But events move all too fast. Observations and impressions follow so
quickly upon one another that it is difficult to assimilate them all.
The whole road is full of supply columns moving southward, and we meet
innumerable empty transport lorries on the way north, to be reloaded
at some railway station. Here we also see fresh young troops, all
strapping fellows, who have come direct from Germany to go straight
to victory or death. All are jolly and eager; truly, they look as if
the whole affair were to them but an autumn manoeuver, and as if they
felt no trace of excitement. They march along with easy bearing and
sing merry soldiers' ditties under the leaden skies now darkening this
unhappy, bleeding France. They light their pipes and their eternal
cigarettes, laugh and chat--as if they were going to a picnic in the
country. In reality they are going out to fill the gaps made by the
French fire in the ranks of their comrades. They are _Ersatstruppen_,
i.e., reinforcements, but I do not see a single face which betrays the
slightest feeling that death is near. They hear the thunder of the guns
better than we do, for the humming of the car drowns all other sounds.
But they seem to delight in the dull music, and yet their place is far
in advance of the artillery positions. _Ersatstruppen!_ it means that
their duty is to _replace_ the fallen, and that the same fate awaits
themselves. Yet they are gay and happy. "_Dulce et decorum est pro
patria mori._"...
We now begin to notice that we are approaching the firing line. The
whole road is encumbered with troops. Here comes a detachment of
wounded on foot, with bandages round heads and hands, or with the arm
in a sling. We meet an empty ammunition column, an endless string of
rattling wagons.
The artillery ammunition column which we are just now passing is an
impressive sight. The noise of these vehicles, dull and heavy, is
quite different from that of the empty wagons on our left, but then
they are loaded to the top with heavy ammunition, shells for 21-cm.
mortars at Septsarges and neighbouring villages. Every ammunition
wagon--consisting of limber and wagon body--with its team of six horses
requires the services of six men. Three of them--drivers--ride on the
off-side horses, two are seated on the limber, and one facing the rear
on the wagon body. They are armed with Mauser pistols fastened on the
left side of the belt, but the swords of the drivers are securely
strapped on to the left side of the saddle.
The horses are fat and sleek, and pull without exerting themselves
unduly. They move at a walking pace--anything else would be impossible
on this road. It is a far finer sight to see one of these columns
trundling along at full speed with the horses moving at a sharp trot
or gallop. Even at the pace at which they are now travelling these
endless columns are an impressive and attractive sight. What does it
matter if the helmets, in order not to glitter and attract attention,
are concealed by a cover which even hides the spike surmounting them;
what does it matter if the men's uniforms are of the same dirty grey as
the clay and mud of the soil? The whole team looks picturesque enough
with its massive, solid wagon, its pole, its leather fittings and its
harness.
Tramp, tramp go the horses' hoofs, and behind them comes the rattling
of the heavy wagons. One rider sings, another whistles and a third is
shouting at a refractory horse. Behind sit a couple of men rolling
cigarettes, which by the way is more difficult than it sounds when a
wagon is jolting up and down. This column also has a mounted escort.
The train is wound up by a field kitchen with a couple of store wagons
on which a few bundles of firewood are also lying. Without ceasing,
this eternal tramp, tramp, keeps dinning into our ears as the columns
slowly travel southward, a never-ending stream of warriors, horses,
ammunition and provisions.