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Title: True Stories of The Great War, Volume 1 (of 6) Tales of Adventure-Heroic Deeds-Exploits Told by the Soldiers, Officers, Nurses, Diplomats, Eye Witnesses Author: Various Editor: Francis Trevelyan Miller Release Date: April 7, 2015 [EBook #48663] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUE STORIES--GREAT WAR, VOL 1 *** Produced by Brian Coe, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries) TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR TALES OF ADVENTURE—HEROIC DEEDS—EXPLOITS TOLD BY THE SOLDIERS, OFFICERS, NURSES, DIPLOMATS, EYE WITNESSES Collected in Six Volumes From Official and Authoritative Sources (See Introductory to Volume I) VOLUME I Editor-in-Chief FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER (Litt. D., LL.D.) Editor of The Search-Light Library 1917 REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY NEW YORK Copyright, 1917, by REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR INTRODUCTORY Thirty million soldiers, each living a great human story—this is the real drama of the Great War as it is being written into the hearts and memories of the men at the front. If these soldiers could be gathered around one camp-fire, and each soldier could relate the most thrilling moment of his experience—what stories we would hear! "Don Quixote," the "Arabian Nights," Dante's "Inferno," Milton's "Paradise Lost, and Regained"—all the legends and tales of the world's literature out-told by the soldiers themselves. It is from the lips of these soldiers, and those who have passed through the tragedy of the war—the women and children whose eyes have beheld the inferno and whose souls have been uplifted by suffering and self-sacrifice—the generations will hear the epic of the days when millions of men gave their lives to "make the world safe for Democracy." The magnitude of this gigantic struggle against autocracy is such that human imagination cannot visualize it—it requires one to stand face to face with death itself. A member of the British War Staff estimates that more than a million letters a day are passing from the trenches and bases of the various armies "to the folk back home." Another observer at the General Headquarters of one of the armies estimates that more than a million and a half diaries are being kept by the soldiers. It is in these words, inscribed by bleeding bodies and suffering hearts, that posterity is to hear True Stories of the Great War. It is the purpose of these volumes, therefore, to begin the preservation of these soldiers' stories. This is the first collection that has been made; it is in itself an historic event. The manner in which this service has been performed may be of interest to the reader. It was my privilege to appoint a committee, or board of editors, to collect stories from soldiers in the various armies—personal letters, records of personal experiences, reminiscences, and all other available material. An exhaustive investigation has been made into the files of European and American periodicals to find the various narratives that have "crept into print." More than eight thousand stories were considered. The vast amount of human material would require innumerable volumes to preserve it. It was the judgment of the committee that this documentary evidence could be brought into practical limitations by selecting a sufficient number of narratives to cover every human phase of the Great War and preserve them in six volumes. This first collection of "True Stories" forms what might be termed a "story-history" of the Great War, although all chronological plan is purposely avoided in order to preserve the story-teller's "reality" rather than the historian's record. These volumes are in the nature of a "Round Table" in which soldiers, refugees, nurses, eye-witnesses—all gather about the pages and relate the most thrilling episodes of their war experiences. We hear the tales of the soldiers who invaded Belgium, through the campaigns and battles on all the fronts, to the landing of the American troops in France. Diplomats tell of the scenes at the outbreak of the war; despatch bearers relate their missions of danger from Paris to Berlin, London, Vienna, Petrograd; refugees describe the [i] [ii] [iii] flight of the Belgians, the exodus of the Serbians, the invasion of Poland. Emissaries at General Headquarters tell of their dinners with the Kaiser and the Crown Prince, with Hindenburg and Zimmerman, and describe the scenes inside the German empire. Soldiers from the Marne, the Aisne, Verdun—relate their experiences. We listen to passengers tossed into the sea from the Lusitania; revolutionists who overthrew the Czar in Russia; exiles returning from Siberia. We hear the tales of the fighters from South Africa, Egypt, Turkey; stories from the Far East along the seas of China. The lieutenant of the Emden relates his adventures. There are stories told by Kitchener's "mob"; the "fighting Irish," Scottish Highlanders, the Canadians, the Australians, the Hindus. The French hussars and poilus tell of their experiences; the Italians in the Alps, the Austrians in the Carpathians—the stories cover the whole world and every race and nation. These personal narratives reveal the psychology of war in all its horrible reality—modern warfare on its gigantic scale—the genius of invention and organization applied to destruction. They reveal, moreover, the psychology of human nature and human emotions in all their moods and passions. The first impression is of the physical horror of the war, but this is soon overcome by the higher spirituality that impels men to sacrifice their lives for civilization and humanity. The stories sink at times into grossest brutality only to rise to the heights of nobility on the part of the sufferers. Officers tell of the charges of their battalions; the men in the trenches tell of the "nights of terror"; spies tell of their secret missions; nurses deliver the death-messages of the dying; priests tell how they carry the Cross of Christ to the bloody fields; the prisoners tell the "inside story of the prisons"; aviators relate their death-duels in the air; submarine officers tell how they torpedo and capture the enemies' ships. There is testimony from the lips of women who were ravaged; children who were brutally mutilated; witnesses who saw soldiers crucified; soldiers lashed to their guns; babies torn from their mothers' arms; homes in flames and ruins, cathedrals desecrated. And yet there is an undercurrent of humanity in these human documents. In their physical aspect they are almost beyond human belief—but there is a certain spiritual force running through them. There is a nobility in them that rises above all the physical anguish. These stories (and this war) reveal the souls of men as has nothing before in modern times. The war has taught men "how to die." These men have lost all fear of death. They have traveled the road of the crucifixion and stood before Calvary; they have caught a glimpse of something finer, nobler, truer than their own individual existence. Through suffering and self-sacrifice they have risen to the noblest heights. They have found something that we who have not faced death in the trenches may never find—they have felt an exaltation in mind and body that we may never know. There is the fire of the Old Crusaders about them; they have caught the realization of the glory of humanity as they march into the face of death. It is interesting to observe that wherever the story-teller is fighting for a principle, he sees no horror in war or death. It is only where he thinks of his individual suffering, where his thoughts are of his own physical self, that he complains. And there is even humor in these stories; we see men laughing at death; we see the wounded smiling and telling humorous tales of their suffering; there is irony, cajolery, good-natured satire, and loud outbursts of laughter. And there is tenderness in them— kindness, gentleness, devotion, affection, and love. We find in them every human passion—and every divine emotion. They form a new insight into character and manhood—they inspire us with a new and deeper faith in humanity. The committee in making these selections found that many of the human documents of the Great War are being preserved by the British, French, and German publishing houses, but it is the American publishers who are performing the greatest service in the preservation of war literature. We have given consideration wherever possible to the notable work that is being done by our American colleagues. While we have selected from all sources what we consider to be the best stories of the war, giving full recognition in every instance to the original sources, it is a pleasure to state that our American periodicals have been given the preference. They cordially co-operated with us in this undertaking and we trust the public will show their due appreciation. We would especially call attention to the list of books and publishers recorded in the contents pages of the several volumes; also to the periodicals which are preserving many of the human stories of the war. These will form the basis for much of the literature of the future. As editor-in-chief of these volumes, I desire further to give full recognition to my associates: Mr. M. M. Lourens, of the University of Leyden; Mr. Egbert Gilliss Handy, founder of The Search-Light Library; Mr. Walter R. Bickford, former managing editor of The Journal of American History; and the staff of investigators at The Search-Light Library who made the extensive researches and comprehensive bibliographies—covering the whole range of literature on The Great War—required as a basis for the production of these books. Francis Trevelyan Miller. CONTENTS The Board of Editors in accordance with the plan outlined in "Introductory" for collecting the "Best Stories of the War," has selected this group of stories for VOLUME I from the most authentic sources in Europe and America. This volume includes 170 episodes and tales of adventure told by twenty-six story-tellers—Soldiers, Staff Observers, Officers, Despatch Riders, Cavalrymen, Aviators, Nurses, Prisoners, Raiders, Secret Service Men and American soldiers. Full credit is given in every instance to the original sources. VOLUME I—TWENTY-SIX STORY-TELLERS—170 EPISODES STORIES OF THE THREE MEN WHO CAUSED THE WORLD WAR 1 "HOW I MET THE KAISER, CROWN PRINCE AND ARCHDUKE" Told by Hall Caine (Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company) MY VISIT TO KING ALBERT—THE KING WHOSE THRONE IS THE HEARTS OF HIS PEOPLE 8 "I AM BOUND ON A MISSION FROM THE PRESIDENT OF FRANCE" Told by Pierre Loti [iv] [v] [vi] [vii] (Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company) "VIVE LA FRANCE"—HOW THEY DIE FOR THEIR COUNTRY 23 LAST MESSAGES OF FRENCH SOLDIERS Told by Rene Bazin (Permission of Current History) FOR GOD AND ITALY—BREATHING DEATH WITH THE ITALIANS 29 "WHERE MINUTES ARE ETERNAL" Told by Gabriele D'Annunzio (Permission of London Telegraph) THE BLOOD OF THE RUSSIANS IN FIGHT FOR LIBERTY 36 "THE DESERTED BATTLEFIELDS I HAVE SEEN" Told by Count Ilya Tolstoy (Permission of Current History) MY EXPERIENCES IN THE WAR HOSPITALS OF RUMANIA 44 THE HORRORS OF THE LITTLE BALKAN KINGDOM Told by Queen Marie of Rumania (Permission of Philadelphia Public Ledger) "WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE WEST"—VISITS TO THE GENERAL STAFF 49 Told by Sven Hedin (Permission of John Lane Company) "THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND"—WITH KITCHENER'S ARMY IN FRANCE 73 STORIES STRAIGHT FROM THE TRENCHES Told by Captain Ian Hay Beith (Permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company) SOME EXPERIENCES IN HUNGARY 97 IN THE PALACE OF PRINCE AND PRINCESS K—— Told by Mina Macdonald (Permission of Longmans, Green and Company) "FORCED TO FIGHT"—THE TALE OF A SCHLESWIG DANE 117 "WHAT MY EYES WITNESSED IN EAST PRUSSIA" Told by Eric Erichsen (Permission of Robert M. McBride and Company) "ADVENTURES OF A DESPATCH RIDER" 133 AN OXFORD MAN WITH THE MOTORCYCLISTS Told by Capt. W. H. L. Watson (Permission of Dodd, Mead and Company) WITH A B.-P. SCOUT IN GALLIPOLI—ON THE TURKISH FRONTIER 155 A RECORD OF THE BELTON BULLDOGS Told by Edmund Yerbury Priestman (Permission of E. P. Dutton and Company) "IN THE FIELD"—THE STORIES OF THE FRENCH CHASSEURS 165 IMPRESSIONS OF AN OFFICER OF LIGHT CAVALRY Told by Lieut. Marcel Dupont (Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company) "FIELD HOSPITAL AND FLYING COLUMN"—IN RUSSIA 181 JOURNAL OF AN ENGLISH NURSING SISTER Told by Violetta Thurston (Permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons) AN UNCENSORED DIARY—FROM THE CENTRAL EMPIRES 192 AT THE AMERICAN EMBASSY IN COPENHAGEN Told by Ernesta Drinker Bullitt (Permission of Doubleday, Page and Company) "A STUDENT IN ARMS"—IN THE RANKS WITH KITCHENER'S ARMY 209 RESURRECTION OF THE SOUL ON THE BATTLEFIELD Told by Donald Hankey (Permission of E. P. Dutton and Company) [viii] [ix] "THE RED HORIZON"—STORIES OF THE LONDON IRISH 217 THE MAN WITH THE ROSARY Told by Patrick MacGill (Permission of George H. Doran Company) MY TRIP TO VERDUN—GENERAL PETAIN FACE TO FACE 225 FROM GRAVES OF THE MARNE TO HILLS OF THE MEUSE Told by Frank H. Simonds (Permission of American Review of Reviews) UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES—WITH AMERICAN ARMY IN FRANCE 246 STORIES OF AMERICAN TROOPS ON ROAD TO FRONT Told by Lincoln Eyre, with Pershing's Army (Permission of New York World) WITH THE SERBIAN STOICS IN EXILE—UNDER THE GERMAN YOKE 257 EXPERIENCES IN THE FLIGHT TO ALBANIA Told by Gordon Gordon-Smith (Permission of New York Tribune) TALES OF THE TANKS—WITH THE ARMORED MONSTERS IN BATTLE 274 ADVENTURES AS ROMANTIC AS MEDIAEVAL LEGENDS Told by the Men in the Tanks "MY ESCAPE FROM THE TURKS DISGUISED AS A WOMAN" 288 THE STORY OF A WONDERFUL FEAT Told by Private Miron D. Arber (Permission of Wide World Magazine) TALES OF GERMAN AIR RAIDERS OVER LONDON AND PARIS 306 "HOW WE DROP BOMBS ON THE ENEMIES' CITIES" Told by the Air Raiders Themselves (Permission of New York American) TALES FROM SIBERIA—WHEN THE PRISON DOORS OPENED 316 JOURNEY HOME OF A HUNDRED THOUSAND EXILES Told by (name withheld), an Eye-Witness (Permission of New York Evening World, Los Angeles Times, and Literary Digest) SURVIVORS' STORIES OF SINKING OF THE "LUSITANIA" 325 "HOW WE SAW OUR SHIP GO DOWN—TORPEDOED BY A GERMAN SUBMARINE" Told by Passengers of the Ill-Fated "Lusitania" WITH THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS ON THE FIELDS OF FRANCE 340 PERSONAL EXPERIENCES DIRECT FROM THE FRONT (Permission of New York Sun) [x] Photo by International News Service. ON OBSERVATION DUTY A Better Defense Against Enemy Eyes Than Against Bullets or Shells! "Canadian War Records, Copyright Reserved." A NERVE-RACKING JOB Watching Artillery Fire From an Advance Pit in No-Man's-Land POUNDING AT LONG RANGE A Battery of Heavy Howitzers Doing its Part in Hammering the Enemy into Proper Condition for a Charge © International News Service. FORWARD! A Few Minutes Later These Britishers Were in the German Trenches STORIES OF THE THREE MEN WHO CAUSED THE WORLD WAR "How I Met the Kaiser, Crown Prince and Archduke" Told by Hall Caine, Famous British Novelist, Who Offered All to His Country This celebrated novelist, since the outbreak of the War, has fought a noble battle for the Anglo-Saxon race with the "pen that is mightier than the sword." His appeals to America have been the voice of a world patriot calling in the name of humanity. He presents the great actors in vivid pen pictures, the Kaiser, the Crown Prince, the Archduke. The following pen sketches are from "The Drama of 365 Days," by permission of the publishers J. B. Lippincott Company: Copyright, 1915. [1] I—PEN PORTRAITS OF THE KAISER Other whisperings there were of the storm that was so soon to burst on the world. In the ominous silence there were rumours of a certain change that was coming over the spirit of the Kaiser. For long years he had been credited with a sincere love of peace, and a ceaseless desire to restrain the forces about him that were making for war. Although constantly occupied with the making of a big army, and inspiring it with great ideals, he was thought to have as little desire for actual warfare as his ancestor, Frederick William, had shown, while gathering up his giant guardsmen and refusing to allow them to fight. Particularly it was believed in Berlin (not altogether graciously) that his affection for, and even fear of his grandmother, Queen Victoria, would compel him to exhaust all efforts to preserve peace in the event of trouble with Great Britain. But Victoria was dead, and King Edward might perhaps be smiled at—behind his back—and then a younger generation was knocking at the Kaiser's door in the person of his eldest son, who represented forces which he might not long be able to hold in check. How would he act now? Thousands of persons in this country had countless opportunities before the war of forming an estimate of the Kaiser's character. I had only one, and it was not of the best. For years the English traveller abroad felt as if he were always following in the track of a grandiose personality who was playing on the scene of the world as on a stage, fond as an actor of dressing up in fine uniforms, of making pictures, scenes, and impressions, and leaving his visible mark behind him—as in the case of the huge gap in the thick walls of Jerusalem, torn down (it was said with his consent) to let his equipage pass through. In Rome I saw a man who was a true son of his ancestors. Never had the laws of heredity better justified themselves. Frederick William, Frederick the Great, William the First—the Hohenzollerns were all there. The glittering eyes, the withered arm, the features that gave signs of frightful periodical pain, the immense energy, the gigantic egotism, the ravenous vanity, the fanaticism amounting to frenzy, the dominating power, the dictatorial temper, the indifference to suffering (whether his own or other people's), the overbearing suppression of opposing opinions, the determination to control everybody's interest, everybody's work—I thought all this was written in the Kaiser's masterful face. Then came stories. One of my friends in Rome was an American doctor who had been called to attend a lady of the Emperor's [1] [2] [3] household. "Well, doctor, what's she suffering from?" said the Kaiser. The doctor told him. "Nothing of the kind—you're entirely wrong. She's suffering from so and so," said the Majesty of Germany, stamping up and down the room. At length the American doctor lost control. "Sir," he said, "in my country we have a saying that one bad practitioner is worth twenty good amateurs—you're the amateur." The doctor lived through it. Frederick William would have dragged him to the window and tried to fling him out of it. William II put his arm round the doctor's shoulder and said, "I didn't mean to hurt you, old fellow. Let us sit down and talk." A soldier came with another story. After a sham fight conducted by the Kaiser the generals of the German army had been summoned to say what they thought of the Royal manœuvers. All had formed an unfavourable opinion, yet one after another, with some insincere compliment, had wriggled out of the difficulty of candid criticism. But at length came an officer, who said: "Sir, if it had been real warfare to-day there wouldn't be enough wood in Germany to make coffins for the men who would be dead." The general lived through it, too—at first in a certain disfavour, but afterwards in recovered honour. Such was the Kaiser, who a year ago had to meet the mighty wind of War. He was in Norway for his usual summer holiday in July, 1914, when affairs were reaching their crisis. Rumour has it that he was not satisfied with the measure of the information that was reaching him, therefore he returned to Berlin, somewhat to the discomfiture of his ministers, intending, it is said, for various reasons (not necessarily humanitarian) to stop or at least postpone the war. If so, he arrived too late. He was told that matters had gone too far. They must go on now. "Very well, if they must, they must," he is reported to have said. And there is the familiar story that after he had signed his name on the first of August to the document that plunged Europe into the conflict that has since shaken it to its foundations, he flung down his pen and cried, "You'll live to regret this, gentlemen." II—PEN-PORTRAIT OF THE CROWN PRINCE And then the Crown Prince. In August of last year nine out of every ten of us would have said that not the father, but the son, of the Royal family of Germany had been the chief provocative cause of the war. Subsequent events have lessened the weight of that opinion. But the young man's known popularity among an active section of the officers of the army; their subterranean schemes to set him off against his father; a vague suspicion of the Kaiser's jealousy of his eldest son—all these facts and shadows of facts give colour to the impression that not least among the forces which led the Emperor on that fateful first of August to declare war against Russia was the presence and the importunity of the Crown Prince. What kind of man was it, then, whom the invisible powers of evil were employing to precipitate this insensate struggle? Hundreds of persons in England, France, Russia and Italy must have met the Crown Prince of Germany at more or less close quarters, and formed their own estimates of his character. The barbed-wire fence of protective ceremony which usually surrounds Royal personages, concealing their little human foibles, was periodically broken down in the case of the Heir-Apparent to the German Throne by his incursion every winter into a small cosmopolitan community which repaired to the snows of the Engadine for health or pleasure. In that stark environment I myself, in common with many others, saw the descendant of the Fredericks every day, for several weeks of several years, at a distance that called for no intellectual field-glasses. And now I venture to say, for whatever it may be worth, that the result was an entirely unfavourable impression. I saw a young man without a particle of natural distinction, whether physical, moral, or mental. The figure, long rather than tall; the hatchet face, the selfish eyes, the meaningless mouth, the retreating forehead, the vanishing chin, the energy that expressed itself merely in restless movement, achieving little, and often aiming at nothing at all; the uncultivated intellect, the narrow views of life and the world; the morbid craving for change, for excitement of any sort; the indifference to other people's feelings, the shockingly bad manners, the assumption of a right to disregard and even to outrage the common conventions on which social intercourse depends— all this was, so far as my observation enabled me to judge, only too plainly apparent in the person of the Crown Prince. Outside the narrow group that gathered about him (a group hailing, ironically enough, from the land of a great Republic) I cannot remember to have heard in any winter one really warm word about him, one story of an act of kindness, or even generous condescension, such as it is easy for a royal personage to perform. On the contrary, I was constantly hearing tales of silly fooleries, of overbearing behaviour, of deliberate rudeness, such as irresistibly recalled, in spirit if not in form, the conduct of the common barrator in the guise of a king, who, if Macaulay's stories are to be credited, used to kick a lady in the open streets and tell her to go home and mind her brats. III—PEN-PORTRAIT OF THE ARCHDUKE FERDINAND Then the Archduke Ferdinand of Austro-Hungary, whose assassination was the ostensible cause of this devastating war—what kind of man was he? Quite a different person from the Crown Prince, and yet, so far as I could judge, just as little worthy of the appalling sacrifice of human life which his death has occasioned. Not long before his tragic end I spent a month under the same roof with him, and though the house was only an hotel, it was situated in a remote place, and though I was not in any sense of the Archduke's party, I walked and talked frequently with most of the members of it, and so, with the added help of daily observation, came to certain conclusions about the character of the principal personage. A middle-aged man, stiff-set, heavy-jawed, with a strong step, and a short manner; obviously proud, reserved, silent, slightly imperious, self-centred, self-opinionated, well-educated in the kind of knowledge all such men must possess, but narrow in intellect, retrograde in sympathy, a stickler for social conventions, an almost unyielding upholder of royal rights, prerogatives, customs, and usages (although by his own marriage he had violated one of the first of the laws of his class, and by his unfailing fidelity to his wife continued to resist it), superstitious rather than religious, an immense admirer of the Kaiser, and a decidedly hostile critic of our own country—such was the general impression made on one British observer by the Archduke Ferdinand. The man is dead; he took no part in the war, except unwittingly by the act of dying, and therefore one could wish to speak of him with respect and restraint. Otherwise it might be possible to justify this estimate of his character by the narration of little incidents, and one such, though trivial in itself, may perhaps bear description. The younger guests of the hotel in the mountains had got up a fancy dress ball, and among persons clad in all conceivable costumes, including those of monks, cardinals, and even popes, a lady of demure manners, who did not dance, had come downstairs in the habit of a nun. This aroused the superstitious indignation of the [4] [5] [6] [7] Archduke, who demanded that the lady should retire from the room instantly, or he would order his carriage and leave the hotel at once. Of course, the inevitable happened—the Archduke's will became law, and the lady went upstairs in tears, while I and two or three others (Catholics among us) thought and said, "Heaven help Europe when the time comes for its destinies to depend largely on the judgment of a man whose bemuddled intellect cannot distinguish between morality of the real world and of an entirely fantastic and fictitious one." (Hall Caine in his pen portraits from the War describes "A Conversation with Lord Roberts"; "The Motherhood of France"; "The Russian Soul"; "The Soul of Poland"; "The Part Played by Italy," and sixty-two dramatic sketches.) FOOTNOTES: All numerals throughout these volumes are for the purpose of enumerating the various stories and episodes herein told—they have no relation to the chapters in the original sources. MY VISIT TO KING ALBERT—THE KING WHOSE THRONE IS THE HEARTS OF HIS PEOPLE "I Am Bound on a Mission from the President of France" Told by Pierre Loti, of the French Academy, and Captain in the French Navy This master of the modern school of French letters offered his services to his Country at the outbreak of the War. As Captain Julien Viaud, of the Naval Reserve, this famous author was assigned to the dockyards. He longed for more active service and appealed to the Minister of Marine: "I should accept with joy, with pride, any position whatsoever that would bring me nearer to the fighting line, even if it were a very subordinate post, one much below the dignity of my five rows of gold braid." With his masterful touch Pierre Loti is immortalizing the War in literature. The story here told of his visit to King Albert, of Belgium, is from his notable story entitled "War" in which he describes with simple but touching words his encounters with wounded soldiers, sisters of mercy and homeless little Belgian orphans. This one story from his book of twenty-five inspiring chapters is reproduced by permission of his publishers, J. B. Lippincott Company: Copyright 1917. I—"ON MY WAY TO GENERAL HEADQUARTERS OF THE BELGIAN ARMY" To-day on my way to the General Headquarters of the Belgian Army, whither I am bound on a mission from the President of the French Republic to His Majesty King Albert, I pass through Furnes, another town wantonly and savagely bombarded, where at this hour of the day there is a raging storm of icy wind, snow, rain, and hail, under a black sky. Here as at Ypres the barbarians bent their whole soul on the destruction of the historical part, the charming old town hall and its surroundings. It is here that King Albert, driven forth from his palace, established himself at first. Thereupon the Germans, with that delicacy of feeling to which at present no one in the world disputes their claim, immediately made this place their objective, in order to bombard it with their brutal, heavy shells. I need hardly say that there was scarcely anyone in the streets, where I slowed down my motor so that I might have leisure for a better appreciation of the effects of the Kaiser's "work of civilisation"; there were only some groups of soldiers, fully armed, some with their coat-collars turned up, others with the back curtains of their service-caps turned down. They hastened along in the squalls, running like children, and laughing good-humouredly, as if it were very amusing, this downpour, which for once was not of fire. How is it that there is no atmosphere of sadness about this half-empty town? It is as if the gaiety of these soldiers, in spite of the gloomy weather, had communicated itself to the ruined surroundings. And how full of splendid health and spirits they seem! I see no more on any faces that somewhat startled, haggard expression, common at the beginning of the war. The outdoor life, combined with good food, has bronzed the cheeks of these men whom the shrapnel has spared, but their principal support and stay is their complete confidence, their conviction that they have already gained the upper hand and are marching to victory. The invasion of the Boches will pass away like this horrible weather, which after all is only a last shower of March; it will all come to an end. II—"I CAME UPON A LITTLE KNOT OF FRENCH SAILORS IN THE STORM" At a turning, during a lull in the storm, I come very unexpectedly upon a little knot of French sailors. I cannot refrain from beckoning to them, as one would beckon to children whom one had suddenly found again in some distant jungle, and they come running to the door of my car equally delighted to see someone in naval uniform. They seem to be picked men; they have such gallant, comely faces and such frank, spirited eyes. Other sailors, too, who were passing by at a little distance and whom I had not called, come likewise and surround me as if it were the natural thing to do, but with respectful familiarity, for are we not in a strange country, and at war? Only yesterday, they tell me, they arrived a whole battalion strong, with their officers, and they are camping in a neighbouring village while waiting to "down" the Boches. And I should like so much to make a détour and pay them a visit in their own camp if I were not pressed for time, tied down to the hour of my audience with His Majesty. Indeed it gives me pleasure to associate with our soldiers, but it is a still greater delight to associate with our sailors, among whom I passed forty years of my life. Even before I caught sight of them, just from hearing them talk, I could recognise them for what they were. More than once, on our military thoroughfares in the north, on a pitch-dark night, when it was one of their detachments who stopped me to demand the password, I have recognised them simply by the sound of their voices. One of our generals, army commander on the Northern Front, was speaking to me yesterday of that pleasant, kindly familiarity [1] [8] [9] [10] [11] which prevails from the highest to the lowest grade of the military ladder, and which is a new tone characteristic of this essentially national war in which we all march hand in hand. "In the trenches," he said to me, "if I stop to talk to a soldier, other soldiers gather round me so that I may talk to them too. And they are becoming more and more admirable for their high spirits and their brotherliness. If only our thousands of dead could be restored to us what a benefit this war would have bestowed upon us, drawing us near together, until we all possess but one heart." It is a long way to the General Headquarters. Out in the open country the weather is appalling beyond description. The roads are broken up, fields flooded until they resemble marshes, and sometimes there are trenches, chevaux de frise, reminding the traveller that the barbarians are still very near. And yet all this, which ought to be depressing, no longer succeeds in being so. Every meeting with soldiers—and the car passes them every minute—is sufficient to restore your serenity. They have all the same cheerful faces, expressive of courage and gaiety. Even the poor sappers, up to their knees in water, working hard to repair the shelter pits and defences, have an expression of gaiety under their dripping service-caps. What numbers of soldiers there are in the smallest villages, Belgian and French, very fraternally intermingling. By what wonderful organisation of the commissariat are these men housed and fed? But who asserted that there were no Belgian soldiers left? On the contrary, I pass imposing detachments on their way to the front, in good order, admirably equipped, and of fine bearing, with a convoy of excellent artillery of the very latest pattern. Never can enough be said in praise of the heroism of a people who had every reason for not preparing themselves for war, since they were under the protection of solemn treaties that should have preserved them forever from any such necessity, yet who, nevertheless, sustained and checked the brunt of the attack of the great barbarism. Disabled at first and almost annihilated, yet they are recovering themselves and gathering around their sublimely heroic king. III—"WE ARRIVE AT LAST—I SEE THE KING" It is raining, raining, and we are numb with cold, but we have arrived at last, and in another moment I shall see him, the King, without reproach and without fear. Were it not for these troops and all these service motor cars, it would be impossible to believe that this remote village was the General Headquarters. I have to leave the car, for the road which leads to the royal residence is nothing more than a footpath. Among the rough motor cars standing there, all stained with mud from the roads, there is one car of superior design, having no armorial bearings of any kind, nothing but two letters traced in chalk on the black door, S.M. (Sa Majesté), for this is his car. In this charming corner of ancient Flanders, in an old abbey, surrounded by trees and tombs, here is his dwelling. Out in the rain, on the path which borders on the little sacred cemetery, an aide-de-camp comes to meet me, a man with the charm and simplicity that no doubt likewise characterise his sovereign. There are no guards at the entrance to the dwelling, and no ceremony is observed. At the end of an unimposing corridor where I have just time to remove my overcoat, in the embrasure of an opening door, the King appears, erect, tall, slender, with regular features and a surprising air of youth, with frank eyes, gentle and noble in expression, stretching out his hand in kindly welcome. In the course of my life other kings and emperors have been gracious enough to receive me, but in spite of pomp, in spite of the splendour of some of their palaces, I have never yet felt such reverence for sovereign majesty as here, on the threshold of this little house, where it is infinitely exalted by calamity and self-sacrifice; and when I express this sentiment to King Albert he replies with a smile, "Oh, as for my palace," and he completes his phrase with a negligent wave of the hand, indicating his humble surroundings. It is indeed a simple room that I have just entered, yet by the mere absence of all vulgarity, still possessing distinction. A bookcase crowded with books occupies the whole of one wall; in the background there is an open piano with a music-book on the stand; in the middle a large table, covered with maps and strategic plans; and the window, open in spite of the cold, looks out on to a little old-world garden, like that of a parish priest, almost completely enclosed, stripped of its leaves, melancholy, weeping, as it were, the rains of winter. After I have executed the simple mission entrusted to me by the President of the Republic, the King graciously detains me a long time in conversation. But if I felt reluctant to write even the beginning of these notes, still more do I hesitate to touch upon this interview, even with the utmost discretion, and then how colourless will it seem, all that I shall venture to say! It is because in truth I know that he never ceases to enjoin upon those around him, "Above all, see that people do not talk about me," because I know and understand so well the horror he professes for anything resembling an "interview." So then at first I made up my mind to be silent, and yet when there is an opportunity of making himself heard, who would not long to help to spread abroad, to the utmost of his small ability, the renown of such a name? Very striking in the first place is the sincere and exquisite modesty of his heroic nature; it is almost as if he were unaware that he is worthy of admiration. In his opinion he has less deserved the veneration which France has devoted to him, and his popularity among us, than the least of his soldiers, slain for our common defence. When I tell him that I have seen even in the depths of the country, in peasants' cottages, the portraits of the King and Queen of the Belgians in the place of honour, with little flags, black, yellow and red, piously pinned around them, he appears scarcely to believe me; his smile and his silence seem to answer: "Yet all that I did was so natural. Could a king worthy of the name have acted in any other way?" Now we talk about the Dardanelles, where in this hour serious issues hang in the balance; he is pleased to question me about ambushes in those parts, which I frequented for so long a time, and which have not ceased to be very dear to me. But suddenly a colder gust blows in through the window, still opening on to the forlorn little garden. With what kindly thoughtfulness, then, he rises, as any ordinary officer might have done, and himself closes the window near which I am seated. And then we talk of war, of rifles, of artillery. His Majesty is well posted in everything, like a general already broken in to his craft. IV—"A GREAT WARRIOR IN THE MIDST OF AN ARMY OF HEROES" Strange destiny for a prince, who, in the beginning, did not seem designated for the throne, and who, perhaps, would have preferred to go on living his former somewhat retired life by the side of his beloved princess. Then, when the unlooked-for crown was placed upon his youthful brow, he might well have believed that he could hope for an era of profound peace, in the midst of the most peaceful of all nations, but, contrary to every expectation, he has known the most appallingly tragic reign of all. Between one day and the next, without a moment's weakness, without even a moment's hesitation, disdainful of compromises, which for a time, at [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] least, though to the detriment of the civilisation of the world, might have preserved for a little space his towns and palaces, he stood erect in the way of the Monster's onrush, a great warrior king in the midst of an army of heroes. To-day it is clear that he has no longer a doubt of victory, and his own loyalty gives him complete confidence in the loyalty of the Allies, who truly desire to restore life to his country of Belgium; nevertheless, he insists that his soldiers shall co-operate with all their remaining strength in the work of deliverance, and that they shall remain to the end at the post of danger and honour. Let us salute him with the profoundest reverence. Another less noble, might have said to himself: "I have amply paid my debt to the common cause; it was my troops who built the first rampart against barbarism. My country, the first to be trampled under the feet of these German brutes, is no more than a heap of ruins. That suffices." But no, he will have the name of Belgium inscribed upon a yet prouder page, by the side of Serbia, in the golden book of history. And that is the reason why I met on my way those inestimable troops, alert and fresh, miraculously revived, who were on their way to the front to continue the holy struggle. Before him let us bow down to the very ground. Night is falling when the audience comes to an end and I find myself again on the footpath that leads to the abbey. On my return journey, along those roads broken up by rain and by military transport wagons, I remain under the charm of his welcome. And I compare these two monarchs, situated, as it were, at opposite poles of humanity, the one at the pole of light, the other at the pole of darkness; the one yonder, swollen with hypocrisy and arrogance, a monster among monsters, his hands full of blood, his nails full of torn flesh, who still dares to surround himself with insolent pomp; the other here, banished without a murmur to a little house in a village, standing on a last strip of his martyred kingdom, but in whose honour rises from the whole civilised earth a concert of sympathy, enthusiasm, magnificent appreciation, and for whom are stored up crowns of most pure and immortal glory. V—A LITTLE JOURNEY TO THE BATTLEGROUNDS OF FRANCE (Another Story Told by Pierre Loti) The blood of the masters is drenching the soil of France. The great academicians are willing to die that their beloved France may live. Here we stand on the battleground with this great French novelist, whose impressions are told in Current History. This is the first time that I have found myself so absolutely and infinitely alone, in the midst of this stage setting of immense desolation, which to-day, as it chances, is sparkling with light, and is only the more mournful for that. Until I reach the little wood to which an errand of duty calls me I need think of nothing; I need not occupy myself with anything; I need not avoid the shells, which would not give me time to avoid them, nor even choose the spot to set my foot down, since it sinks in everywhere equally. And so it comes that I drift back again to the mood of former days, to my mood of mind before the war, and all these things to which I have grown used I see and judge as though they were new. Only a score of months ago who would have imagined such a face of things? Thus, these countless excavations—white, because the soil of this region is white—excavations that stretch on all sides and which mark across the wilderness multitudes of zebra-tracings— is it possible that they mark out the only paths along which our soldiers of France can move to-day with a sort of half security?... Little sunken ways, some of them full of curves, some of them straight, which have been named "guts," and which we have had to multiply, to multiply to such a point that the earth is furrowed by them to infinity! What an enormous sum of toil they represent, these mole paths, lying in a network over hundreds of leagues! If we add the trenches, the shelter caves, all these catacombs that plunge down into the hearts of the hills, one's mind stops dead before such a total of excavation, that might seem the work of centuries. And these things that look like fishing nets stretched on all sides. If one were not informed in advance and accustomed to them, could one divine what they can possibly be? You might think that gigantic spiders had been spinning their webs among these myriads of posts, sometimes planted in straight lines, sometimes forming circles or half moons, tracing across the wide expanse designs that must be cabalistic in order better to ensnare and envelop the Barbarians. And besides they have terribly reinforced them, multiplying them twice, nay, ten times, since my last passage, these stake nets, and our web-spinning soldiers have had to make among them turnings and passages, with the enormous reels of barbed wire which they carry under their arms. But there is one thing that you can understand at the first glance, and which adds to the grim horror of the whole scene, and that is the inclosures sprinkled here and there, the wooden fences that shut in closely packed groups of poor little burial crosses, made of two pieces of wood. That you can tell at once, alas! and see exactly what it is! Here they lie, therefore, under the thunder of the big guns, as though the battle was not yet finished for them, our dear departed ones, our unknown, magnificent heroes—whom even those who weep for them cannot now come nigh, because death is passing ceaselessly in the air above their silent little gatherings. Ah! To complete the unreality of it all, here comes a black bird of gigantic wing-stretch, a monster of the apocalypse, that flits past noisily high above me. He flies on toward France, seeking doubtless the more sheltered region where women and children begin to be found, with the hope of slaughtering some of them. VI—"I LOOK DOWN ON THE TERRIBLE LANDSCAPE" I walk on, if one call it walking, this wearisome and inexorable process of plunging through the mud. And finally I arrive at the little grove of trees where we are to meet. I am glad of it, for my helmet and cloak had become a heavy burden under this unexpectedly burning sun. It happens that I am the first to arrive; the officer whom I have summoned—to discuss new defense works, new lines of stake nets, new burrows—is without doubt that blue outline making its way hither, but he is still distant, and I have still a few moments to continue my meditation of the way hither before it is time to become once more concentrated and exact. It is clear that the place is not left entirely alone, for these poor, half-stripped branches offer no more resistance than mere sheets of paper to the huge humming beetles that pass through them from time to time; but all the same a little wood like this keeps you company, shuts you in, spreads something of illusion about you. [16] [17] [18] [19] I am on a bit of rising ground, from which I look down on all the terrible landscape, the succession of monotonous hillocks zebra- streaked by whitish "guts," and the few trees disheveled by shrapnel bullets. In the further distances these intertwined wires, stretched in all directions, sparkle in the sun, somewhat like "the Virgin's threads," which spread over the meadows in Spring. And on all sides the detonations of artillery keep up their accustomed rumble, which goes on unceasingly here, night and day, like the roar of the ocean against the cliffs. Ah! the huge bird has found some one to speak to in the air! I see it all at once assailed by a host of those little tufts of white cotton —bursting shrapnel—which look so innocent, but which are so perilous for birds of its breed. It turns about hastily; its crimes are put off for another time. From behind a nearby rising ground come forth a group of men in blue, who will reach me before the officer who is coming over there. It is the chance one, the one among thousands of these little processions which one meets incessantly, alas! along the battle front, and which form, so to speak, part of the stage setting. At its head four soldiers are carrying a stretcher, and others are following, to relieve them. Attracted also by the illusory protection of the branches, they stop instinctively at the entrance of the little wood to take breath and change shoulders. They come from the first-line trenches, which are three or four kilometers away, and are carrying a "gravely wounded" man to an underground hospital, which is some quarter of an hour away. They also had not foreseen this vicious sun that scorches one's head; they are wearing their helmets and cloaks, and they feel the weight of them as much as that of the precious load which they take such pains to carry steadily; more, they drag along, on each foot, a thick shell of sticky mud which gives them feet like elephants, and the sweat runs in big drops over their fine, tired faces. "What is the matter with your wounded man?" I ask in a low voice. In still lower voices they answer me: "He is ripped up the belly—oh! the trench surgeon told us that...." They finish the sentence only with a shake of the head, but I understand. For the rest, he has not stirred. His poor hand remains pressed to his brow and his eyes, doubtless to protect them against the baking sun, and I ask: "Why did you not cover his face?" "We did put a handkerchief over it, Colonel, but he took it away; he said he would rather have it like that, so that he can still see something between his fingers." VII—HOW GLORIOUS IS THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE Ah...