,
interrupted at certain points by open passages, can only be contrived
under cover of darkness or fog, and even under favourable conditions
the work is highly dangerous, not least on account of the enemy’s
pickets who utilise the darkness of night to find out what the enemy is
up to.
These pickets are the eyes and feelers of their unit. The men to
whom these scouting and guard duties are entrusted need the utmost
vigilance, sense of duty and intelligence for the performance of their
task; for the risks which they run are enormous and they could not
possibly cope with the strain if they had not been trained in peace
time to realise that boldness and alertness combined will overcome all
obstacles. There are many kinds of patrols, but in a war such as this
the outpost pickets have by far the most important task to perform.
When the distance between the fighting units is small, they work at
night only. The manner in which they discharge their duties is often
the deciding factor in the execution of important plans. They are
despatched to a certain limited area, with a definite task to perform.
If possible, they are to avoid collision with the enemy. Other patrols
are sent out to prevent similar scouting duty by the enemy. In the part
of the front of which I am speaking, these tasks were often facilitated
on moonlit nights by the number of corpses, chiefly French, remaining
on the field from earlier outpost skirmishes between the two fighting
lines. It is often difficult to tell a living from a dead man. In the
dark it happens not infrequently that German and French patrols run
against one another, which always gives rise to hand-to-hand fighting
and losses. The boldest picket leaders, who in the midst of the most
appalling danger think of nothing but the duty they are entrusted to
perform, and who are _determined_ that this trust shall be carried out,
take advantage even of misfortune. Whilst the others are engaged in a
struggle of life and death they continue towards the enemy position,
find out what they can, and return to their line--and to the Iron
Cross. Their comrades are either dead or wounded. The latter crawl back
as best they can. If the night is sufficiently dark they get help. The
former remain to contribute to the foul stench of the atmosphere. At
Monchy-au-Bois such incidents were of nightly occurrence.
From Monchy I also heard told that on one occasion Frenchmen and
Germans had installed themselves in one and the same trench. A French
scouting unit had lost its way one dark night and had taken refuge in a
part of a German trench for the moment unoccupied. When the Frenchmen
realised the situation they threw up parapets in both directions in
the trench itself, and from behind these walls the opposing soldiers
fired at one another at a distance of a few paces. I do not know what
happened in the end to the Frenchmen, but they were clearly doomed.
Their position was absolutely untenable and their only way out of it
was to surrender when their provisions failed them.
Of course the conditions vary greatly according to the situation. When
the enemy is relatively far away the communication with the rear is
rendered easier and in such circumstances life becomes more bearable in
the front line, if only because hygienic measures are in some measure
possible. But at Monchy-au-Bois I was told that the state of things in
these underground caverns literally baffled description. This cannot
but increase the admiration one feels on witnessing the cheerful spirit
amongst the men, their absolute readiness for any sacrifice. Any man
complaining of the cold or of the food below ground would be chaffed
to distraction or worse by his fellow-soldiers--but I never heard of a
single case of this kind.
In a village in the neighbourhood where we were now stopping, Prince
Eitel Friedrich had his quarters. I heard it said of him that he lived
in a farm-house more or less shot to pieces by shell fire, and that he
slept on the bare ground. Everybody praised his courage and endurance
and his great qualities as man and soldier.
As I have already had occasion to remark, the fighting on the western
front with its interminable lines of trenches is assuming more and more
the character of a siege war. The opposing sides have dug themselves
into the ground all along the front behind wire entanglements and
_trous-de-loup_. These field entrenchments become more formidable as
time goes on. They can really only be destroyed by heavy artillery.
Hence this arm is of cardinal importance. The infantry can only sap
ahead and stick to what it has gained. Every position must be treated
by attackers as if it were a fortress in itself. Every metre of open
country, every tree in the Argonne must be captured by what might
almost be described as a separate engagement. The French are defending
themselves with the most brilliant courage, and even General von
Winckler characterised them as worthy opponents to the world’s finest
soldiers.
In some places ordinary wire entanglements on level ground are not
deemed to be sufficient, and they are placed in holes or declivities,
the bottom of which is covered by fire.
In conclusion I should like to say a few words about the intelligence
service in the field. The French are past-masters in the art of using
civilian spies. The wounded in a field hospital are safe as long as
they have a couple of Frenchmen amongst them, but as soon as they
have been removed for transport eastward, even this sanctuary comes
under the enemy’s fire. How is it that the enemy _knows_ that these
particular wounded have been removed? In a village a soldier had made
the acquaintance of a woman. One fine day she told him that she was
going away. Why? he asked. Because to-morrow this village was going to
be bombarded. The soldier did not pay much attention to the prophecy,
but the woman was right. How did she know it? Of course because she
had been warned by a spy. Once a peasant came strolling along from the
French side into the German lines, where he was immediately seized. He
declared with the most innocent face in the world that he had come to
look after his cattle, which unfortunately had been left behind on the
German side. Let the poor fellow look after his cows, they thought,
and so he was allowed to pass. Of course there could be no question of
letting him return to the French lines, for he might be a spy sent out
to gather information. An hour later he was seen driving a little herd
of cattle before him, but nobody took any notice. This was a daily
occurrence. However it so happened that he drove his beasts right up
to a German battery which had been so well masked that the French had
been unable to detect it. There he left the cattle grazing and vanished
completely. Presently a murderous fire descended upon the battery,
which had to be moved in the night to another position. The peasant was
in the employ of his countrymen, and his movements had been noted by an
aviator, who had signalled to the French artillery positions.
The German regulations governing the liberties of the civil population
have naturally to be made much more stringent on account of such
incidents, and that is why even officers are sometimes stopped at night
when travelling within the fighting zone. But even the most vigilant
are sometimes outwitted by the French spies. Complete telephone systems
have in several instances been discovered below ground, clearly laid
down in anticipation of the French retreat. The main cables no doubt
existed already in peace time, but on the outbreak of war an additional
system of temporary lines had been added, and during the retreat
telephone stations were rigged up in all sorts of unsuspected places.
It was often palpable that the French fire had been directed with the
aid of telephone communication. But where is the underground cable and
where is the operator? Usually it is chance that leads to the latter’s
discovery. It had been noticed several times that within a certain area
the French fire had searched and struck the most susceptible points
on the German side with such rapidity and accuracy that the direction
of the fire could only be explained by the existence of equally rapid
and accurate information. It had also been noticed that no airmen had
haunted this particular point and the conclusion was not far to seek
that telephone communication alone could lie at the root of the skilful
operations of the enemy artillery. All houses and cellars in the
neighbourhood had been searched with the utmost thoroughness, perhaps
with useful results, perhaps not. There might be subterranean vaults
anywhere under meadows, gardens or fields; or strange as it may sound
there may be telephone stations above ground, which are very difficult
to detect.
Anyone travelling through north-west France in the autumn cannot but
be struck by the enormous straw stacks dotted here and there about the
fields, often reaching a height of six to eight metres, cylindrical
in form and capped by a flat cone. In the interior of such stacks the
Germans have often discovered telephone operators. When I drove past
one of these stacks for the first time I saw that it had been pulled
to pieces, with the straw scattered in the greatest confusion. I asked
my companion for the reason of this “eccentric treatment” and was told
in reply: “It was thought that a man with a telephone apparatus might
have concealed himself inside and they wanted to make quite sure.” I
have since often seen similar stacks in the fields and wondered what it
must feel like to sit shut up in one month after month. I had a shrewd
suspicion that he must get his information from the civil inhabitants
of the neighbourhood. Spies in the guise of vagrant peasants or
shepherds no doubt steal up to the stack in the dead of night and creep
in through some hidden passage to tell the operator what they have seen.
The following episode was told me by a German officer. The Germans had
billeted themselves on a French village and had requisitioned against
_bons_ what they needed for their reasonable wants. Thereupon an
elderly curé turned up at the commandant’s office and pleaded in the
most beseeching tones to be allowed to keep the modest little stock of
wine in his cellar which he said he needed for the sake of his failing
health. His request was readily granted and orders were issued that the
priest and his wine-cellar should be excluded from all requisitions.
After a time the Germans noticed with amazement that the French fire
in these parts was directed with almost uncanny precision. A thorough
search was instituted, houses, cellars and straw stacks were ransacked,
but without success. Nobody thought of the curé, who was old and broken
in health, and who with the most innocent air in the world was seen
daily tottering along laboriously to and from his little church. But
at last things grew so suspicious that even the curé’s house had to be
searched. There in the wine-cellar stood a large cask and inside it was
a telephone apparatus, the wires from which passed through the cellar
floor into the earth. It was the old curé himself who at night gave
all the information which had proved so fatal to the Germans in the
neighbourhood. On the following night the telephone was once more in
operation. This time, however, it was a German officer, speaking French
without the slightest trace of an accent, who took his seat in the wine
cask. And what _he_ had to report may be left to the imagination. In
any case there were no more direct hits after that night.
When a village within the German sphere of operations continues to be
inhabited by the French civil population it is not bombarded by the
French, but if the population for any reason leaves the village, the
fire is immediately directed against its farms and houses. Information
in these respects can only be given through the underground telephone
lines or through light signals at night. The latter method is, however,
extremely dangerous, for when the Germans notice any suspicious lights
their patrols bear down like hawks upon the point from which the light
was seen.
The village of Boiry where we now were has in peace time a population
of nine hundred, but at present there are only a hundred and fifty
left. After a while the population seemed to grow without any migration
into the village being noticed. It was then found that the apparent
new-comers had simply been hidden in the cellars, where they had
tables, chairs, beds and all sorts of supplies. Thus they had lived for
weeks, until they realised that the Germans were not such “barbarians”
as they had been made out to be. But, nevertheless, the fact that Boiry
was inhabited by French people made the German troops quartered there
fairly safe from aviators’ bombs, whilst they were out of range of the
artillery.
On the other hand the French airmen evidently had their eye on a German
flying station in the neighbourhood. That very day a _Taube_ had been
damaged by a bomb, which had, moreover, wounded three men and killed
twenty horses belonging to the flying section. But the Germans had
revenged themselves amply, for the following day 155 Frenchmen had been
captured in the same neighbourhood.
I was told that it costs France tens of thousands of millions of francs
to have the German armies in occupation of a part of their country, and
this disadvantage is but slightly compensated for by certain benefits
which I have briefly touched upon above and which include the greater
facility of organising the intelligence service. But it must not be
thought that the Germans are entirely deprived of the information they
need. They have inexhaustible supplies of ordnance maps of the entire
country, together with appertaining military and topographical data;
they have, moreover, their incredibly skilful and bold flying corps and
other scouts and, besides, the information vouchsafed by prisoners.
Opposite Monchy-au-Bois they had the 69th Regiment of the 20th French
Army Corps. In the same way it was known to a nicety how the various
enemy units were located along this front of six hundred kilometres.
Any movements of troops, and what such movements might portend, were
also known immediately.
But it is getting late. We take leave of the most charming General and
his Staff and drive home through the moonlit silent night. And I for my
part could not help thinking of the young lieutenant about to embark on
his first experience of trench life.