[Special Cable to THE NEW YORK TIMES.]
FURNES, Dec. 21, (Dispatch to The London Daily News.)--For several days
I have been in possession of an authorization from the French commandant
permitting me to penetrate to Nieuport. This town has been under
bombardment by the Germans since Oct. 20. There were days, however, when
no shells fell in the town and a walk in the streets presented no
danger, though this was by no means the case last week, when, after a
period of calm, an event of considerable importance occurred. The Allies
took up the offensive in an effort to drive the Germans from the coast
and recapture Ostend and Zeebrugge.
Along the whole front from the Yser to the sea there were important
movements of troops. These I am not at liberty to describe, but they
have for the most part only a small significance in relation to the
events described in this letter. For eight days the struggle has been
very severe on the Yser, and night and day hundreds of guns have been
sending shells across the space dividing the two armies. Since the end
of October the Germans had been established at St. Georges and
Lombartzyde, close to Nieuport, and their trenches between Nieuport and
Nieuport-les-Bains were separated from those of the French and Belgians
only by a canal twenty yards wide running from Furnes through Nieuport
to the sea.
I left Furnes on a French motor truck carrying bread and meat to the
troops at Nieuport. For about three miles the truck followed the canal,
passing the village of Wulpen, and then came to a stop. We had arrived
near the bridge over which we must pass to reach Nieuport. As we slowly
approached the bridge I asked the chauffeur: "What is delaying us?" "It
is a little too warm for the moment," he replied.
When a soldier admits that things are warm it is certain that there is
serious fighting afoot. To the right and left over the fields we could
see the inundations. On the roads our soldiers were moving and the guns
of the Allies were filling the air with thunder. In the intervals one
could hear the spitting of quick-firers and the lesser chorus of rifle
fire. Just ahead on a little bridge were a few soldiers of the engineer
corps busily at work under the direction of a Lieutenant.
Suddenly I saw them fall flat on the ground. At the same moment a shell
whistled over their heads and buried itself in the canal bank only forty
yards from us.
"Shelter your machine behind the house," shouted the Lieutenant, and the
chauffeur did not want a second telling. He backed the truck a few yards
to place it against a house opposite the bridge at the corner of the
road from Ramscapelle.
I left the truck and stood with some soldiers close against the wall. In
five minutes fifteen shells fell within a radius of 100 yards of the
bridge, but not one struck the bridge itself. We could hear them come
shrieking toward us, and the only comment of the soldiers each time was
"Here comes another."
We passed over the bridge and advanced along the canal bank in the
direction of the Germans. As we approached the trenches near the Dixmude
railway bridge we were able to survey the plain of St. Georges, which is
now completely under water. For a moment the firing between the trenches
had ceased, and we were able to take a leisurely view of the scene from
the height of the bridge over an area half a mile square. The water is
three feet deep, and in the centre of the lake stands a farmhouse
surrounded by trees. French and Belgian soldiers had crossed the water,
advancing under the protection of artillery fire, and had captured the
houses standing on the far side.
Returning to our motor, we quickly reached Nieuport. The aspect of the
place was strange. The houses, as in all ancient fortified towns, press
closely one against another. The streets, however, are wide and regular.
They were as empty as the streets of a dead city. In the roofs of the
houses were large holes. Windows and doors had been destroyed, and
blinds and curtains were floating out on the wind.
To my great surprise I learned that four or five houses were still
occupied. About twenty inhabitants, I was told, were still living in
their cellars after the two months' bombardment. The soldiers did what
they could to feed these people, who said that rather than leave their
homes they would perish in the ruins. The rest of the inhabitants, about
4,000, had fled, taking with them only what they could carry in their
hands. In every house one could see broken furniture covered with dust.
In many of them gaping holes had been torn by shells, while some of the
front walls had been carried clean away. Bedsteads and wardrobes were
seen standing awry on the upper floors, ready to fall into the street.
Of other houses, reduced, one may say, to powder, only heaps of rubbish
remain, in which one can distinguish among pieces of tiles and bricks
and plaster chests of drawers, pianos, sideboards, sewing machines, and
so forth, broken and mixed with what is left of household linen and
crockery. Family portraits, as if in mockery, remain hanging in places
and contemplate the scene of ruin. The contents of the shops have been
scattered over the floors, and whatever has not been destroyed by
shells, shrapnel, and bombs, has been left to rot under the rain which
comes through the roofs and ceilings. All sorts of merchandise was lying
about in confusion on the pavements.
The church, one of the oldest Gothic monuments in the country, has been
completely demolished. The belfry tower is torn open, and one broken
bell is lying on the ground at the edge of a pit some thirty feet in
width, made by the explosion of an enormous German shell. A large wooden
crucifix by the side of the church has been torn from the ground and
lies in a ditch.
There is a layer three feet deep of pieces of wood covering the floor of
the church. This was once the roof and furniture of the old Gothic
temple.
The cemetery, furrowed by shells, contains fresh graves covered with
flowers. These are graves of officers and soldiers. On one of them are a
soldier's coat and cap; on another a small Belgian flag. The second
grave was dug only this morning, the young soldier, I was told by a
Sergeant, having arrived at 8 o'clock and having been killed by a German
shell at 10.
Only one structure in Nieuport remained intact, the Templars' Tower, a
very solid piece of masonry, five centuries old.
Groups of officers and men were moving about among the ruins of the
town. They were all young men, whose laughter and jokes contrasted
grimly with the terrible howl of the guns and the crash of the
projectiles which were still falling in the town. The French batteries
added to the noise. Nothing can describe the terrible power of the heavy
French artillery. The voice of the guns pierced my ear drums. Though
they were posted at a considerable distance, one might almost think them
close at hand. As a shell passes over your head it reminds you of a
hurricane blowing through the bare branches of a forest.
Accompanied by my chauffeur, I ran through streets which he pointed out
as being more dangerous than others. They were being shelled from the
flank by the Germans, and sometimes, I was told, accidents would occur;
that is, somebody would be killed by a shell flying along the street
from one end to the other. One feels one's self much more at ease in
the streets which intersect these thoroughfares at right angles.
In one spot I met a Red Cross motor ambulance laden with wounded, and
going in the midst of the gravest danger, in the direction of Furnes. At
another point we saw a French Captain, who, in a stern voice, ordered
his soldiers to keep away from the middle of the street. These men were
not on duty for the moment and were chatting as merrily as if they were
in no danger.