gave a song, and then our chaps gave them one in return. A German that
could speak English, and some others, came right up to our trenches, and
we gave them cigarettes and papers to read, as they never get any news,
and then we let them walk back to their own trenches. Then our chaps
went over to their trenches, and they let them come back all right.
About five o'clock on Christmas Eve one of them shouted across and told
us that if we did not fire on them they would not open fire on us, and
so the officers agreed. About twenty of them came up all at once and
started chatting away to our chaps like old chums, and neither side
attempted to shoot." Another soldier relates how his comrades and the
Saxons opposed to them sang and shouted to each other through the night.
He goes on, "When daylight came, two of our fellows, at the invitation
of the enemy, left the trenches, met half-way and drank together. That
completed it. They said they would not fire, if we did not; so after
that we strolled about talking to each other."
On Christmas morning, elsewhere. "We mixed together, played
mouth-organs and took part in dances. My word! The Germans can't half
sing part songs! We exchanged addresses and souvenirs, and when the time
came we shook hands and saluted each other, returning to our trenches. I
went up into the trenches on Christmas night. One wouldn't have thought
there was a war going on. All day our soldiers and the Germans were
talking and singing half-way between the opposing trenches. The space
was filled with English and Germans handing one another cigars. At night
we sang carols." Another records how souvenirs and food were exchanged,
and how jollification and football were indulged in with the Germans.
But "next day we got an order that all communication and friendly
intercourse must cease." The Germans had said frankly they were tired of
the war, the English soldiers wished to be their friends, but far away
were a few elderly men who wanted the fighting to go on.
Into what depths the need of exacerbating hate may lead one is shown by
the following extract from a telegram headed, "British Headquarters,
France," which I take from the _Daily News_ of December 23, 1915:
No doubt the Bosches will have plenty of Christmas trees, as
they did last year, but, without attaching too much credence to
the reports of an increasing difficulty in maintaining their
rations. I think it is quite safe to say that they will fare
very much more frugally than our own men. But may not their own
consciousness of the fact result in an outburst of "strafing?"
The principle that the next best thing to not getting well
served yourself is to spoil the other fellow's enjoyment is a
good sound Hunnish axiom. There will certainly be no amenities
nor anything in the nature of a truce so far as the British are
concerned. All ranks are bidden to remember that war is war and
that the Germans invariably have some sinister motive in all
they do, especially under the guise of a gush of friendly
sentiment.--Reuter.
The last sentences must surely, in any generous heart (if the moral
destruction of war has left us such), produce a feeling of acute shame.
In all the multitude of truces that occurred at Christmas, 1914, I have
not seen a single case of German treachery reported. What is it that is
feared in the truce? "In some places," said a German officer, "we have
had to change our men several times. They get too damn friendly."[50]
"If we don't take care," said an English officer that Christmas, "there
will be a permanent peace without generals or c.o.'s having a say in the
matter." Is that thought really more terrible than the thought of
unnumbered shattered bodies and hopeless hearts?
How ineffectual so far are all European attempts at democracy! Carlyle's
satire about the thirty men of Dumdrudge called out, they know not why,
to kill thirty men from a Dumdrudge elsewhere is not referred to in
these days; but it still expresses the essential absurdity of wars.
Here is an extract from the _Labour Leader_ of August 19, 1915:
My friend must not be identified. But here is an incident he
told me I can safely relate. During the unauthorised Christmas
truce of eight months ago so chummy did a British officer and a
Saxon officer become that the Saxon officer gave his enemy "an
invitation to visit him in Germany at the end of the war," and
"stay as long as you like," he added. The British officer is
still carrying the address in his pocket in the hope that one
day he may be able to accept the invitation.
The _Labour Leader_ is much disliked by the orthodox of England, as is
the _Vorwärts_ by the orthodox of Germany. It seems to me that both may
be rendering a fine service to the cause of humanity, and one may surely
say this without implying complete agreement with the opinions or the
policy of either.
WOUNDED ENEMIES.
Writing home to his mother in Somerset, a member of the R.A.M.C. says:
"You will find inside a German button for a souvenir. It was given me
by a wounded German prisoner. After he had had his wound dressed, he
pointed to his buttons and made signs for me to cut one off. He hardly
knew how to thank us after he had finished his tea, and his eyes gleamed
with gratitude as he looked around at us." (_Daily News_, August 26,
1915.)
From a private letter: "The following is first hand, and of interest.
Dr. S. lectures on first aid to C.'s squad. During the course of a
lecture on the heart he referred to a visit paid to the local hospital.
In the hospital was a man who had been a prisoner in Germany. Dr. S.
asked the man about his treatment. In the course of the talk the man
said that if he had his choice he would prefer to be in a German
hospital! Dr. S. smiled when he related this. 'This is not the kind of
statement,' he said, 'that is published in the newspapers!'"
There comes into my mind the photograph of a British prisoner in a
German camp. The boy's mother was delighted to see him looking so well.
The photograph was the more striking as the lad was wounded in the
stomach at the time he was taken prisoner.
From a private letter: "My nephew was in the Canadians and was wounded
in the spine in a recent advance.... He was brought back to London,
where I saw him, and he died in hospital shortly after. He told me
himself all about it. He lay for several hours after being wounded,
unable of course to move. When the ambulance came up, the stretcher
bearers were Germans--prisoners of war. They saw he was cold and took
off their own coats and wrapped him up. All the while they were under
fire from the British guns.[51] One of them was wounded in the arm by
shrapnel as they were carrying him, but he kept his hold. He called to
his mate to let down the stretcher, but till it was on the ground, he
never flinched. My nephew knew what this meant, and as he thought of
what had been done for him by an 'enemy' his face lighted up, as he
said, 'That man is a hero!' And he added, 'We don't feel hard towards
them at the front.'"
Again, a wounded soldier who had been prisoner in Germany says: "I could
not have been better treated, and I know ninety companions who say the
same. But this is not the sort of story the newspapers want." People
very generally do not like to hear good of an enemy. In war-time this
very human objection may become an important cause of continued strife.
(cf., p. 108.)
In the following, Philip Gibbs tells of a German doctor who tended
friend and foe alike. "A number of Germans ... --about 250 of
them--stayed in the dug-outs, without food and water, while our shells
made a fury above them and smashed up the ground. They had a German
doctor there, a giant of a man with a great heart, who had put his
first-aid dressing station in the second line trench, and attended to
the wounds of the men until our bombardment intensified so that no man
could live there.
"He took the wounded down to a dug-out--those who had not been carried
back--and stayed there expecting death. But then, as he told me to-day,
at about eleven o'clock this morning the shells ceased to scream and
roar above-ground, and after a sudden silence he heard the noise of
British troops. He went up to the entrance of his dug-out and said to
some English soldiers who came up with fixed bayonets, 'My friends, I
surrender.' Afterwards he helped to tend our own wounded, and did very
good work for us under the fire of his own guns, which had now turned
upon this position." (_Daily Chronicle_, July 5, 1916.)
It must be easy to tell bad stories of every furious fight, but the
right spirit is surely that shown by Mr. Gibbs in another despatch
(_Daily Chronicle_, July 7, 1916): "The enemy behaved well, I am told,
to our wounded men at some parts of the line, and helped them over the
parapets. This makes us loth to tell other stories not so good."
Again, on July 21, 1916: "It was the turn of the stretcher-bearers, and
they worked with great courage. And here one must pay a tribute to the
enemy. 'We had white men against us,' said one of the officers, 'and
they let us get in our wounded without hindrance as soon as the fight
was over.'"
"'This war!' said a German doctor, 'We go on killing each other to no
purpose.'" (_Daily Chronicle_, July 5, 1916.)
And on this side:
The wife of a petty officer described to me the arrival of the
first batch of wounded. It happened that these were chiefly
Germans. "I thought I wouldn't care so long as I didn't see our
poor boys carried up," she said, "but when I saw them, Germans
or not, I couldn't help crying." I gathered that the sight of
the sufferers swept away every feeling but sympathy amongst the
onlookers. She told me of the funerals to the little churchyard
outside the barracks, and of the "loneliness" of the dead
Germans. She had wept by those nameless graves, thinking of
those that belonged to these strangers.--Louie Bennett in the
_Labour Leader_.
I remember a Cockney boy of fifteen telling me how at Southend he had
gone for fun to see wounded Germans brought ashore. But the fun died out
in his heart at the reality, and he ran away.
The little incident I will next mention has special charm because of the
beautiful spirit shown by every one concerned. A wounded German, Albert
Dill, lay in hospital here. He was asked by a visitor if there was
anything that he specially wished for. He answered. "Flowers for the
dear English nurse, more than anything else." The flowers were sent and
his letter of gratitude is touching. There were far more than he
expected, he said, and his joy was the greater. "The pleasure of the
nurses and the doctors too was great when they saw this rich gift of
flowers (diese reiche Blumenspende).... This day will often remind me of
the good and self-sacrificing nursing that I have had here in this
hospital." And the "dear English nurse" writes: "The flowers you sent at
the request of Albert Dill were indeed most beautiful.... I have been
nursing the German patients for a considerable time, and their gratitude
has always been most marked. We sincerely hope that while carrying out
our duties we have been able to relieve their sufferings, and have
perhaps helped them to bear the misfortunes of war a little more
patiently." This little incident is surely the greatest of victories,
for it is a victory of the spirit.
Nurse Kathleen Cambridge, who was near Mons at the time of the British
retreat, spoke as follows of some of her experiences (_Daily News_,
January 8, 1916):
After the battle I was very pleased to be of assistance to the
wounded, for whom my mother and I had arranged an ambulance. It
was at four o'clock that I saw the first party of British
prisoners being marched through from Mons to Brussels. A halt
was called just outside the Chateau. The Germans were very kind
at that time and offered their prisoners cigarettes and gave
them water from their bottles.
Two men, exhausted by terrible wounds, dropped into the ditch.
The baron went off to ask if we could be of assistance, and the
German doctor told him that he would be grateful for any help,
as he had to get on to Brussels and could not wait. The two men
were brought into the chateau. We did all we could for them, and
gradually, after some weeks, they recovered.
Neglect and honourable conduct are both recorded in the next cutting
from the _Manchester Guardian_ (September 17, 1917).
A Scotsman wounded at La Bassée had lain for eight days in a
German dug-out which our troops had captured and from which they
had been driven. One party of Germans peering into the darkness
had bombed him, and added one or two slight wounds to the
twenty-two he already possessed. He managed to signal to the
second bombing party some days later, and was carried away to
the field hospital, where hundreds of wounded Germans were
lying. Here he was found by a young German engineer who had
spent years in Glasgow and Liverpool. "Hullo, Jock," the man
said kindly, "pretty bad, aren't you? I'll fetch a doctor for
you."
He did so, and the wounds were roughly dressed. Nothing more was
done for eight days, when the Scot managed to attract the
attention of some visiting officer to the fact that his wounds
were in a dreadful condition, septic and suppurating.
"He was furious," said the Scot: "made no end of a row about it,
and I was attended to at once. I have nothing to complain of
about my treatment when in hospital in Germany."
From the _Daily News_, April 16, 1918:
Here is a story vouched for by a young soldier now in hospital
in the North of England:--"I was shot in both legs during the
recent fighting. As I lay, helpless and almost hopeless, for our
lads had been pressed back, a German officer, also wounded,
crawled up to me. He spoke English fluently, and it turned out
that he had once worked in the town from which I come. When I
told him I was the last of the family left to my widowed mother,
and that I feared it would settle her when she heard I had gone
too, he said: 'All right, old chap; we'll see what can be done.'
As soon as it was quite dark he got me to pull myself on to his
back. In this way he crawled to within earshot of our outposts,
and only left me and dragged himself in the direction of his own
lines when he knew my cry had been heard."
From the same paper of April 11, 1918, I take the story told by a naval
prisoner exchanged through Switzerland:
The sailor had one eye blown out and the other temporarily
damaged by a shell in a concentrated fire which sank his
destroyer in the battle of Jutland. He was picked up by an
already overcrowded British boat after swimming about for an
hour almost blind. Then a German destroyer ran alongside and
took aboard the whole boatload.
The voice of an officer hailed from the deck: "Don't forget the
British way, lads, wounded first." "He spoke such good English
that I took him for a Scottie," said my informant, "and I
thought it was a British destroyer that had picked us up. I was
hauled aboard, and I saw him look at my face and turn away.
'What's the matter, Jock?' I said. 'I'm not a Jock,' says he,
'I'm one of the Huns.' 'What, ain't this a British ship?' says
I. 'Throw me back into the sea, and let me take the chance of
being picked up by one of ours.' 'It can't be done, sonny,' he
says. 'You've got to go to Germany. But you'll be exchanged all
right. You're disabled.' It seems he had a relative in London,
and knew England well. All the time British ships were chasing
us and shelling us; and he hung a lifebelt near me, and said:
'If the British Fleet sink us that will give you a bit of a
chance yet.'"
The following is from _Lloyd's News_, May 12, 1918, under the heading of
"Back from the dead":
Three years ago a Twickenham resident, Mrs. Maunders, received
official news from the War Office that her husband, one of "The
Old Contemptibles," had been killed in action.
Thrown on her own resources, and having a small family to keep,
she struggled on, and a very good offer of marriage came along
and was accepted. A few days before the wedding a letter came
from the supposed dead husband, stating that he was badly
wounded and left for dead on the battlefield, but was found by
the enemy and nursed back to health.
The following is from a private letter: "I am happy to be able to tell
you that through the German Flying Corps dropping a message, we heard of
[my son's] safety early in July. He writes to us and appears to be well
and comfortable.... He was shot through the neck. He has happily quite
recovered after being about four weeks in hospital. He has spoken only
of kindness and attention from doctors and nurses."
Again: "As you have probably heard by now, I am a wounded prisoner of
war.... I myself got my shoulder rather badly smashed up by a machine
gun which knocked me out, and I lay in a shell hole for about ten hours
while our guns strafed like hell and I expected every moment to be blown
to bits. However, I at last managed to crawl up and stagger along, and
as I was in German lines, ran into a lot of Germans. They were awfully
kind to me, gave me food and drink and bound up my wound, and then sent
me along to the dressing station. I am at present in hospital in
Belgium and expect to go to Germany almost directly. My address at the
back will find me." What follows from the same correspondent has some
bearing on the feeding in hospitals. "You mentioned in your last letter
whether you could send me anything. Well, dear old chap, if you are
feeling an angel, plenty of good plain chocolate and other delicacies
would be awfully welcome, also some Gold Flake cigarettes." It was only
"delicacies," it will be observed, that were asked for. This was in the
middle of 1917.
The next extract is from _Common Sense_, July 13, 1918:
"The following experience of an Ullet Road boy, Private Arthur Bibby
(6th S.W.B.), who is now recovering from a severe wound, is recorded in
the Ullet Road Church _Calendar_ for July:
The part of the line in which Private Bibby was placed was
subjected to a heavy bombardment, after which the enemy
delivered an attack. The order to retire was given "and our
section made for a road which led into a village, but about a
hundred yards up the road I received a bullet wound which passed
under the shoulder-blade and pierced a portion of the lung."
"Private Bibby was forced to lie down by the side of the road, and
shortly afterwards an advance party of the Germans came along delivering
their attack. The first wave swept past, but of those who followed one
stopped to give Private Bibby a cigarette, another took off his wounded
foe's equipment and made it into a pillow for his head, and put his
water-bottle within reach, while a third made a pad out of his field
dressing with which he staunched the wound. As he turned and followed
his comrades, he assured his patient that the Red Cross would come soon.
"A German Red Cross orderly came up shortly afterwards, and was engaged
in dressing the wound when the order came for the Germans to retire
before a British counter-attack. 'About ten minutes after the last had
passed down the road our lads, counter-attacking, were creeping up the
road, and it was not long before the R.A.M.C. lifted me on a stretcher
and took me to the advanced dressing station.'
"We congratulate Private Bibby on the recovery he is making from a
severe wound, and are glad that he is able to bear this testimony of
gratitude to a company of unknown but chivalrous foes.
"It is, of course, well known that the Northcliffe Press refuses to
print experiences of this kind."
"Many of our wounded have passed through the same conditions of
captivity and deliverance. They bear witness to the honourable conduct
of the German Army doctors (majors). Here, for example, is one of the
stories that I have heard: 'I found myself in a ditch after the battle,
unable to move. A German doctor came by; he gave me bread and coffee and
promised to come back in the evening if he could, or next day. That
night and the following day passed without my seeing any one; the time
seemed long. In the evening he came: 'I had not forgotten you,' he said,
'but I have had no time.' He had me carried away and gave me careful
attention.'" (_La Guerre vue d'une Ambulance_, par L'Abbé Félix Klein,
Aumonier de l'Ambulance américaine, p. 80.)
The writer continues: "Facts of this nature deserve to be recorded.
Amidst this setting loose of horrors and hates it would be well to lay
stress on some of those deeds which are able to soften the soul. This
morning I see that an article has been passed in one of the most widely
read French journals recommending that no prisoners should be made in
forthcoming battles, but that our enemies should be 'struck down like
wild beasts,' 'butchered like swine'! Nothing, not even the sack of
Senlis, nothing justifies such outbursts of fury." The French soldiers,
M. L'Abbé indicates, confine their denunciations to the Prussian
regulars and speak well of the reserves. "They are men like us, married
men, fathers of families, fair-minded." But for the doctors there is
often a good word: "Le major allemand est venu, nous a soignés, nous a
donné du café, du pain." "Le major nous a soignés et donné de la soupe."
There was however, much plundering. The armies which do not plunder are
indeed _raræ aves_. "The animosity of the English against the enemy,"
says the Abbé, "is greater even than ours." "In the evening," runs one
narrative, "the soldiers of the 101st put me in the wood where were many
wounded Frenchmen and a German captain, wounded the day before. He
suffered, he too, poor man (le pauvre malheureux)." When the Germans
came, "some looked askance," but the captain said the Frenchmen had been
kind, and when the Germans had taken him they came back and attended to
the French. It was a bad time in the retreat, but French and German
wounded shared the same fate. (l.c., p. 98.)
WHOSE FAULT?
The poor soldiers, obliged to obey orders under penalty of death,
defending (as they believe) their homes from wanton attack, are surely,
in the mass, but little to blame. The blame rests elsewhere. A body of
Russian prisoners was brought into a village in East Prussia. The
sufferings of the inhabitants during the invasion had made them bitter,
and from the crowd of onlookers there was a scornful outcry. "At that
one of the prisoners bent forward, shook his head and said slowly, with
great, sad eyes, 'It is not your fault, and it is not mine.'" (Dr.
Elisabeth Rotten in _Die Staatsbürgerin_.) Looking at it all with fresh
knowledge, after more than three years of war, I feel that this Russian
spoke for all the peoples, "It is not your fault, and it is not mine."
Meanwhile there still goes on what my wounded friend, writing from Rouen
described as "this orgy of slaughter, this incredible and criminal
lunacy."
AN ORDER AGAINST KINDNESS.
A girl who, with others, was attending to the enemy wounded, writes:
"Doubtless we should have more consolation among our little soldiers,
since here _we are forbidden to give little kindnesses and attention;_
but I believe that before the end we shall disobey the order, because we
put our hearts into our devotion and our pity." (_La Guerre vue d'une
Ambulance_, p. 116.) It is a little startling to learn of orders against
kindness to enemy wounded. In a country one of whose chief newspapers
advocated slaughter of the enemy like swine, such orders seem unwise.
They can surely scarcely be made except when we wilfully blind ourselves
and imagine that our enemies do not share our humanity.
OUR COMMON HUMANITY.
Here is a letter found on one of the German dead, a man with "a good
face, strong and kindly," so wrote the _Daily Mail_ correspondent. "My
dearest Heart," runs the letter, "when the little ones have said their
prayers and prayed for their dear father, and have gone to bed, I sit
and think of thee, my love. I think of all the old days when we were
betrothed, and I think of all our happy married life. Oh! Ludwig,
beloved of my soul, why should people fight each other? I cannot think
that God would wish it...."
Here in this leafy place
Quiet he lies;
Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies;
'Tis but another dead:
All you can say is said.
Carry the body hence;
Kings must have slaves;
Kings rise to eminence
Over men's graves;
So this man's eyes are dim.
Cast the earth over him.
What was that white you touched,
There by his side?
Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died?
Message or wish, maybe?
Smooth out its folds and see.
* * *
Ah! That beside the dead
Slumbered the pain!
Ah! That the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!
That the grief died. But no!
Death will not have it so.
These words of Austin Dobson were written of a French sergeant in an
earlier war, yet they serve equally well for the German soldier in this.
Strange that we leave it to the dead to prove their brotherhood and
ours.