FAREWELL TO BAPAUME
The day of Hubertus falls on November 3rd, and is celebrated throughout
Germany with the diligent pursuit of game, for Hubertus is the patron
saint of all huntsmen. Nor even at Bapaume was the day allowed to pass
by unnoticed. A field of fifty-five officers of all ranks forgathered
early in the day at the village of Miraumont, situated nine kilometres
west of Bapaume, immediately in the rear of the fighting line. With
Captain Schlüter of the cavalry as guide, I drove out with Duke Adolf
Friedrich to Miraumont to be present at the day’s sport. We took up our
posts on a hill by the side of the road, and had an excellent view over
the broken country with its natural and artificial obstacles.
[Illustration: GROUP OF OFFICERS AT BAPAUME: THE DUKE, THE PRINCE, THE
CHIEF OF MILITARY POLICE, CLEVING, BARON FLEMING AND OTHERS]
We had not been there long before a couple of horsemen hove in sight,
and immediately on their heels came the entire field in scattered
groups. They took the fences and ditches in fine style and then
disappeared up a steep hill like a whirlwind. There was nothing
remarkable in this, nor perhaps in the fact that amongst them were
many riders who would never see sixty again. But the remarkable thing
about this ride was that all the horses were recently requisitioned
farm animals, which had not even been trained. The Germans spare their
horses no less than their men. When the horses of cavalry and train
begin to tire and need rest and care, they are replaced from the farms
of Germany and of the conquered countries.
After the sport all the members assembled in a field, where in the
shadow of the willows a table stood laid with sandwiches, _kaltes
Aufgeschnittenes_[38] and hot punch. Here I made the acquaintance of
many of the horsemen, among others Infantry-General von Soden and
Lieut.-Gen. von Pawel, who had been in command in Kamerun. The
crisp, clear autumn weather seemed to create the highest of spirits.
Nobody could have imagined that we were almost in contact with troops
engaged in severe fighting, had not the booming of cannon reminded us
of it. Indeed it would have been difficult to gather an impression of
anxiety, nervousness, hurry or want of officers as one listened to the
animated conversation and contagious laughter of the grey-clad warriors
of Miraumont. One would have thought, on the contrary, that war was
the simplest thing in the world and that the Germans for the moment at
least were not exerting themselves in the slightest. What they gained,
they clearly gained without difficulty, albeit that for the time being
they are content with merely holding their positions.
[38] Cold collation.
Suddenly we got something else to think of, and the familiar cry,
“_Deckung!_” rang out across the field. An airman flying the tricolor
was seen to be approaching. The main thing was to bring the horses as
quickly as possible under the shadow of the willows, but the officers,
too, together with their civilian guest, thought it wisest to withdraw
to the nearest avenue of trees, for had the airman suspected for a
moment that he could have killed fifty precious birds with one stone,
he would certainly have sacrificed all the bombs in his armoury.
Gradually he came nearer, glided past immediately above us, but could
not have noticed anything, for not a single bomb burst in our vicinity,
and soon the hostile aeroplane disappeared in an east-north-easterly
direction. It could almost be taken for granted that his goal was a
certain flying station, which had recently been favoured with several
bombs.
Presently we saw the characteristic little “tufts of wool” forming
round the airman. They came from nowhere, grew, and were followed by
a flash and a report. They have a peculiar knack of remaining for a
long while at the spot where they are formed. Hence, as the Frenchman
progressed on his journey and the guns kept firing at him, a little
string of white cloudlets gradually formed in his wake, sharply
defined against the blue background of the sky and pricking out his
track through the air. One of the officers thought that the firing was
almost as dangerous as the bombs, seeing that the shrapnel bullets must
obviously come down sooner or later, and that when they do, they strike
with the velocity and deadly effect of a rifle bullet.
When this little excitement was over, the party of officers grouped
themselves with the Duke and the two Generals in the centre, and I took
a few groups which would have been the finest and most distinguished
in my collection had not this particular roll of films turned out a
complete failure on development.
The next item on the programme was Frenchman number two, who came
sailing serenely along over our heads and gave rise to the same
precautions as before, but he likewise failed to realise the fine catch
he might have made.
A German airman told me one or two details from his own experience. He
usually required three-quarters of an hour to rise to a height of two
thousand metres, and did not proceed towards the French lines until he
had reached this altitude. The view is glorious. He has the landscape
in which the fighting is raging right underneath him. In fine, clear
weather he can see plainly the marching troops, the ammunition columns
and their transport trains, even when they are covered with foliage. He
spots the artillery positions, unless they are too thoroughly concealed
by hedges and bushes. He can even see isolated horsemen and pedestrians
on the roads.
But there are many other things that meet his eye in the course of
his aerial adventures. He sees the fire and smoke from the German and
French guns, and he sees the impacts and the explosions. Beneath him
rages a constant turmoil of thunder and lightning. He admits willingly
that he is a prey to intense excitement. He has never yet been wounded,
but his machine has had its wings perforated by bullets more than once,
and the holes are mended with little patches. He hears the rattle of
the machine guns and the rifle fire, and knows that all this noise is
for his benefit and that he is being observed through field-glasses
from every conceivable hiding-place. When he hears this eternal din and
knows that at any moment he may be hit and brought to earth, he must
indeed summon all his self-control to retain his presence of mind, for
a situation such as this may overstrain the strongest nerves.
He is out to do his duty, he _must not_ fail. He cannot entirely
eliminate the nervous tension, for he is but human, but he never
turns back until he has carried out his orders and finds out what he
_must_ know. His attention is strained to the highest pitch, he sees
everything, hears everything, nothing escapes him. He sights far away
a French aeroplane steering straight towards him, but he does not
change his course. They come nearer and nearer to one another. Neither
makes the slightest sign of giving way. The spectator from below
cannot but think that they are sailing to an inevitable catastrophe,
that they are lost already. But they seem to change their minds before
it is too late, for a collision would bring them both to earth and
kill them, and this is considered by both parties to be a useless
and unpractical sacrifice. Hence one of them gives way before it is
too late. The Frenchman is often armed with a machine gun for the
benefit of his German colleague. In that case the German by a skilful
manœuvre suddenly dips under his opponent or passes over him. If he
passes under, the machine gun becomes useless, as it cannot fire
downward. If he passes over, he benefits by the protection of the
lightly armoured bottom of the aeroplane. The main thing to avoid is to
remain on the same plane with the other machine. Again it may happen
that the Frenchman likewise rises, and that a sort of skyward race
begins between the two opponents, each trying to get above the other.
In such cases the breathless spectator sees the machines circle round
each other like a couple of playful may-flies, approach, separate,
pursue, fire, but always avoiding collision. It is a tension which
simply cannot be described, and whilst this goes on in the air the guns
thunder angrily below and the soldiers lie in wait for one another in
the trenches.
When everything goes normally, the airman may be up for three hours.
When he has completed his task he returns to the German lines, stops
the motor and glides to earth in four minutes, although the time
seems infinitely longer. He vol-planes down and may under certain
circumstances alight without restarting the motor. He admits that it is
not without some feeling of relief that he sets foot on the ground once
more. Yet he is never entirely safe, for the flying stations are always
singled out for special attention from the enemy bomb-throwers.
French airmen often go up without an observation officer, but his
weight is taken up instead by an extra bomb supply. When the machine
is burdened by the weight of two men only three bombs can be taken,
otherwise six or more are carried. The accuracy of aim depends on the
amount of practice. Most bombs do no harm at all. Curiously enough,
it seems to be the horses who suffer most. A few days ago an airman
passed over a bivouac in the neighbourhood of Bapaume. Five men thought
it advisable to seek protection underneath a heavily laden baggage
wagon. But as luck would have it the wagon was hit, and nothing but the
lacerated remains of the men remained when help arrived.
I have already spoken of the immensely important rôle which aeroplanes
are playing in this war, and how during the few months the war has
lasted they have been manœuvred with continuously increasing skill. My
informant thought he was justified in saying that the side possessing
the best flying machines and the best pilots would come out the winners
in a war of entrenched positions, a literal siege war, such as is now
proceeding on the western front. For it depends in a very large measure
on aerial observation whether the artillery fire can find its target
and score with decisive effect.
On our return to Bapaume we went to call on Divisional Pastor Münch, at
whose house we were regaled with coffee, together with quite a crowd
of doctors. All the war hospitals of the town together now contained
barely five hundred wounded, and the city was therefore more than amply
provided for with its 130 nurses.
We looked in at the chief hospital, in the chapel of which some French
wounded were being tended. One of them had received a bullet through
the base of the nose which had lodged in the brain, where it still
remained. He cried all day, “_de l’eau, de l’eau_,” and if one gave him
water he drank, but went on calling, “_de l’eau, de l’eau_.” Another,
who also had a bullet stuck in his head, wandered about with quick,
jerky steps, and had to be watched so that he did not tumble on to
the beds. Two others had had a leg amputated, and were now out of all
danger. The Frenchmen spoke well of the German nurses and doctors,
and said they could not have received kindlier treatment in their own
country. One soldier complained because he was separated from his
people, but added: “_Nous sommes très bien ici; nos blessures sont très
bien soignées_.” We also made a hasty round of the German wards and
spoke to the wounded warriors. They were all, as usual, in cheerful
spirits, and hoped soon to be put right so that they could go back and
fight again.
On the way home Pastor Münch told us of a little episode which is
rather illuminating. As I have mentioned before, it is strictly
forbidden throughout the German army to take anything, whatever it may
be, in a house or church in the occupied territory, and any breach
of this rule is very severely punished. Now it so happened that a
gentleman who served in the army had discovered amongst the vestments
of a village church in the neighbourhood a piece of embroidery which
he intended to take home as war booty. When his offence came to the
knowledge of his superiors, he was discharged and sent home. Had not
extenuating circumstances existed, he would have been still more
severely punished. To carry away “war souvenirs” is considered in
the German army to be equivalent to theft. To be dismissed for such
an offence is a terrible disgrace at a time when no one can conceive
a greater happiness than to be allowed to serve his country in the
field.[39]
[39] This relentless severity, as actually practised, should be
compared with what the champions of truth in _The Times_ and _Standard_
have to say about the German “Huns,” “incendiaries” and “burglars.”
Steffen, pp. 132-33.
After sitting chatting for the last time in the dim lamp-light with
Monsieur Cossart and the demoiselles Lengagne, I proceeded with my most
gracious friend, Duke Adolf Friedrich, to the officers’ mess, where
the rest of the day and a good part of the night was passed in a most
agreeable atmosphere of gravity blended with humour. Among the guests
I met Colonel von Alers, late of the Second Artillery Regiment of the
Prussian Guards; he is related to our Swedish Counts Wachtmeister. He
had fought in the wars of 1866 and 1870-71, and was no chicken. But
he meant to fight for his country once more, and so he turned out as
volunteer. Nothing but real men wherever you go in Germany! Age is
nothing, whether you are young or old it is all the same, and no one is
too old to remember that he is still a man.
In the morning of November 4th the Duke and I were seated at our usual
breakfast _tête-à-tête_. We were quite ready to start off, my luggage
had already been stowed away in the car, and I had taken a hearty
farewell of my German friends who happened to be about and Monsieur
Cossart. Now I was off to Metz, a distance of about two hundred English
miles. Duke Adolf Friedrich himself took charge of the steering wheel,
and I sat beside him, map in hand. A soldier was seated inside the car.
At 9.20 a.m. we started. It was the fastest journey I have ever
experienced, a record in speed. The Duke drove and managed the car
with amazing coolness and presence of mind. Where the great main road
was straight and clear he spurted up to between ninety and one hundred
kilometres an hour. I felt sometimes as if I could hardly breathe,
but it was a glorious sensation to fly over the country at this mad,
tearing pace.
At 9.52 a.m. we entered Cambrai where the Red Cross flag over the
school-house was still wrapped in a thin veil of fog. To the right of
the road was a large common grave, richly ornamented with flowers,
and in the fields close by French peasants were gathering in the
sugar-beet. A whole column of heavy carts loaded with beet drove up
into a village we passed, but in this case the drivers were French
peasants.
At 10.25--Le Cateau. From this point we turned off on to some by-roads
without stone paving in the direction of Bergues and Le Nouvion. The
civil population here is fairly numerous, and whatever else there may
be a shortage of, there is certainly no lack of poultry. Le Nouvion has
been hardly dealt with. In the main street there are only a few houses
left, all the others are in ruins. At the far end of the village a road
runs through a wood where barricades have been thrown up. German troops
are only met with in the large places, such as Hirson, where a fort
meets the eye to the right of the road.
After a long pause necessitated by a burst tyre we arrived at Mézières
at 12.52 and crossed the Meuse. Half an hour later we drove into the
market square at Sedan, where Turenne was still looking down on the
disquietude of distant generations. Here we sacrificed an hour for
dinner, and were soon off again in the direction of Carignan and
Montmédy, where we found life was as busy as ever.
The next place we come to is the grey and solid-looking Marville.
Afterwards the country becomes more broken, until we reach the utterly
ruined village of Noërs. At one point the road rises, curving slightly.
We are tearing forward at a furious pace when just on the crest of the
hill we meet another car as much in a hurry as ourselves. We had the
narrowest possible escape from colliding at an aggregate speed of about
120 English miles an hour. There could not have been room for a sheet
of paper between the two cars and we had the Duke’s perfect coolness to
thank for having escaped with our lives from that little adventure.
Next we drive into our old friend Longuyon and follow a long straight
street which has suffered less than other parts of the town. Outside
the wall of a house stands a group of workmen who have finished
their day’s toil, and on the other side some children are playing in
the gutter. Opposite, on the left-hand side of the street, stands a
curly-headed little chap of three or four in a blue smock, watching the
other children. We come along at full tilt and are some twenty metres
away from him when the little fellow takes it into his head to cross
the street. I felt how I froze stiff and went quite white in the face.
I leant forward to try to get hold of his head to throw him backward
from the car. Surely this wretched people had suffered enough as it
was! We were now into the bargain to run over its children, its one
hope for the future after the war had wrecked and ruined its homes! It
would have been my fault, for why had I decided to travel to Metz of
all places, through this country where the population drops from year
to year even in peace time and where every child is so precious! I can
see him now in front of me. He was in the attitude so characteristic of
running children, his body leaning slightly forward, head down, arms
bent and raised, hands levelled with the ears, slightly curved and
with the palm facing forward. He did not see the car, never noticed
us and did not realise the danger, simply staring on the pavement and
intent on reaching the others. The car came nearer. I seemed to feel
the slight jolt as the wheels passed over him and crushed his ribs.
It would have been quite impossible to stop. Instead the Duke put on
a spurt and in a second we were past. How could we have comforted the
wretched sorrowing parents, when there was no comfort to give? We
should of course have had to stop in any case. I could see in my mind’s
eye the pitiable little funeral procession to Longuyon cemetery, and
seemed to hear the bells ringing among the ruins. At the same instant
as we passed the little group of workmen and playing children, I almost
flung myself upright in the car and turned round. There stood the
little chap in the middle of the street with hands clasped and looking
after us in mild surprise. Not a hair of his head had been touched.
Presently we come to Xivry. The light begins to fail. By the roadside
stands a row of pathetic little wooden crosses; some of the graves are
adorned with helmets, but when the spring comes doubtless the helmets
and crosses will disappear and the little mounds will be levelled by
the plough. Darkness descends over the earth. We pass through Briey and
cross the German frontier. Seized with a feeling of ease at being once
more in Germany, we drive past the memorable St. Privat and through
a bewildering chaos of main roads, by-roads, suburbs, tramway lines,
bridges and vehicles all lit up in turn by our headlights and vanishing
behind us. But by degrees the confusion disappears and we debouch
slowly and majestically upon a brilliantly lighted street in Metz.
There are enormous crowds of people afoot. They line the pavements
in serried ranks. Officers and soldiers everywhere. The police keeps
order. At a street corner we come to a halt and have to wait a minute.
The Duke asks a policeman what is up. “It is the Emperor, he is due
here in a moment; the Empress is here already.” We decided to preserve
our incognito as much as possible. The whole town was filled with
officers. The hotels had not an inch of room to spare, we enquired at
six different hotels and at last, at a third-class place, we found a
moderately decent room and “cupboard” on the third floor. The Duke
would not allow me for a moment to sleep in the latter, his splendid
gifts of hospitality would not desert him even here; but I declared
that I would sooner lie in the street than in the big room, whilst he
lay in the cupboard. Of course we were both equally obstinate--without
that quality we should not have got through Africa and Asia. At last we
agreed to draw lots and I drew the cupboard and slept excellently when
once I got to bed and had finished thinking of the curly-headed little
boy.
But it is still far from late. It is only nine o’clock and the Duke’s
hospitality will not be denied. So we went to the _Europäischer Hof_,
where the Duke ordered a sumptuous champagne supper. There we stayed
for several hours talking of the wonderful things we had seen together
during the last few days, commonplace enough for him who is a soldier,
but the more exciting and unforgettable to me.
The witching hour of midnight had already struck when we quite suddenly
caught sight of the Deputy-Governor of Metz, General von Pelkmann of
the Artillery, a little man with a grey moustache, very eccentric,
with very decided views on life, on the universe, and on the whole
creation generally. In his company was Baron von Tauchnitz. That the
latter was “_Kommandeur der Kraftfahrtruppen des Armeeoberkommando
Falkenhausen_”[40] was not to be wondered at, for he was no less
a person than the nephew of the head of the great publishing firm
known throughout the Continent by its “Collection of British Authors,
Tauchnitz Edition.” This chance acquaintance, in itself very agreeable,
had the result that I could not resist the temptation to accompany
Baron Tauchnitz on the following morning to Blamont, where a fight was
to take place and where a French position was to be stormed.
[40] Commander of the Mechanical Transport of the Falkenhausen Army
Headquarters.
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when the Duke and I
returned to our humble establishment. I had arranged to call at 6.30
in the morning for Tauchnitz and the officers whom he was to drive to
Blamont. The Duke, on the other hand, was due to return to Bapaume
at about nine. Thus we were not to meet again for the present, so I
said good-bye and thanked him as heartily as my restricted powers
of eloquence allowed. For he had not only given me his time, his
hospitality and friendship, he had given me opportunities of visiting
some of the most remarkable points in the fighting line and of
gathering deep and abiding impressions of this great world war. But the
recollection I cherish most of all from that memorable week is that
of his own personality, for he is a fine and noble man, a man whose
outlook is not dimmed by his exalted birth and the glamour of fame, but
who remains ever modest before men and humble before God. We felt quite
sure that we should meet once more at some future time. Then we would
empty the store of our memories and would recall the shrapnel shells at
Quesnoy, which whizzed so close over our heads but forgot to burst and
part us for ever from each other.
And now, to conclude, one more hearty handshake and “_Auf Wiedersehen!_”