away the papers and valuables of the dead, took possession of the
eatable and drinkable stores to be found in the saddle bags attached to
the horses and, when the grave was ready, we began to place the dead
bodies in it. They were laid close together in order to utilize fully
the available space. I, too, had been ordered to "bring in" the dead.
The bottom of the grave was large enough for twenty-three bodies if the
space was well utilized. When two layers of twenty-three had already
been buried a sergeant of the artillery, who was standing near, observed
that one of the "dead" was still alive. He had seen the "corpse" move
the fingers of his right hand. On closer examination it turned out that
we came near burying a living man, for after an attempt lasting two
hours we succeeded in restoring him to consciousness. The officer of the
infantry who supervised the work now turned to the two soldiers charged
with getting the corpses ready and asked them whether they were sure
that all the men buried were really dead. "Yes," the two replied, "we
suppose they are all dead." That seemed to be quite sufficient for that
humane officer, for he ordered the interments to proceed. Nobody doubted
that there were several more among the 138 men whom we alone buried in
one grave (two other, still bigger, graves had been dug by different
burial parties) from whose bodies life had not entirely flown. To be
buried alive is just one of those horrors of the battlefield which your
bar-room patriot at home (or in America) does not even dream of in his
philosophy.
Nothing was to be seen of the enemy's infantry. It seemed that our
opponent had sent only artillery and cavalry to face us. Meanwhile the
main portions of our army came up in vast columns. Cavalry divisions
with mounted artillery and machine-gun sections left all the other
troops behind them. The enemy had succeeded in disengaging himself
almost completely from us, wherefor our cavalry accelerated their
movements with the intention of getting close to the enemy and as
quickly as possible in order to prevent his demoralized troops from
resting at night. We, too, got ready to march, and were just going to
march off when we received orders to form camp. The camping ground was
exactly mapped out, as was always the case, by the superior command, so
that they would know where we were to be found in case of emergency. We
had scarcely reached our camping grounds when our field kitchen, which
we thought had lost us, appeared before our eyes as if risen from out of
the ground. The men of the field kitchen, who had no idea of the losses
we had suffered during the last days, had cooked for the old number of
heads. They were therefore not a little surprised when they found in the
place of a brave company of sturdy sappers only a crowd of ragged men,
the shadows of their former selves, broken and tired to their very
bones. We were given canned soup, bread, meat, coffee, and a cigarette
each. At last we were able to eat once again to our hearts' content. We
could drink as much coffee as we liked. And then that cigarette, which
appeared to most of us more important than eating and drinking!
All those fine things and the expectation of a few hours of rest in some
potato field aroused in us an almost childish joy. We were as merry as
boys and as noisy as street urchins. "Oh, what a joy to be a soldier
lad!"--that song rang out, subdued at first, then louder and louder. It
died away quickly enough as one after the other laid down his tired
head. We slept like the dead.
We could sleep till six o'clock the next morning. Though all of us lay
on the bare ground it was with no little trouble that they succeeded in
waking us up. That morning breakfast was excellent. We received
requisitioned mutton, vegetables, bread, coffee, a cupful of wine, and
some ham. The captain admonished us to stuff in well, for we had a hard
day's march before us. At seven o'clock we struck camp. At the beginning
of that march we were in fairly good humor. Whilst conversing we
discovered that we had completely lost all reckoning of time. Nobody
knew whether it was Monday or Wednesday, whether it was the fifth or the
tenth of the month. Subsequently, the same phenomenon could be observed
only in a still more noticeable way. A soldier in war never knows the
date or day of the week. One day is like another. Whether it is
Saturday, Thursday or Sunday, it means always the same routine of
murdering. "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy!" "Six days shalt
thou labor and do all thy work. But the seventh day--thou shalt not do
any work." These, to our Christian rulers, are empty phrases. "Six days
shalt thou murder and on the seventh day, too."
When we halted towards noon near a large farm we had again to wait in
vain for our field kitchen. So we helped ourselves. We shot one of the
cows grazing in the meadows, slit its skin without first letting off the
blood, and each one cut himself a piece of meat. The meat, which was
still warm, was roasted a little in our cooking pots. By many it was
also eaten raw with pepper and salt. That killing of cattle on our own
hook was repeated almost daily. The consequence was that all suffered
with their stomachs, for the meat was mostly still warm, and eating it
without bread or other food did not agree with us. Still, the practice
was continued. If a soldier was hungry and if he found a pig, cow, or
lamb during his period of rest, he would simply shoot the beast and cut
off a piece for his own use, leaving the rest to perish.
On our march we passed a little town, between Attigny and Sommepy,
crowded with refugees. Many of the refugees were ill, and among their
children an epidemic was raging which was infecting the little ones of
the town. A German medical column had arrived a short time before us.
They asked for ten sappers--the maids of all work in war time--to assist
them in their labors. I was one of the ten drafted off for that duty.
We were first taken by the doctors to a wonderfully arranged park in the
center of which stood a castle-like house, a French manor-house. The
owner, a very rich Frenchman, lived there with his wife and an excessive
number of servants. Though there was room enough in the palace for more
than a hundred patients and refugees, that humane patriot refused to
admit any one, and had locked and bolted the house and all entrances to
the park. It did not take us long to force all the doors and make all
the locks useless. The lady of the house had to take up quarters in two
large rooms, but that beauty of a male aristocrat had to live in the
garage and had to put up with a bed of straw. In that way the high and
mighty gentleman got a taste of the refugee life which so many of his
countrymen had to go through. He was given his food by one of the
soldiers of the medical corps; it was nourishing food, most certainly
too nourishing for our gentleman. One of my mates, a Socialist comrade,
observed drily,
"It's at least a consolation that our own gang of junkers isn't any
worse than that mob of French aristocrats; they are all of a kidney. If
only the people were to get rid of the whole pack they wouldn't then
have to tear each other to pieces any longer like wild beasts."
In the meantime our mates had roamed through the country and captured a
large barrel full of honey. Each one had filled his cooking pot with
honey to the very brim and buckled it to his knapsack. The ten of us did
likewise, and then we went off to find our section with which we caught
up in a short time. But we had scarcely marched a few hundred yards when
we were pursued by bees whose numbers increased by hundreds every
minute. However much we tried to shake off the little pests their
attentions grew worse and worse. Every one of us was stung; many had
their faces swollen to such an extent that they were no longer able to
see. The officers who were riding some twenty yards in front of us began
to notice our slow movements. The "old man" came along, saw the bees
and the swollen faces but could, of course, not grasp the meaning of it
all until a sergeant proffered the necessary information. "Who's got
honey in his cooking pot?" the old chap cried angrily. "All of us," the
sergeant replied. "You, too?" "Yes, captain." The old man was very wild,
for he was not even able to deal out punishments. We had to halt and
throw away the "accursed things," as our severe master called them. We
helped each other to unbuckle the cooking pots, and our sweet provisions
were flung far away into the fields on both sides of the road. With the
honey we lost our cooking utensils, which was certainly not a very
disagreeable relief.
We continued our march in the burning noon-day sun. The ammunition
columns and other army sections which occupied the road gave the
whirled-up dust no time to settle. All around us in the field refugees
were camping, living there like poor, homeless gypsies. Many came up to
us and begged for a piece of dry bread.
Without halting we marched till late at night. Towards nine o'clock in
the evening we found ourselves quite close to the town hall of Sommepy.
Here, in and about Sommepy, fighting had started again, and we had
received orders to take part in it to the northwest of Sommepy.
IX
SOLDIERS SHOOTING THEIR OWN OFFICERS
It was dark already, and we halted once more. The ground around us was
strewn with dead. In the middle of the road were some French batteries
and munition wagons, with the horses still attached; but horses and men
were dead. After a ten minutes' rest we started again. Marching more
quickly, we now approached a small wood in which dismounted cavalry and
infantry were waging a desperate hand-to-hand struggle with the enemy.
So as to astonish the latter we had to rush in with a mighty yell. Under
cover of darkness we had succeeded in getting to the enemy's rear. Taken
by surprise by the unexpected attack and our war whoop, most of the
Frenchmen lifted their hands and begged for quarter, which was, however,
not granted by the infuriated cavalrymen and infantry. When, on our
side, now and then the murdering of defenseless men seemed to slacken it
was encouraged again by the loud commands of the officers. "No quarter!"
"Cut them all down!" Such were the orders of those estimable gentlemen,
the officers.
We sappers, too, had to participate in the cold-blooded slaughtering of
defenseless men. The French were defenseless because they threw away
their arms and asked for quarter the moment that they recognized the
futility of further resistance. But the officers then saw to it, as on
many earlier and later occasions, that "too many prisoners were not
made." The sapper carries a bayonet which must not be fixed to the
rifle according to international agreement, because the back of that
bayonet is an extremely sharp steel saw, three millimeters in thickness.
In times of peace the sapper never does bayonet practice, the bayonet
being exclusively reserved for mechanical purposes. But what does
militarism care for international law! We here had to fix the saw, as
had always been done since the beginning of the war. Humanity was a jest
when one saw an opponent with the toothed saw in his chest and the
victim, who had long given up all resistance, endeavoring to remove the
deadly steel from the wound. Often that terrible tool of murder had
fastened itself so firmly in the victim's chest that the attacker, in
order to get his bayonet back, had to place his foot on the chest of the
miserable man and try with all his might to remove the weapon.
The dead and wounded lay everywhere covered with terrible injuries, and
the crying of the wounded, which might soften a stone, but not a
soldier's heart, told of the awful pain which those "defenders of their
country" had to suffer.
However, not all the soldiers approved of that senseless, that criminal
murdering. Some of the "gentlemen" who had ordered us to massacre our
French comrades were killed "by mistake" in the darkness of the night,
by their own people, of course. Such "mistakes" repeat themselves almost
daily, and if I keep silence with regard to many such mistakes which I
could relate, giving the exact name and place, the reader will know why.
During that night it was a captain and first lieutenant who met his
fate. An infantryman who was serving his second year stabbed the captain
through the stomach with his bayonet, and almost at the same time the
first lieutenant got a stab in the back. Both men were dead in a few
minutes. Those that did the deeds showed not the slightest signs of
repentance, and not one of us felt inclined to reproach them; on the
contrary, every one knew that despicable, brutal murderers had met their
doom.
In this connection I must mention a certain incident which necessitates
my jumping a little ahead of events. When on the following day I
conversed with a mate from my company and asked him for the loan of his
pocket knife he drew from his pocket three cartridges besides his knife.
I was surprised to find him carrying cartridges in his trousers' pockets
and asked him whether he had no room for them in his cartridge case.
"There's room enough," he replied, "but those three are meant for a
particular purpose; there's a name inscribed on each of them." Some time
after--we had meanwhile become fast friends--I inquired again after the
three bullets. He had one of them left. I reflected and remembered two
sergeants who had treated us like brutes in times of peace, whom we had
hated as one could only hate slave-drivers. They had found their grave
in French soil.
The murder did not cease as long as an opponent was alive. We were then
ordered to see whether all the enemies lying on the ground were really
dead or unable to fight. "Should you find one who pretends to be dead,
he must be killed without mercy." That was the order we received for
that tour of inspection. However, the soldiers who had meanwhile quieted
down a little and who had thus regained their senses took no trouble to
execute the shameful command. What the soldiers thought of it is shown
by the remark of a man belonging to my company who said, "Let's rather
look if the two officers are quite dead; if not, we shall have to kill
them, too, without mercy." An order was an order, he added.
We now advanced quickly, but our participation was no longer necessary,
for the whole line of the enemy retired and then faced us again, a mile
and a quarter southwest of Sommepy. Sommepy itself was burning for the
greater part, and its streets were practically covered with the dead.
The enemy's artillery was still bombarding the place, and shells were
falling all around us. Several hundred prisoners were gathered in the
market-place. A few shells fell at the same time among the prisoners,
but they had to stay where they were. An officer of my company,
lieutenant of the reserve Neesen, observed humanely that that could not
do any harm, for thus the French got a taste of their own shells. He was
rewarded with some cries of shame. A Socialist comrade, a reservist, had
the pluck to cry aloud, "Do you hear that, comrades? That's the noble
sentiment of an exploiter; that fellow is the son of an Elberfeld
capitalist and his father is a sweating-den keeper of the worst sort.
When you get home again do not forget what this capitalist massacre has
taught you. Those prisoners are proletarians, are our brethren, and what
we are doing here in the interest of that gang of capitalist crooks is a
crime against our own body; it is murdering our own brothers!" He was
going to continue talking, but the sleuths were soon upon him, and he
was arrested. He threw down his gun with great force; then he quietly
suffered himself to be led away.
All of us were electrified. Not one spoke a word. One suddenly beheld
quite a different world. We had a vision which kept our imagination
prisoner. Was it true what we had heard--that those prisoners were not
our enemies at all, that they were our brothers? That which formerly--O
how long ago might that have been!--in times of peace, had appeared to
us as a matter of course had been forgotten; in war we had regarded our
enemies as our friends and our friends as our enemies. Those words of
the Elberfeld comrade had lifted the fog from our brains and from before
our eyes. We had again a clear view; we could recognize things again.
One looked at the other and nodded without speaking; each one felt that
the brave words of our friend had been a boon to us, and none could
refrain from inwardly thanking and appreciating the bold man. The man in
front of me, who had been a patriot all along as far as I knew, but who
was aware of my views, pressed my hand, saying, "Those few words have
opened my eyes; I was blind; we are friends. Those words came at the
proper time." Others again I heard remark: "You can't surpass Schotes;
such a thing requires more courage than all of us together possess. For
he knew exactly the consequences that follow when one tells the truth.
Did you see the last look he gave us? That meant as much as, 'Don't be
concerned about me; I shall fight my way through to the end. Be faithful
workers; remain faithful to your class!'"
The place, overcrowded with wounded soldiers, was almost entirely
occupied by the Germans. The medical corps could not attend to all the
work, for the wounded kept streaming in in enormous numbers. So we had
to lend a helping hand, and bandaged friend and enemy to the best of our
ability. But contrary to earlier times when the wounded were treated
considerately, things were now done more roughly.
The fighting to the south of the place had reached its greatest violence
towards one o'clock in the afternoon, and when the Germans began to
storm at all points, the French retired from their positions in the
direction of Suippes.
Whether our ragged company was no longer considered able to fight or
whether we were no longer required, I do not know; but we got orders to
seek quarters. We could find neither barn nor stable, so we had to camp
in the open; the houses were all crowded with wounded men.
On that day I was commanded to mount guard and was stationed with the
camp guard. At that place arrested soldiers had to call to submit to the
punishment inflicted on them. Among them were seven soldiers who had
been sentenced to severe confinement which consisted in being tied up
for two hours.
The officer on guard ordered us to tie the "criminals" to trees in the
neighborhood. Every arrested soldier had to furnish for that purpose the
rope with which he cleaned his rifle. The victim I had to attend to was
sapper Lohmer, a good Socialist. I was to tie his hands behind his back,
wind the loose end of the rope round his chest, and tie him with his
back towards the tree. In that position my comrade was to stand for two
hours, exposed to the mockery of officers and sergeants. But comrade
Lohmer had been marching with the rest of us in a broiling sun for a
whole day, had all night fought and murdered for the dear Fatherland
which was now giving him thanks by tying him up with a rope.
I went up to him and told him that I would not tie him to the tree. "Do
it, man," he tried to persuade me; "if you don't do it another one will.
I shan't be cross with you, you know."--"Let others do it; I won't
fetter you."
The officer, our old friend Lieutenant Spahn, who was getting impatient,
came up to us. "Can't you see that all the others have been seen to? How
long do you expect me to wait?" I gave him a sharp look, but did not
answer. Again he bellowed out the command to tie my comrade to the tree.
I looked at him for a long time and did not deign him worthy of an
answer. He then turned to the "criminal" who told him that I could not
get myself to do the job as we were old comrades and friends. Besides, I
did not want to fetter a man who was exhausted and dead tired. "So you
won't do it?" he thundered at me, and when again he received no
reply--for I was resolved not to speak another word to the fellow--he
hissed, "That b---- is a Red to the marrow!" I shall never in my life
forget the look of thankfulness that Lohmer gave me; it rewarded me for
the unpleasantness I had in consequence of my refusal. Of course others
did what I refused to do; I got two weeks' confinement. Naturally I was
proud at having been a man for once at least. As a comrade I had
remained faithful to my mate. Yet I had gained a point. They never
ordered me again to perform such duty, and I was excluded from the guard
that day. I could move about freely and be again a free man for a few
hours.
The evening I had got off I employed to undertake a reconnoitering
expedition through the surrounding country in the company of several
soldiers. We spoke about the various incidents of the day and the night,
and, to the surprise, I daresay, of every one of us, we discovered that
very little was left of the overflowing enthusiasm and patriotism that
had seized so many during the first days of the war. Most of the
soldiers made no attempt to conceal the feeling that we poor devils had
absolutely nothing to gain in this war, that we had only to lose our
lives or, which was still worse, that we should sit at some street
corner as crippled "war veterans" trying to arouse the pity of
passers-by by means of some squeaking organ.
At that moment it was already clear to us in view of the enormous losses
that no state, no public benevolent societies would be able after the
war to help the many hundreds of thousands who had sacrificed their
health for their "beloved country." The number of the unfortunate wrecks
is too great to be helped even with the best of intentions.
Those thoughts which occupied our minds to an ever increasing extent did
not acquire a more cheerful aspect on our walk. The wounded were lying
everywhere, in stables, in barns, wherever there was room for them. If
the wounds were not too severe the wounded men were quite cheerful. They
felt glad at having got off so cheaply, and thought the war would long
be over when they should be well again. They lived by hopes just as the
rest of us.
X
SACKING SUIPPES
The inhabitants of the place who had not fled were all quartered in a
large wooden shed. Their dwelling places had almost all been destroyed,
so that they had no other choice but live in the shed that was offered
them. Only one little, old woman sat, bitterly crying, on the ruins of
her destroyed home, and nobody could induce her to leave that place.
In the wooden shed one could see women and men, youths, children and old
people, all in a great jumble. Many had been wounded by bits of shell or
bullets; others had been burned by the fire. Everywhere one could
observe the same terrible misery--sick mothers with half-starved babies
for whom there was no milk on hand and who had to perish there; old
people who were dying from the excitement and terrors of the last few
days; men and women in the prime of their life who were slowly
succumbing to their wounds because there was nobody present to care for
them.
A soldier of the landwehr, an infantryman, was standing close to me and
looked horror-struck at some young mothers who were trying to satisfy
the hunger of their babes. "I, too," he said reflectively, "have a good
wife and two dear children at home. I can therefore feel how terrible it
must be for the fathers of these poor families to know their dear ones
are in the grip of a hostile army. The French soldiers think us to be
still worse barbarians than we really are, and spread that impression
through their letters among those left at home. I can imagine the fear
in which they are of us everywhere. During the Boxer rebellion I was in
China as a soldier, but the slaughter in Asia was child's play in
comparison to the barbarism of civilized European nations that I have
had occasion to witness in this war in friend and foe." After a short
while he continued: "I belong to the second muster of the landwehr, and
thought that at my age of 37 it would take a long time before my turn
came. But we old ones were no better off than you of the active army
divisions--sometimes even worse. Just like you we were sent into action
right from the beginning, and the heavy equipment, the long marches in
the scorching sun meant much hardship to our worn-out proletarian bodies
so that many amongst us thought they would not be able to live through
it all.