Nieuport in Ruins
By Sub-Lieutenant L. Gilmont, Director of the Automobile Park, Ocean
Ambulance, La Panne
When the battle of the Yser was over, and the Teuton hordes were
stopped, Nieuport, the advance post of the immense front reaching from
the North Sea to the Vosges, had to suffer pitiless destruction. It
was the ransom we had to pay, because their ineffectual effort had
been crushed by the steadfast defence of our heroes. I was present at
the slow death of Nieuport and, as I had to go there frequently, I
never passed by the heaped-up ruins without experiencing a sentiment
of infinite sadness mingled with revolt. How many times its faithful
admirers questioned me about its fate! How the old city had always
charmed us by its exquisite archaism, with its little narrow,
picturesque streets cut in straight angles, its quaint, yellow-ochre
buildings with their green shutters, its church with the parvis
planted with tall, protecting trees, its imposing Templars' Tower,
its Archdukes' House teeming with memories, and above all its massive
Cloth Hall, proudly situated on the Market Place. What pen can ever
faithfully depict the havoc that seventeen months of war have made of
the exquisite Flemish city we had all known and loved? As far away
as Oostdunkerque, the vision of war begins. The population has been
evacuated and here and there, along the streets, there are shattered
houses. Then comes the winding road across deserted fields and the
triangular wood, that ill-omened wood, where so many of our brave
men fell, where the shells rained down with desperate persistency.
At present, all is sad silence, disturbed only by detonations in the
vicinity, by the sound of a cart passing, or by the measured tread
of troops filing by along the edge of the road. On coming out of the
wood, the horizon is suddenly in view and the sight is heart-rending.
In the background is the town in ruins, and all along the road little
houses that have fallen in. On each side a former arm of the sea cuts
the dreary moor, which is skirted by uncultivated meadows, partially
wooded. Most of the sublime old trees are lying there, all twisted
by the machine-guns, silent for evermore. Some of those which are
still standing seem to be lifting their bare branches heavenwards, in
fruitless protest. We crossed the bridge and the level-crossing, with
its little guard-house. The latter had fallen on to a cart, which now
stood there unable to move under its unexpected burden. And there,
with its Boulevard leading to the old station, all perforated now with
enormous craters, are the first houses of the town. The deflagrations
were all brittle, and we were in the very midst of the furnace. It was
a vision of all that is horrible and, above everything else, there was
that indescribable, persistent odour of rubbish, dust, and death....
Other martyred towns allow the spectator time enough to become
accustomed to the frightful vision. The farther one goes, the more do
the wounds appear huge and cruel. But here, the chaos and ruin strike
one immediately.
Nieuport, like Dixmude and Ypres, shared the sad privilege of an
absolute and systematic destruction. There are rent walls everywhere
and piled-up ruins, from which the most extraordinary fragments of
rubbish emerge, showing all that remains of furniture, so often
endeared to its owners by fond memories. Not a single house has been
spared. The roofs and the floors, riddled by shells, are shapeless
masses now lying on the ground. A few house fronts are still standing,
showing the trace of streets all dismal and deserted, except when a few
rare soldiers pass silently by, looking like so many wandering ghosts
in the midst of fantastical scenery. The Market Place, adjoining the
church, was specially aimed at. It is now unrecognisable, thanks to
constant bombardment. In a corner, can be seen the massive outline
of the Cloth Hall. It is disfigured by horrible wounds, but is still
fascinating. It was one of the most interesting monuments of our
Flemish art of the fifteenth century. The injuries of time, and those
of men, had hitherto respected its primitive architecture. The roof,
which was of a special technique, had escaped until now, but these
last days it fell in, under a veritable avalanche of balls. Quite
near to it stands the spectre of the ruined church. I could still see
it, as it used to be, dominating the whole town with its imposing
mass, interesting to contemplate and to study in every detail. It was
original, too, on account of its various reconstructions, the traces
of which could be seen in the different styles composing it, from
primitive Gothic to the Renaissance and Louis XIV. And what is left now
of all this? One night, it was set on fire by shells, and the deluge
of shrapnels, which immediately surrounded the building, prevented
anyone from saving the least object. The vaulted roof fell in. Charred
walls, riddled by shell fragments, now frame the columns which are
still standing, supporting the graceful ogives that had been sullied
by the odious aggression. Quantities of material lie in unequal piles;
here and there a few decorative pieces, disfigured by their fall. It is
an imposing looking skeleton, though, in its despair, and it seems as
though it wants to remain there, as a witness, after its own death, to
its past grandeur.
One tragic relic of its wreckage still remains, and that is the
Tower. In spite of numberless projectiles, its massive construction,
devastated, but not conquered, persists in dominating the horizon of
Flanders. It had been constructed, primitively, to support three times
its weight. It scorned the shells which wounded it without knocking it
down, and its dark mass, proudly standing in the midst of the heaped-up
ruins, seems to be defying the infernal inventions aimed at it.
The cemetery adjoining the church is a most touching sight. Loving
hands have managed to keep the graves in order and they are covered
with flowers. There are very many of these graves, and some are even
on the paths. Not a single tomb is neglected. There are flowers,
vases, statuettes, and ancient woodwork, side by side with figures of
coloured plaster. All that could be rescued from the ruins has been
used for honouring the memory of those who are no more. There is one
grave which I shall never forget. It is surrounded by the ironwork of a
child's bedstead and, with infinite care, climbing plants and flowers
have been trained over this. In the centre, there are more plants, a
crucifix and two statues forming a calvary.
One night we were crossing this resting-place, where so many heroes
are sleeping their last sleep, when we witnessed a touching scene. We
heard the tread of approaching footsteps and a murmur of voices. The
chaplain, in his surplice, advanced, reciting the Prayers for the Dead.
Behind him, on a stretcher, carried by two sailors, was a long form.
They went on their way slowly to the other end of the cemetery, where a
grave had been prepared. They had to wait a little, as in order to find
the grave they needed the light of the fuses. The body was lowered,
a few more prayers were said, and then the dull thud of the earth
falling, and that was all.... There was the most impressive silence,
in spite of the cannon which kept vomiting forth death, and the almost
uninterrupted crackling of the bullets. A few hundred yards away, the
horizon, forming a semi-circle was lighted up at quick intervals by
the fuses which rose, throwing their reddish glow over the darkness,
lighting up the dreary plain, on the screen of which the sombre mass of
the tower, and the irregular lines of the dismantled pilasters and of
the arches, stood out all the more distinctly. A terrified bat turned
wildly about in the air, seeking a shelter that it could no longer find.
I remember that I spent that night at the relief station of the
Fusiliers, where I found a shelter for my men and where I was most
hospitably treated. In a cellar, adjoining the one in which their
poor wounded comrades were lying, a bed was very quickly made for me.
The walls of this improvised bedroom were papered with red, striped
paper, comfortable furniture was arranged here and there, and I should
certainly have slept, and not thought any more about the war, if
it had not been for the sound of the cannon, the detonations of the
grenades, and the clack of the bullets which, from time to time, came
flattening themselves against the outside of the wall.
At 3 o'clock, I was called, and we went on to the Town Hall, to do
some work there at daybreak. It was absolutely calm just then; not
the faintest sound, not even the slightest detonation could be heard
to disturb the great silence. We arrived at Rue Longue and I saw the
beautiful Louis XIV. façade once more. It was so characteristic, with
its double flight of stone steps. It stood there almost intact, in one
of the angles of the two streets that it ornaments. We went up one
flight of stairs and entered the Museum through the bay window. We
stopped short in front of a huge, gaping hole, obstructed by all kinds
of material. Two shells of 420 calibre had fallen there, taking away
with them the whole of the back of the building. When we had finished
our work, before leaving what had been the Museum, I looked out at the
horizon. There was a wider view from there now, thanks to the fall, one
after another, of the crumbling gables. I could see the line of the
Yser, and the canals, the destroyed houses of the lock-keepers, and, in
the background, the great downs. I then glanced at the place where the
huge, documentary picture of the Siege of Nieuport used to hang. I had
fetched it away in 1910, and the Kaiser, on his visit to Brussels, had
stopped a long time looking at it in a thoughtful, interested way....
On our return, we passed through the town again. It was just rousing to
its military life. The firing had recommenced, and from time to time a
bullet whizzed through the air.
As we passed by, we looked at what had been the relief station for the
sailors. We had seen so much suffering there. Our colleague, Chopard,
had been hit near by and had died there. On leaving the town, we passed
along the country roads. The sun was shining brightly and it bid
fair to be a glorious day. The most fragrant odours came to us from
the woods, and the fields were all refreshed with the dew. The birds
were singing.... We came to an inhabited farm. Children were playing
outside, careless of all danger. The father was moving to and fro,
attending to his usual daily work. In front of the half open door, the
mother could be seen feeding her baby. The hours we had lived through
seemed now like a horrible nightmare which we would fain forget. When
we came to La Panne, the bell of the Convent of the "Pauvres Claires"
of Nieuport, which rings in the little tower of the simple Ocean
Chapel, reminded us that it, too, had witnessed tragic moments. Poor
little bell! It seems to me that I can see it falling down from its
graceful bell-tower, after the brutal and monstrous blow given by
the murderous shell. I can still hear its rebounding fall above the
noise of the tumbling walls, in the midst of the ghastly furnace. I
could hear its last echoing groan, a last protest against the odious
destruction. Go on ringing timidly, little bell, in the calm of this
bright morning, a calm only disturbed by the noise of the work of
death. Very soon, that song shall be followed by another one. You shall
ring out then, to all the echoes, the song of joy, the song of victory,
announcing to the crowd, thrilled with joy unspeakable, that the hour
of the great deliverance has arrived, the hour when we shall find our
heroic Belgium free once more and born anew!