THE BATTLE OF THE LABYRINTH
This is a story about what, in the minds of the French military
authorities, ranks as the greatest battle in the western theater of
operations, following the battle of the Marne.
So far as I know the battle has never received an official name. The
French _communiqués_ have always vaguely referred to it as "operations
in the sector north of Arras."
I cannot minutely describe the conflict; no one can do that now. I can,
however, tell what I saw there when the Ministry of War authorized
me to accompany a special mission there, to which I was the only
foreigner accredited. I purpose to call this struggle the Battle of the
Labyrinth, for "labyrinth" is the name applied to the vast system of
entrenchments all through that region, and from which the Germans have
been literally blasted almost foot by foot by an extravagant use of
French melinite. This battle was of vital importance because a French
defeat at the Labyrinth would allow the Germans to sweep clear across
Northern France, cutting off all communication with England.
The battle of the Labyrinth really began in October, 1914, when General
de Maud'huy stopped the Prussian Guard before Arras with his motley
array of tired territorials, whom he had gathered together in a mighty
rush northward after the battle of the Marne. These crack Guards
regiments afterward took on the job at Ypres, while the Crown Prince
of Bavaria assumed the vain task of attempting to break de Maud'huy's
resistance and cut a more southward passage to the sea.
All winter de Maud'huy worried him, not seeking to make a big advance,
but contenting himself with the record of never having lost a single
trench. With the return of warm weather, just after the big French
advance in Champagne, this sector was chosen by Joffre as the place in
which to take the heart out of his enemy by the delivery of a mighty
blow.
The Germans probably thought that the French intended to concentrate
in the Vosges, as next door to Champagne; so they carted all their
poison gases there and to Ypres, where their ambition still maintains
ascendency over their good sense. But where the Germans think Joffre
is likely to strike is usually the place furthest from his thoughts.
Activities in the Arras sector were begun under the personal command
and direction of the Commander-in-Chief.
I doubt whether until the war is over it will be possible adequately to
describe the battle, or rather, the series of battles extending along
this particular front of about fifty miles. "Labyrinth" certainly is
the fittest word to call it. I always had a fairly accurate sense of
direction; but, it was impossible for me, standing in many places in
this giant battlefield, to say where were the Germans and where the
French, so confusing was the constant zigzag of the trenches. Sometimes
when I was positive that a furious cannonade coming from a certain
position was German, it turned out to be French. At other times, when I
thought I was safely going in the direction of the French, I was hauled
back by officers who told me I was heading directly into the German
line of fire. I sometimes felt that the German lines were on three
sides, and often I was quite correct. On the other hand, the French
lines often almost completely surround the German positions.
One could not tell from the nearness of the artillery fire whether it
was from friend or foe. Artillery makes three different noises; first,
the sharp report followed by detonations like thunder, when the shell
first leaves the gun; second, the rushing sound of the shell passing
high overhead; third, the shrill whistle, followed by the crash when
it finally explodes. In the Labyrinth the detonations which usually
indicated the French fire might be from the German batteries stationed
close by but unable to get our range, and firing at a section of the
French lines some miles away. I finally determined that when a battery
fired fast it was French; for the German fire became more intermittent
every day.
I shall try to give some idea of what this fighting looks like. Late
one afternoon, coming out of a trench into a green meadow, I suddenly
found myself backed against a mud-bank made of the dirt taken from the
trenches. We were just at the crest of a hill. In khaki clothes I was
of the same color as the mud-bank; so an officer told me I was in a
fairly safe position.
Modern war becomes a somewhat flat affair after the first impressions
have been dulled.
We blotted ourselves against our mud-bank, carefully adjusted our
glasses, turned them toward the valley before us, whence came the
sound of exploding shells, and watched a village dying in the sunset.
It was only about a thousand yards away--I didn't even ask whether
it was in French or German possession. A loud explosion, a roll of
dense black smoke, penetrated at once by the long, horizontal rays
of sun, revealing tumbling roofs and crumbling walls. A few seconds'
intermission; then another explosion; a public school in the main
street sagged suddenly in the center. With no pause came a succession
of explosions, and the building was prone upon the ground--a jagged
pile of broken stones.
We turned our glasses on the other end of the village. A column of
black smoke was rising where the church had caught fire. We watched it
awhile in silence. Ruins were getting very common. I swept the glasses
away from the hamlet altogether and pointed out over the distant fields
to the left.
"Where are the German trenches?" I asked the Major.
"I'll show you--just a moment!" he answered, and at the same time
signaling to a soldier squatting in the entrance to a trench near by,
he ordered the man to convey a message to the telephone station, which
connected with a "seventy-five" battery at our rear. I was on the point
of telling the officer not to bother about it. The words were on my
lips; then I thought: "Oh, never mind! I might as well know where the
trenches are, now that I have asked."
The soldier disappeared. "Watch!" said the officer. We peered intently
across the fields to the left. In less than a minute there were two
sharp explosions behind us, two puffs of smoke out on the horizon
before us, about a mile away.
"That's where they are!" the officer said. "Both shells went right into
them!"
Away to the right of the village, now reduced to ruins, was another
larger village; we squared around on our mud bank to look at that.
This town was more important; it was Neuville-Saint-Vaast, which was
occupied by both French and Germans, the former slowly retaking it,
house by house. We were about half a mile away. We could see little;
for strangely, in this business of house-to-house occupation, most of
the fighting is in the cellars. But I could well imagine what was going
on, for I had already walked through the ruins of Vermelles, another
town now entirely in French possession, but taken in the same fashion
after two months' dogged inch-by-inch advances.
So, when, looking at Neuville-Saint-Vaast, I suddenly heard a
tremendous explosion and saw a great mass of masonry and débris of all
descriptions flying high in the air, I knew just what had happened.
The French--for it is always the French who do it--had burrowed, sapped
and dug themselves laboriously, patiently, slowly, by torturous, narrow
underground routes from one row of houses under the foundations of the
next row of houses. There they had planted mines. The explosion I had
just witnessed was of a mine. Much of the débris I saw flying through
space had been German soldiers a few seconds before.
Before the smoke died away we heard a savage yell. That was the French
cry of victory; then we heard a rapid cracking of rifles. The French
had evidently advanced across the space between the houses to finish
the work of their mine. When one goes to view the work of these mines
afterward all that one sees is a great round, smooth hole in the
ground--sometimes 30 feet deep, often twice that in diameter. Above it
might have been either a château or a stable; unless one has an old
resident for guide it is impossible to know.
It takes many days and nights to prepare these mines. It takes correct
mathematical calculation to place them. It takes morale, judgment,
courage, and intelligence--this fighting from house to house. And yet
the French are called a frivolous people!
A cry from a soldier warned us of a German aeroplane directly
overhead; so we stopped gazing at Neuville-Saint-Vaast. A French
aeroplane soon appeared, and the German one made off rapidly. They
usually do, as most German war planes are too light to carry anything
but rifles and bombs; French machines, while slower, all have
mitrailleuses. A fight between them is unequal, and the inequality is
not easily overcome.
Four French machines were now circling above, and the German batteries
opened fire on them. It was a beautiful sight. There was not a cloud
in the sky, and the sun had not yet gone. We could not hear the shells
explode, but little feathery white clouds suddenly appeared as if some
giant invisible hand had just put them there--high up in the sky.
Another appeared; then another. Several dozen little white clouds were
vividly outlined against the blue before the French machines, all
untouched, turned back to their own lines.
The soldier with us suddenly threw himself face down on the ground; a
second after a German shell tore a hole in the field before us, less
than a hundred yards away. I asked the officer if we had been seen,
and if they were firing at us. He said he did not think so, but we
had perhaps better move. As a matter of fact, they were hunting the
battery that had so accurately shown us their trenches a short time
before.
Instead of returning to the point where we had left our motors by the
trench, we walked across an open field in a direction which I thought
was precisely the wrong one. High above us, continually, was a rushing
sound like giant wings. Occasionally, when a shell struck near us, we
heard the shrill whistling sound, and half a dozen times in the course
of the walk great holes were torn in our field. But artillery does not
cause fear easily; it is rifles that accomplish that. The sharp hissing
of the bullet resembles so much the sound of a spitting cat, seems so
personal--as if it was intended just for you.
Artillery is entirely impersonal; you know that the gunners do not
see you; that they are firing by arithmetic at a certain range; that
their shell is not intended for any one in particular. So you walk on,
among daisies and buttercups. You calculate the distance between you
and the bursting shell. You somehow feel that nothing will harm you.
You are not afraid; and if you are lucky, as we were, you will find
the automobiles waiting for you just over there beyond the brow of the
hill.