Paris and the Trenches
The ten days of the great conflict across France were now ended. The
military machine, the most powerful that the world has seen, had swept
past us across the silence of the frontier. Perfectly prepared beyond
all anticipation, and driven by the utmost forces of military despotic
tradition, it had achieved a performance remarkable in the history of
wars. But the machine had been met, and though we did not yet know it,
the momentum of its hammer-blow had been exhausted, by a defensive
retreat which will rank as unsurpassed not only in military history but
in the record of the greatest feats of human endurance, of the supreme
conquests of the spirit of man over the machinery of man's invention.
Outmatched by ten to one, fighting by regiments, by groups, by
individuals, the soldiers of the independent racial spirit, of
voluntary subordination to the service of war, had resisted, doggedly,
inch by inch, and outlasted in the end, the devastating impetus of the
vast war engine. Still an unbeaten army of unconquerable personality,
the survivors waited outside Paris, reinforced, ready to resume the
offensive. Failure in organisation, suspected failures in collaboration
might have been fatal to the moral of a mechanically trained army. To
the elastic temperament and combination of our soldiers, bringing each
a free man's personality to the work of his chosen profession, nothing
could be fatal but loss of life itself, or loss of faith in the common
cause.
I returned again to Paris when the Germans were within a long march
of the outer forts. The journey took an interminable time. The direct
lines were threatened by the enemy or blocked with the movements of
troops. We wandered to remote junctions west of Paris, and had to fight
good-humouredly for standing-room with crowds of reservists recalled
to the colours. No doubt owing to the greater magnitude of the problem
the French railway organisation, for other than military service, did
not compare well, during the earlier stages of the war, with that of
the Belgians, who showed a remarkable power of keeping their ordinary
traffic almost normal, and of reconciling it with the movements of
their own or the enemy's troops.
Paris was practically empty. A second greater exodus was going on. The
Government had retired to Bordeaux the day before. With few exceptions
even the war correspondents, the last usually to cling on, had
vanished. Our Embassy had left with the Government. Our Consulate had
also vanished, leaving a large number of anxious countrymen stranded.
Doubtless they acted under orders. But, in pleasing contrast, a few of
our Consuls seem to have been allowed to exercise a more considerate
discretion, and remained doing excellent service till the threat of
occupation passed. Most of the Government offices were being occupied
by soldiers. General Gallieni, the Military Governor, was taking a
firm hold. We felt at once that the defence of Paris in his hands was
to be really "_jusqu'au bout_."
Life in Paris was undergoing a second mutation. On the occasion of my
first visit, at the outbreak of the war, it was in the throes attending
the surrender of individual liberty to the control of the Departments
of official military government. The Departments had now retreated,
and civilian life was under the necessity of readjusting itself to the
confused beginnings of a purely "soldier" rule. The inconveniences
lasted only for a few days. The Military Governor organised his staff
for the unaccustomed work of administration with conspicuous energy.
All that was left of Paris, passive, observant, and quick to grasp the
necessity of subduing even its natural inclination to caustic comment,
accepted the situation philosophically. For a day or two we still
listened for the sound of the guns of the forts, which should announce
the beginning of the siege. But in place of them came the quick rumour
of the British successes near Compiègne, of the German faltering and
hesitation, of the swing south, and finally of the retreat from the
Marne. People began to return. Paris life regained something of its
vivacity; only the dark quiet evenings, and the occasional visit of an
airman, survived inside the defences to remind us of the war. Now and
then the sight of a British soldier being embraced on the streets, and
treated to an extent that jeopardised the influence of Lord Kitchener's
letter, made a link with the with-drawing armies. News was reduced to
the customary minimum.
In the trenches, Friday.
Here, outside the gates of Paris, within the circle of the forts, there
is a note of instancy and reality which is hardly shared by the city
itself even since the nearer approach of the invaders. The red and blue
dots of soldiers move briskly with purpose over the fields, under the
heavy, summer trees. Just a flash of sun here and there on bayonet or
helmet.
Fortune has introduced me to a collection of non-commissioned
officers--jolly follows, in good heart. Some spoke English. One was
a Russian who had served as a volunteer in most of the armies of
the world. We sat under a tree in the shade, and they superintended
the heavy work of more red dots with grey shirts, sweltering in the
sun and digging trenches in the dusty, brown soil. In the distance,
business-like little lines of blue and red moved away over the horizon.
For the German cavalry is near us, in the Forest of Compiègne, to the
north. It had reached to Soissons, even to Creil, yesterday.
The British caught them well two days ago; but now they are between us
and the British, in their distracting, scattered Uhlan fashion.
We do not ask now: "Where are the English?" We know! But now it is:
"Where are the Indian troops? How many are they? Where do they land?"
Most of my friends are volunteers, full of spirit, and new to the work.
We are rather puzzled by the position. Of course the German strategy
is contrary to all sound rule. But still the "strategic retreat" seems
to have drawn out the French lines almost as long as the line to the
German base. We appear to pin our faith to that mysterious unknown
factor, of which the Press speaks, and to the Indians and Turcos, and
other oddments.
Then comes the interruption of reality. A few dispatch riders, in
faint dusty blue, gallop past. A few wounded, supported, bandaged,
or carried, come more slowly through the hot fields, along the dusty
trenches and entanglements. A German mitrailleuse car, "blindée"
(armoured)--that French invention that the Germans have turned to such
account--has rushed on a French outpost. These are its victims. But the
car is--we are told--"accounted for."
The touch of war is only a momentary disturbance to the quiet, busy
work of the red-and-blue and red-and-grey dots, marching and mattocking
in the afternoon sun round us.
Paris itself is "empty." Four weeks ago the Boulevards were deserted,
but it was the emptiness of emotional stress, varied by the rush
of sudden crowds and alarms. This was followed by our declaration
of war; and coincidentally the streets grew again alive. Now they
are deserted, but this time in earnest, for the inhabitants have
dispersed where they may. There is no panic; none of the "nerves" of
a month ago. The little unrest is due to the _reductio ad absurdum_
of war news, which characterises this war in all countries. The only
crowd to-day was the crowd of automobiles at the Invalides, getting
permits to leave the city before 7.30 to-night, the last moment of
passage permitted. Even the 5 o'clock circuit of German aeroplanes
created small sensation. It is no longer "new." Yesterday, gentlemen
of sporting tastes took shots at the aeroplanes, as they sat at coffee
on the Boulevards. To-day, some of the Brussels caution, which found
in such promiscuous shooting a yet greater danger for the inhabitants,
has asserted itself. A mitrailleuse on the Madeleine secures the civic
safety.
Four weeks ago chance made it necessary for me to pass hours in almost
every Government office in the city. There was then the inevitable
confusion due to the fact that most of the efficient staff had gone
to the front just at the moment at which every individual found his
rights to move and exist had become vested in a series of public
offices, and no longer in himself. Chance took me to-day to wait in
almost all these offices yet once again. It was again a moment of
dislocation, for the Government have gone. The offices are in the hands
of soldiers. The citizens have to adjust their existence anew to yet
another control, that of a purely military organisation.
All the landmarks are shifted. Begins anew the scuffle for the usual
permissions to move or exist. As a pleasant contrast to the general
flight and upheaval, the United States Embassy and Consulate are
looking after the individual anxieties of half the nationalities of
Europe with a courtesy and efficiency beyond all praise. Paris is
empty, but sunny and still itself. Through the empty street the columns
of red and blue soldiers pass, with dusty boots, making bright streaks
of colour. Like a mother of pearl shell left on the beach, the colours
of Paris remain vivid, though the life in her Government is gone south.
Friday night.
Another interlude--Shakespearean if you like. The talk of the first and
second Watchmen and the second Citizen outside the walls. A drop-scene
before Paris, in the second act of the great war tragedy.
The gates had closed before I could get in. A corporal, who considered
himself under an obligation, suggested taking refuge in a shelter with
five non-commissioned officers, who were superintending the defence
works. He knew one of them. The rest were not of his regiment, and
suspicious, as men are behind the lines. But two or three gathered
round to smoke; and, Parisian-like, thawed with their own talk. The
rest rolled up on the straw, and moved restlessly in tired sleep,
outside the range of the single light.
Naturally the talk turned first on the stranger: "What a risky job.
Now, a soldier goes safely where he's told, and can fight there, with
friends round. But you may be shot by anyone, as the easiest thing to
do! No inquiries as in peace time. Anyone may do it; and it's only an
unlucky incident. No mention in the papers even! Why, even generals and
officers have been shot in this war by mistake."
The risk set my corporal talking of a younger brother of his, whom he
had brought up and seen married; their two wives are together at home
with the babies. "He is of the--1st line, the little brother--only
so high. I do not know where he is. Only one postcard with no date
or address, saying 'Still living.' That is all, two weeks ago; and
the war may be over, and we shall never know. Perhaps we shall have
his regimental number returned, and never know. The little one whom I
brought up--only so high."
There was only one opinion about the English troops. "What fellows they
are--_charmants garcons!_--big and cool-looking in their 'green'; and
impassive! And then, so gay, always so gay--except their songs!"
"I cannot understand them, but they laugh all the time, even when they
are too tired to walk;"--it was a cuirassier speaking--"I helped to
carry one in the other day; four of us. It was near Amiens. He was
dying; his legs--so. He kept on saying something which we could not
understand; perhaps it was a message to his mother or sweetheart. But
he smiled always, and shook hands. And he said: 'Good friends. Good old
England.' I understood that. He died before we found the ambulance."
I asked cautiously, later, why there was the constant question about
the whereabouts of the "Turcos," Indians and Japanese. Were we not
enough? There was a volume of answer. "Ah, but we are civilised! We
thought this fighting would be civilised. They cut the heads off their
bullets. Here is one! And they rough the edge of their bayonets--I
have picked them up! But it is with savages. And we have not the
temperament." A volunteer emphasised this, a bearded manufacturer,
with a family, in ordinary times: "And these others know the barbarous
methods of fight. It is of their nature. They can be ferocious. The
savages fear them."
The old walls of Paris, the third line of defence, remain a cherished
sentiment. The famous story of Todleben riding round them on
inspection, with two officers, in silence, and only remarking quietly
at the end: "_C'est tout? Paris est prise d'avance!_" was treated as a
German's joke!
"The walls? They will be fought to the last! The stones of the street
of Paris will rise up in new barricades--if 'they' get so far!"
A volunteer infantryman arrived with a packet of salt. Salt is getting
rare. The arrival was made the occasion of a quick cooking of the
universal soup. The talk flickered up; chiefly of friends and positions
of regiments, details confused and not to be recorded. The end of one
story, however, stands out vividly: "We were only three, and he could
not walk further, and it was a cold night. We could not put him in a
haystack, for the 'Bosches' burn them; or in a cottage, till 'they' had
gone past. So we made a shallow trough between the furrows, leaving him
warm with his head uncovered, and pulled a harrow above him. In the
morning the peasant who had left the harrow would find him, warm; or it
would be easy to finish burying him."
The last of them rolled up in their coats and straw to sleep, my
corporal still murmuring: "I wonder where he is, the little one--so
high? Perhaps, after the war----"
And it seemed only a moment later that the dawn began behind Paris,
yellow behind the grey towers above the still mists.
Paris, Saturday dawn.
During the respite of the last days the army of defence has at least
got what sleep it could.
The trenches within the circle of forts are cloaked before dawn
by mist. Here and there, hidden under temporary shelters, a groan
or murmur tells where the soldiers sleep on straw, behind the
entrenchments. The stations of the local railway lines are filled with
straw, and among sacks and accoutrements the more fortunate are asleep,
crowded close under the open sheds.
If I move my head, shadows loom out of the mist--the close-standing
sentries. Singular figures, hidden in white vapour to the waist.
All wearing heavy cloaks of different types, but made uniform by the
military cap, the shouldered or grounded musket.
The challenges run round, in subdued tones. Even suspicion seems
lulled. In the truce of the night the mind even of the sentry is
passive. The artificial atmosphere, that makes all but the known
uniform an enemy, is forgotten for the moment.
Back towards Paris, the city is shoulder-deep in white mist. Only the
spires and towers emerge, grey and sleepy. The summit of the Eiffel
Tower is lost again in a yet higher belt.
As the grey light grows yellow and red with the coming sun, the towers
are projected against it as if floating in mid air, a city of dreams.
Can this be the town that is waiting half empty, garrisoned with
soldiers, every public office a barrack or ambulance, for expected
bombardment, almost certain siege?
Yet only a few miles to the north--how few the citizens do not yet
know--the advance patrols of the enemy are also resting, sleeping under
the same bands of white mist. They are at Pontoise; some of them have
been encountered even near the Seine in the glades of the Forest of St.
Germain.
And behind us, also hidden by the mist, the restless movement of our
own troops continues. Trains are shunting and banging; there is the
rattle of heavy wheels on the roads....
The yellow light widens; the mist lifts and grows thin. The sentries
seem to shape themselves, and swing their cloaks. A general stir
rustles out of the shelters. The clatter of cooking-pots and boots,
even of voices, begins round us. The night has been warm, and a sultry
feeling falls again at once with the opening of day. A cavalry patrol,
visible already in its lighter blue uniforms, files past. The men move
out to their work on the earthworks. There is the rattle of arms as the
rifles are freed from their standing stooks. Strange sheaves these, in
their threatening lines, by the edges of uncut cornfields. They begin
to glitter as they are lifted in the early sunlight.
The sound of a distant shot, unexplained, startles my little circle of
view into alertness. The truce of night goes in an instant with the
mist. Suspicion, the sharp tension of prospective attack, change in
a second the atmosphere. Orders, loud voices, and movements tell the
beginning of another inconsequent day in the unnatural war.
Paris, as I return, is already awake: sharp outlined and stirring.
Carts are moving in and out of one gate, which has opened early. Small
parties of officers roll out noisily in motor-cars from their city
quarters.
It is time to get back to the suppressed, shepherded existence of a
civilian in a town under military government, for whom rumour-fed
ignorance is considered to be the only safe-guard against panic.
Psychology of an elementary character might form a part of the training
of the experts in war.
Paris, Saturday midnight.
The pause outside Paris continues. It is neither ominous nor
reassuring. After their astonishing march the Germans have to collect
themselves for the great move. Rushed by their pace and volume, but
acting on a concerted plan, the Allies have retired with deliberate
skill upon their intended positions; with Paris as pivot. For the time
fighting tactics are of less importance. Strategy, for the first time
since the failure beyond the frontier, is again to decide.
The Germans have failed to force a decisive victory on their course
across France. The Allied Armies are still unseparated, their temporary
dislocation is cemented five times as strongly. Havre is still
covered, Paris is covered, the connection is retained with the armies
in Lorraine. The Crown Prince's army has failed to keep pace in the
centre. The front for the Allies is contracted; they have again a
strategic base on Paris; they have succeeded in gaining, in spite of
the tremendous pursuit, their chosen lines of defence to north and east
of the capital.
During the last few days the Germans have discovered the strength of
the position of the Allies by means of their unsuccessful raids at
Compiègne and elsewhere. They have possibly got some further news
from the west. They have had to rest their men and horses after the
terrific march; get up their great siege guns; prepare their positions
and platforms, and reconnoitre the admirable defensive strategic
positions. Do they mean to attack Paris? There is now doubt of it. It
has been "Paris or die." May we hope the "die" will be cast?
There has been a considerable movement of their troops to the south,
east of Saint Denis. This has been construed into an attempt to turn
the rear of the French positions on the frontier; to create a diversion
in favour of the Crown Prince's army; to link up with this, and either
surround the French army of Lorraine or advance in double force on
Paris. This would imply a hesitation in the advance of the terrible
"marching column," a relenting of the pace--in fact, a blunder of
magnitude, in view of the importance of time.
It is more than probable that the movement south, to the east of Paris,
is preparatory to an advance upon the capital from two directions, the
east and north-east. This would at once threaten the connection with
the armies of Lorraine; do something to clear the road for the Crown
Prince in the centre; and substitute for an immediate attack upon Paris
an advance upon the main position of our armies.
The design is being retarded by the usual measures; measures which, to
the lay mind, might well have been employed in retarding the advance
through Flanders and mid-Belgium.
Paris is going to be defended to the last wall. General Gallieni's
thirty-eight-word proclamation has created a profound impression. If it
comes even to street fighting, the few survivors in the city here are
prepared to see the walls burning about them.
Perhaps I may mention the open secret that, if the Germans are
rejoicing in the progress of their great siege guns, towed by 30-50
horses, we have a surprise quite as cheering for them here, once they
get to close grips.
And besides this, we are all asking ourselves how long their nice sense
of humanity will prevent the French making more use of their explosive
secret? This is a war to kill, to be decided by the number killed.
And then Lord Kitchener's "unknown factor"; we know a great deal about
it now.
General Gallieni is an administrator of established reputation,
and a fighter by temperament. I met him to-day on his round of the
fortifications. He is never away from the vital points; at the same
time his administration of the town has got into working order with
rapidity. He passed, with a salute, in a cloud of dust, the car in
front guarded by a black orderly.
And even if Paris goes? Well, the campaign is clear. Sentiment is not
to interfere with this ingenious campaign against superior forces.
It is impatient work, waiting in a placid town for an unheard enemy.
I went out to look for him to-day. The roving "Uhlan," the "hooligan"
of the war, had been reported yesterday at Pontoise, and in the Forest
of St. Germain. I had an enchanting tour through the long glades,
in sunlight, for my pains. Not the gleam of a lance as far even as
Pontoise. The windings of the Seine were only alive with boys bathing
and the sharp detail of red and blue sentries on the bridges. Many
bridges are closed, but there is none of the worry of the stops
by "Civic Guards" at every corner that jolted one in Belgium. The
challenges are rare, and business-like.
I ran all through the forest, cheated of even a "view" of the enemy.
It is not saying much to say that our lines are not yet back upon the
Seine. The French aviators floated overhead, but not even the audacious
"Taube" broke the blue and green of sky and forest.
At Versailles I ran again into the suspicious atmosphere of the purely
military town. Hardly a civilian to be seen. All houses closed. Why is
the purely military town the most nervous? At Paris we look calmly even
on aviators and dragoons; only the British soldier, one of the many
"missing" returning now in numbers to rejoin their units via Paris,
is overwhelmed with greetings, little crowds, and embraces. But at
Versailles the vibration of war nerves made every bare cobbled street
"jumpy" in atmosphere.
All along the shady roads through the forests of Marly wound the
peasant carts, freighted with refugee women and children. Under the
trees by the wayside carts in hundreds were drawn up, loaded with
household goods and trusses of hay or straw for the patient horse
or donkey. The women sat round cooking-pots set on wood fires. The
children played noisily. The chief game was "Germans"--a tin pot on a
stone, at which a gipsy-looking band hurled bricks from a safe ten feet.
Drifting aimlessly here and there, ready to move at a rumour, the great
army of the homeless, just as in Belgium, moves through the fertile
fields. It is depressed, purposeless, puzzled. Turned back from the big
towns, reluctant to cross the Channel, uprooted from the home-fields,
like plants torn up and swirled endlessly in a weir pool--moving
endlessly back and forwards. The generations of peace, the rich product
of human progress, that war is killing.
Through their unheeding lines on either side passed ceaselessly the
wagon-loads of hay, the munition carts, the cavalry patrols, all the
sacrifices to the new idol of devastation. We are long past cheering
soldiers in the war-lands.