A FINAL DAY ON THE WESTERN FRONT
Needless to say the human alarums at the hotel forgot to call me in
the morning, but happily I awoke without their aid and dressed quietly
as a mouse so as not to disturb Duke Adolf Friedrich. Thereupon I
wandered off in the pitch-dark night with no other weapons than my
Zeiss glasses and my camera to the _Europäischer Hof_, where the others
were already assembled. I was asked to join the party in the car driven
by Tauchnitz, and already occupied by Captain Kriebel and Lieut. Baron
von Peihmann, both attached to the General Command of the Falkenhausen
army. Our road took us south-eastward _via_ Château-Salins in German
Lorraine. We crossed into France further south at Rixingen.
It was 7 o’clock when we started off. Day was just beginning to break,
but the sky looked threatening, the weather was most unpleasant, and
a thin layer of clayey mud lay over the hard surface, making the road
as slippery as soap. My two companions inside were as agreeable and as
light-hearted as all other German officers whom I had met. As we were
skimming along, the pretty and interesting country we were passing
through was being explained to me on the map. We were only a few
kilometres from Rixingen when one of the pipes of the engine broke, and
the car absolutely refused to move another inch. However, providence
has presented us with legs, and so after walking a short distance we
came upon a motor-driven hospital wagon, on the roof of which we made
ourselves comfortable. We were soon to find that this motor conveyance
was not without its dangers, for the wagon skidded about terribly on
the slippery road and threatened any moment to dive into the ditch.
However we held ourselves ready for any emergency so as at least to
fall feet foremost when the catastrophe came. In the end we managed to
get to Rixingen and reached the commandant’s office just as the wagon
began skidding so hopelessly that the back wheels took command and
the whole bag-of-tricks was on the point of overturning. Our somewhat
eccentric entry into Rixingen aroused violent mirth from all who
happened to be about. Here, however, we secured a third car and drove
on gaily to Blamont.
On leaving the village to the southward, the road turned up a hill to
a slight eminence, the right-hand side of which was wooded. In a field
immediately to the north of the little wood and evidently concealed by
its trees, stood a battery, which was thundering away for all it was
worth. It was really a very impressive sight to watch the guns firing
their salvos. The officer in charge gave his orders in a loud voice
according to the information received from the observing station.
Then followed the usual brief, brisk words of command: “Load! Ready!!
Fire!!!” The target for the moment was the village of Ancerviller,
situated about 5600 metres south of Blamont. As the gun is discharged
a sheaf of fire issues from the muzzle and a white smoke cloud forms
several metres in front.
In order not to attract the attention of the enemy, instructions have
been given that the battery must only be approached on foot. On the
crest of the hill stood the local commanding officer, Lieut.-Gen. von
Tettenborn, acting Adjutant-General to the King of Saxony, surrounded
by his staff, some twenty officers. He was a powerfully built little
man with steel-grey hair and moustache. Hung over his shoulders he
carried a light brownish-grey cape with red collar and on his head
he wore a helmet with a grey cloth cover. Reports kept pouring in
regarding the progress of the action. Now it was a horseman, now a
motor-cyclist, now a car that came tearing along at full speed with
information, whilst orders were sent out with equal rapidity to the
various fighting units.
General von Tettenborn received me with the greatest kindness and we
stood chatting awhile on the hill as if there had been no war within
a hundred miles. I was also introduced to all the other officers and
in two minutes I felt thoroughly at home. The general atmosphere here
was exactly the same as I have had occasion to record and admire all
along the front, calm, reliant and cheerful in the consciousness of the
monstrous strength of the German army.
Two kilometres south of Blamont and about half that distance from the
point where we were standing, lies the little village of Barbas in
a picturesque hollow, its church tower dominating in a lordly manner
the pretty little red-roofed stone houses beneath. One and a half
kilometres south of Barbas, sharply outlined against the light rising
background, were two little dark clumps of trees. On the north side
of these coppices two German batteries were actively shelling the
enemy positions. On the western border of the wooded belt to the right
infantry fighting was in actual progress. At the moment the Germans
were proceeding to the attack of the French positions. Both sides had
concealed themselves gingerly behind trees and bushes, but the rattling
fire from rifles and machine guns was deafening. One moment the shots
would succeed one another in a continuous din, the next minute one
heard but isolated reports. Of the actual fighting itself we saw
nothing, but it became evident in the course of the day that the centre
of activity was shifting south-westward, which meant that the German
attack was progressing.
Behind us the battery at which we had just stopped kept pounding away,
and once more we heard the horrible, sinister whistle of shells pass
overhead. The German artillery was very active, but the French did not
reply to the fire. Towards the afternoon the German fire also ceased,
the attempted goal having been reached. It was assumed that the French
batteries, which had but lately occupied this point, had now been
removed to some other place where they would come in more useful. I
for my part was quite content to do without their fire, and it was a
pleasant and restful experience not to have to be in constant dread of
a shell coming on the top of me. The day before the French had sent
a couple of shells into Blamont, but without doing any appreciable
damage. Neither did we see any aviators on this occasion. I was told
that they were less numerous in these parts.
After a short visit to Blamont cemetery and a walk through the pretty
village, where we dined, I returned with a couple of officers to
the hill, but found it deserted. The General and his Staff had, it
appeared, advanced a couple of kilometres to Barbas, where we found all
the officers assembled in an open space, a cross between a street and a
market-place. This had now become the point from which the operations
on the whole front of the division were directed, and horsemen and
cycle-orderlies kept dashing backwards and forwards as before on the
hill.
I remained at Barbas for another four hours and took the last
photographs destined to appear in this book. Wherever I turned, I
found picturesque and warlike subjects for my camera. In the open
space referred to, officers with maps in hand stood gathered in
little groups. Outside a house, several horses stood ready for the
orderlies. In the next street, which was part of the great main road,
an ammunition column had halted. It extended from one end of the
village to the other and a bit beyond as well. The wagons were crowded
with artillerymen, full of life and in good spirits as usual, and they
usually asked for a photograph when I came along with my camera. On the
fore-carriage of a gun sat a man fast asleep. In the outskirts of the
village two companies of reserves had halted and were evidently waiting
to take their place in the firing line.
[Illustration: AN ENORMOUS AMMUNITION COLUMN HAD COME TO A STOP AT
BARBAS]
[Illustration: ON THE FORE-CARRIAGE OF A GUN SITS A SOLDIER FAST ASLEEP]
“How are you, boys?” I asked.
“Oh, first-rate, but it’s a nuisance to have to lie and wait like this.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Why to go ahead and fight, of course.”
Here I found a chaplain, a strikingly humorous and amusing man, who
knew thoroughly how to get on with the soldiers; but then he had been
in war before, in Pekin and German South-West Africa. As we stood
chatting on the road, we were gradually surrounded by a narrowing
circle of grey jackets, who listened intently to what we had to say.
In the end they must have numbered fully 150, and there, in the
centre, stood the pastor throwing out jests and calling them his grey
field-mice, and they all laughed gaily at his whimsical ideas.
“What do they do for a living in peace time, I wonder, all these
soldiers?” I asked.
“Oh,” said the pastor, “there are all sorts, loafers and county
councillors, blacksmiths and professors, all jumbled together.
“What is your occupation, my lad?” he asked of one who stood near, as
he seized him by the collar.
“Lecturer,” he answered.
“What subject?”
“Comparative philology of modern European languages.”
“Excellent! There you see, doctor, what use the philology of modern
European languages can be put to!”
“And what are you?”
“Metal worker at Siemens and Halske’s.”
“And you?”
“Village schoolmaster.”
“And you?”
“Navvy.”
“And you?”
“Professor of zoology.”
“There you see the levelling effects of war. No trace of class
distinction. They all lie side by side in the trenches, eat the same
food and are comrades through thick and thin, and the professor is no
better treated than the navvy.”
“How many of you are keeping diaries of your war experience?” I asked.
“I don’t write a line,” said one, standing with his hands in his
pockets in front of the circle.
“Why not?”
“There are plenty of them who do as it is.”
“Nonsense, you are a lazy beggar,” says the pastor.
“All who keep diaries, put up their hands,” said I, and a perfect
forest of hands rose into the air.
“Perhaps it will be simpler if those who _don’t_ keep diaries put up
their hands.”
They did so, and there were ten out of fully 150. What a monument of
memories and impressions, of wild adventures and heroic deeds told in
simple and honest words must they not represent, these diaries, written
from day to day between the fights, in the trenches and by the light of
the bivouac fires!
To conclude, I asked in a loud voice--although it was a stupid thing to
do and I ought to have known better--_infandum jubes renovare dolorem_:
“How many of you are social democrats?”
At this there was a shout of laughter, almost of derision, and I
suddenly felt exceedingly awkward and wished I were back at Metz again.
Even the pastor laughed and shook his head. At last a burly-looking
soldier answered for himself and the others:
“There are no social democrats any more. _There are nothing but German
soldiers._”
I made a desperate attempt to cover my retreat by saying: “Of course,
of course, I know; but are there any among you who have _been_ social
democrats?”
Some shouted no, others shrugged their shoulders and one replied: “Even
if there _have been_ social democrats among us, all that rot has been
washed away by now. It is real and serious business we are dealing with
now, and none of that kids’ game!”
Presently the men were ordered to form up and the circle melted away,
leaving me alone with the divisional pastor and three young officers
with whom I chatted for a few moments.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF SOLDIERS WITH THE DIVISIONAL PASTOR IN THE
CENTRE]
Then I went back to my friends and travelling companions from Metz.
The day’s work was over. The result of the achievements of the day had
been reported to the General in Command, but they had to wait at Barbas
until fresh orders arrived, which might not be until midnight. For my
part I could return to Metz whenever I wanted to.
The sun had long since set when Captain Kaufmann came up and offered
me a seat in his car. He was a fine fellow and had moreover many
memorable and interesting things to tell me from his experiences in
the war. So I said good-bye to my charming host for the day, General
von Tettenborn, and the other officers, jumped up beside Kaufmann and
a lieutenant and in a second we were on the way, eating up the ninety
kilometres separating us from our destination in the north-west. We had
our head-lamps lighted. At least twenty times we were stopped by the
patrols guarding the road, who swung their lanterns across the road
and shouted “halt!” I consider we were very fortunate to get through
with a whole skin, for if one overlooks a single sentry, it is all up
and one gets a bullet through the back. There were numerous cavalry
patrols about, evidently on their way home after their scouting in the
gloaming. They, too, were stopped by the pickets, for otherwise French
patrols in German uniforms might easily infest the roads and villages
held by the Germans. We were also stopped on entering and leaving every
village.
However, at last we got safely back to Metz, and thus ended my last day
at the front.
[Illustration: THE LAST PICTURE FROM THE WESTERN FRONT]