Four Hours with the Boches
From the Diary of Dr. van der Ghinst, of the Cabour (Adinkerque)
Military Ambulance, and an Account given by Léon Deliens, Private of
the 11th Line Regiment
_October 24th._ Dixmude, at night. By the sinister light of the burning
houses, the Belgian soldiers and the French Marine Fusiliers were
moving about among the ruins, in the midst of the flames which skimmed
along the ground. With blackened faces, haggard eyes, and unkempt
beards, their uniforms covered with blood and with dust, they went up
and down the streets, springing over the stones, beams, and _débris_
of all kinds, and climbing over walls. The gigantic shadows which they
threw added to the phantasmagoria of the strange scene. From time to
time a shrapnel burst, vibrating in the air with the sound of a huge
timing-fork, or with a great flood of light the explosion of a shell
made the cracked walls shake.
Our relief post was installed in what had formerly been a much
frequented drawing-room in the house of a notary. Presently, the
stretcher-bearers brought in a wounded man who, between his groans,
told us that the Germans had entered the town. This seemed incredible,
as our trenches formed an uninterrupted barrier. We thought the man
must be delirious. Very soon, a second wounded man told us the same
thing and it was confirmed by a third. One of them told us that he had
seen the dead body of a German at the Square, nearly two hundred metres
away from our ambulance. We began to wonder whether our line had been
broken? If so, it would mean street fighting. Two days ago, the French
doctors had transported their installations beyond the Yser. The only
thing for us to do was to imitate them and so save our wounded. Without
wasting a minute, I had them put into an ambulance carriage. We crossed
the bridge and took the road leading to Caeskerke. On arriving at a
little wine-shop, about four hundred yards outside this place, where
another Belgian relief post had been installed, we carried our patients
in and made them as comfortable as we could.
In the night, I was roused suddenly by my faithful orderly.
"The Germans are here!" he shouted, shaking me out of my slumber.
In a second, I was on my feet. All my companions, doctors and
stretcher-bearers, I found in the principal room of the wine-shop,
talking together in the dark. I asked what had happened and they
explained to me, in a whisper, that a trumpet blast, which was not
ours, had been heard. After that there had been firing and shouts,
and then a rush of men passing like a hurricane by our door, in the
direction of Caeskerke. They were all shouting: "Hurrah!"
If this were so, our lines must have been forced and, whatever
happened, it was necessary for us to know the truth. Anything was
better than this mortal anguish. I opened the door. It was pitch-dark
outside, an October night, cold and rainy. I could hear groans coming
from the house opposite. With my Browning in my hand I entered and,
by the light of my electric lamp, I saw two men stretched out on
the floor, side by side, giving no sign of life. On approaching, I
recognised Lieutenant Richard, of the Navy, and Abbé Le Helloco. I
heard a groan coming from a corner of the room and found Dr. Duguet,
the Head Doctor of the Marine Fusiliers.
Two stretcher-bearers, in answer to my call, came and fetched my
unfortunate colleague to our relief station.
"My back is broken," he said, with a moan.
I tried to reassure him, and he then told me that, on hearing the
shouts, the three officers, less prudent than we had been, rushed to
the door of their house. Their outline, standing out in the framework
of the door, made an excellent target and they had all three fallen,
hit by the horde as it rushed forwards. We wondered what would happen
next and what had become of our Staff, which had its Headquarters in
one of the neighbouring houses. What had happened to our brave Colonel
Jacques, to Captain Philippron, and to their comrades? I rushed to the
house where they were installed, and rapped. The door was promptly
opened, but several revolvers were all I saw, and they were pointed at
my head.
"Doctor van der Ghinst!" I shouted.
At the sound of my voice, the Brownings were lowered. In spite of the
darkness, I recognised Colonel Jacques.
"What is the meaning of this joke, Colonel?" I asked.
"Yes, yes," answered the voice of our Chief, "the African." "The Boches
have got through. You cannot stay here; we must have a reinforcement."
"Where is it to be found?"
"There is a Battalion at Caeskerke. The question is who will go and
take the information?"
"I will," I answered. "The road appears to be clear."
I was soon on my way. A French sailor, going in the same direction,
went with me. It was perfectly dark. Stretching our heads forward, we
tried to peer into the darkness. We had scarcely gone two hundred yards
when we heard voices.
"Halt!" cried someone. Thinking I had to deal only with French
soldiers, I replied: "Belgian doctor." "Hands up!" was the command.
I could now see, in the ditch, to the left, some pointed helmets and
also some bayonets confronting us. There was nothing to be done, as
all resistance would have been in vain. If we had moved a step, we
would have been killed. We had to go down into the ditch, where we
found other victims. I protested in German, declaring that I was a
doctor. Thanks to this, I had to attend a great lanky Teuton officer,
who had been wounded in the leg. I gradually distinguished a certain
number of prisoners, among whom I recognised Léon Deliens and Gaston
de Marteau, Privates of the 11th Line Regiment. Their hands were tied
behind their backs, their braces cut, and their trousers unbuttoned,
so that it was impossible for them to escape. The same fate awaited me
and also my companion in distress. I protested energetically in German,
and this produced a magical effect. An officer questioned me and asked
me about the position of the troops at Dixmude. "I am a doctor," I
replied, "and I know nothing about military questions. Even if I could
reply, though, I should not, as such questions are contrary to the
stipulations of The Hague Treaty." The officer did not insist.
In the dark night, an absolute silence reigned, only broken now and
then by the brief orders of the Chief, a Major with a hoarse voice,
whose name was von Oidtmann. Presently a carriage appeared on the road.
It was a French Red Cross ambulance car that the Boches had captured.
The Major sent it to Dixmude with the order to get to the German
lines and bring back instructions to him. When the carriage reached
the bridge, the French sentinel cried out: "Halt! Who goes there?"
"Red Cross," answered the German driver. You can imagine that, in an
instant, the carriage was surrounded and that, one after another, the
Boches were taken out.
In the meantime, the Major and his three Lieutenants were deliberating
in the ditch. By listening to their discussions, I gathered that
seventy Germans had managed to get through our lines at the junction
between a French and a Belgian trench, that they had passed through
Dixmude, crossed the bridge, and rushed along the Caeskerke road like
a bomb, passing by the relief posts, the various Staffs, and reserves.
They were now hiding in this ditch, three hundred yards away from the
railway station, and were awaiting the remainder of their Battalion,
which did not arrive. One or two of the Marine Fusiliers were captured
as they were passing along the road, and a cyclist who refused to stop
was killed. The time seemed very long and the Major was evidently
getting impatient, for, whilst I was talking to one of my warders,
I overheard him give the following orders: "Shoot the prisoners!" I
protested and, to my great astonishment, my warder protested too. "No,"
he said, "we cannot behave inhumanely, not the doctor!" Knowing the
severity of the German discipline, I was agreeably surprised at this
instance of individuality. The young German who protested was charming.
He was a Berlin law-student, and several of his university friends
protested with him, so that the order was not carried out.
Presently, the Germans got up, and endeavoured to advance, but the head
of their column came to a trench occupied by the Marine Fusiliers. A
few shots were exchanged and the troop, after crossing a field, went
in the direction of the railway line. There we made another halt and,
for the second time, the order was given: "Shoot the prisoners!" The
order was not executed this time, probably thanks to the intervention
of a German soldier, who was a doctor. He had introduced himself to me
whilst we were marching and he told me that he should speak to the army
doctor.
The Germans now saw that their comrades had not been able to follow
them and that their only chance of safety was to go back, by the
railway bridge, across the Yser, and get to their own lines again. We
went over the railway line from Caeskerke to Dixmude and were only
twenty yards away from the armoured train which they did not see.
We walked along in silence, two by two, with our warders on guard.
Presently we came to a group of about fifteen Germans who were behind
a mill and we all lay down on the ground. Four shrapnels burst over
our heads. A young sailor had his leg shot through. Deliens dressed
the wound quickly. A German said in a mocking tone: "Good German
shrapnels!" This was true. We set off again and for more than two hours
we walked across fields, jumping hedges, ditches, and streams. When we
were trying to avoid a stream about three yards wide, a German asked:
"Is that the Yser?" We could not help laughing. We were now quite lost
and were plodding along in the mud, frozen to the bones. The officers
went groping along. With the help of an electric lamp hidden in their
long coats, they consulted their maps and the compass. Between the
Major and his subordinates there were violent discussions as to the
way we should go. I noticed the confidence the Germans have in their
chief. Every minute we could hear someone asking: "Where is the Major?"
and he, with brief orders, shouted in a hoarse voice, reminding them
to pay attention to the prisoners, maintained cohesion among his grey
flock. My poor companions in misfortune, some of whom, at my request,
were freed, now helped each other, dragging along in groups with great
difficulty. The young soldier who had been wounded, leaning on Deliens
and de Marteau, trotted along courageously, leaving a track of blood
behind him.
Several young law and theology students walked with me and we conversed
in German. They were Volunteers of the 202nd Regiment, who had just
arrived fresh from Berlin and who were under fire for the first time.
"How long do you think the war will last?" they asked.
"Six months, or perhaps more," I replied.
"Oh no," they exclaimed, "that is impossible. Italy has declared war
on France and we have just taken 250,000 Russian prisoners."
"And do you believe such tales?" I asked.
"We must believe what we are told."
When I asked them why they had attacked Belgium, I could get no other
reply than the one word: "Necessity."
They were surprised, in their turn, that so many young men in Belgium
were not under arms and they were proud of their own patriotism, which,
beside the compulsory service, had given them 2,000,000 Volunteers. "We
have 15,000,000 soldiers," they said.
"We are through with it, are we not, Doctor?" asked an officer in a
jeering tone. I simply shrugged my shoulders in an evasive way. We were
marching all the time and when we turned a corner, in the darkness, we
always ran the risk of coming upon a field-gun which would mow down
friends or enemies alike. From time to time we were grouped.
A soldier pushed me roughly and I protested.
"I am an officer, if you please," I said, and oh, discipline, he
apologised!
Another soldier wanted me to carry his bag. I refused on the same
ground, and he did not insist.
Gradually, the night became less dark and the dawn appeared. It was the
pale dawn of a rainy day. About seven hundred yards away from us, in
the indistinct light, we saw a woman and a child hurrying along, laden
with packages. A few shots were fired.
"Gute Leute," said some men and the firing ceased. A similar scene
took place farther on, when a man and a woman appeared at the door of
a farm-house. It was now light, as it was 5.30. The smoking ruins of
Dixmude could be seen through the mist and this served as a landmark.
We marched on in that direction, wondering whether this might prove our
salvation or our misfortune. A discussion began between the Major and
one of his Lieutenants. In the midst of it, there was a volley fired
from a Belgian trench which brought down five Germans. A brief command
was given:
"Right about face and quick march!" With bayonets behind us, we had
to beat a retreat. Some shots were fired from a farm and bullets
whizzed through the air. We were certainly within the line of the
Allies. The Major gave orders that the prisoners should march in front
of the Germans. Fifteen of us formed the first rank. My companion on
the right, Frigate Captain Jeanniot, explained to me that, on seeing
the Boches, he had come towards them to parley, with a Belgian, as
interpreter, and he had invited them to surrender. He had been made a
prisoner.
"They are turning round, they are lost," remarked a soldier.
Our position was most dangerous, as firing was directed against us from
every farm.
A German fell and I moved towards him, but a brief order: "Vorwaerts!"
and the threat of a pistol stopped me. The unfortunate man, holding
out his hand and imploring help, was left to his fate, without a
word of encouragement or of consolation. Decidedly that Major was a
brute. We were just passing by Major Hellebaut's Belgian Battery and
we should certainly have been greeted with firing, if it had not been
for Lieutenant de Wilde, who discovered, just in time, that there were
Allies' uniforms in the enemy group. The situation was most critical,
as our warders were more and more occupied with replying to the firing
of our men. This was our moment of neck or nothing. My stretcher-bearer
and the French sailor whom I had led into the fray followed my lead.
I moved along gradually, more and more slowly, until I reached the
rear and then sank down in a trench that was not very deep. Nothing
happened, as no one had noticed our disappearance. We got away by
crawling along and then with a few bounds we were soon out of reach. We
were saved!
* * * * *
This account is completed by the soldier Léon Deliens.
"Just at this moment," said the latter, "a German officer shouted:
'What must we do with the prisoners?'"
"Shoot them dead!" replied another. A shot was fired at Commander
Jeanniot, who was not hit. It was a terrible moment. Our warders
hurried us along and pushed us about. They had lost their heads and,
after taking a roundabout way, they were going towards Dixmude.
Suddenly an energetic firing began and the German ranks suffered
severely. The Major assembled his men and someone, I cannot say whether
he or a Lieutenant, gave the order: "Shoot the prisoners dead!" Each
soldier chose a prisoner. Their bayonets pierced the defenceless
breasts of their victims and shots were fired point-blank.
My executioner aimed at me, his gun on his hip. I flung myself down
on the ground and the bullet passed over my head. I got up again and,
with a bound, rushed off some forty yards. My shoes sank in the mud
and I fell down again with my head in the mud. The next bullet must
have missed me, as I did not feel any wound. There was a veritable
hailstorm of bullets and, when I looked up, the Boches were beating a
retreat. The Major was giving his commands, but in a hoarse voice. I
saw the French rushing out to assault and I was between two fires. The
soil flew into the air, wounded men were howling with pain, and I could
hear the death rattle of our poor comrades who had been assassinated.
There was a medley of blue, black, and grey uniforms. A fit of furious
anger took possession of me. I sprang up, seized a German gun and fired
the three cartridges that the weapon contained. I waved my forage cap
towards the French who were hurrying along. One of them fell; I seized
his gun with its bayonet and, in mad, indescribable rage, animated by
an irresistible thirst for revenge, I rushed forward and confronted
Major von Oidtmann. He was still shouting, holding his riding-whip in
one hand and his Browning in the other. I must own that he was braver
than ever at that moment. I plunged my bayonet into his left side,
under his heart, and he fell down all in a lump.
The scene then changed and the Boches surrendered, holding up their
hands, imploring mercy and offering money. My comrade, de Marteau
(spared by good luck, as a bullet had pierced his forage cap), and
I took some prisoners with us and returned, very much astonished at
coming out of this skirmish safe and sound.
By Admiral Ronarc'h's order, the Germans we recognised as having fired
on the prisoners were shot. Of the seventy Boches who had crossed the
Dixmude bridge twenty-five were living. Of the fifteen prisoners they
had taken, all the French were either killed or wounded. The poor young
sailor who had been wounded in the leg was killed outright by the
Germans, and a soldier of the Belgian Engineers was massacred.
I never think of those frightful hours that we passed without a feeling
of deep admiration for the stoic patience, the contemptuous silence,
and the indifference to death of Commander Jeanniot and of all my
unfortunate companions.