The White Road to Verdun Part 1

The White Road to Verdun.

by Kathleen Burke.

TO

DR. C.O. MAILLOUX

(NEW YORK)

MR. AND MRS. L.B. FRANKLIN

AND

JEANNETTE FRANKLIN

AND TO MY

MOTHER

WHO BY THEIR AFFECTION AND PRACTICAL

SYMPATHY HELPED ME IN ALL THE

WORK I HAVE UNDERTAKEN.

10th August, 1916.

We left Paris determined to undertake the journey to the front in the true spirit of the French _poilu_, and, no matter what happened, "_de ne pas s'en faire_."

This famous "motto" of the French Army is probably derived from one of two slang sentences: "De ne pas se faire des cheveux" ("To keep one's hair on"), or "De ne pas se faire de la bile" (or, in other words, not to upset one's digestion by unnecessary worrying). The phrase is typical of the mentality of the _poilu_, who accepts anything and everything that may happen, whether it be merely slight physical discomfort or intense suffering, as part of the willing sacrifice which he made on the day that, leaving his homestead and his daily occupation, he took up arms "offering his body as a shield to defend the Heart of France."

Everything might be worse than it is, says the _poilu_, and so he has composed a litany. Every regiment has a different version, but always with the same fundamental basis:

"Of two things one is certain: either you're mobilised or you're not mobilised. If you're not mobilised, there is no need to worry; if you are mobilised, of two things one is certain: either you're behind the lines or you're on the front. If you're behind the lines, there is no need to worry; if you're on the front, of two things one is certain: either you're resting in a safe place or you're exposed to danger. If you're resting in a safe place, there is no need to worry; if you're exposed to danger, of two things one is certain: either you're wounded or you're not wounded. If you're not wounded, there is no need to worry; if you are wounded, of two things one is certain: either you're wounded seriously or you're wounded slightly. If you're wounded slightly, there is no need to worry; if you're wounded seriously, of two things one is certain: either you recover or you die. If you recover, there is no need to worry; if you die, you can't worry."

When once past the "Wall of China," as the French authorities call the difficult approaches of the war zone, Meaux was the first town of importance at which we stopped.

We had an opportunity to sample the army bread, as the driver of a pa.s.sing bread-wagon flung a large round loaf into our motor.

According to all accounts received from the French soldiers who are in the prison-camps of Germany, one of the greatest hardships is the lack of white bread, and they have employed various subterfuges in the endeavour to let their relatives know that they wish to have bread sent to them. Some of the Bretons writing home nicknamed bread "Monsieur Barras," and when there was a very great shortage they would write to their families: "Ce pauvre Monsieur Barras ne se porte pas tres bien a present." Finally, the Germans discovered the real significance of M.

Barras, and they added to one of the letters: "Si M. Barras ne se porte pas tres bien a present, c'est bien la faute de vos amis les Anglais"

("If M. Barras is not very fit, it is the fault of your friends the English"), and from then all the letters referring to M. Barras were strictly suppressed.

While the German Press may not be above admitting a shortage of food in Germany, it seriously annoys the Army that the French prisoners or the French in the invaded regions should hear of it. I heard one story of the wife of a French officer in Lille who was obliged to offer unwilling hospitality to a German captain, who, in a somewhat clumsy endeavour to be amiable, offered to try to get news of her husband and to convey it to her. Appreciating the seeming friendliness of the captain, she confided to him that she had means of communicating with her husband who was on the French front. The captain informed against her, and the next day she was sent for by the Kommandantur, who imposed a fine of 50 frs.

upon her for having received a letter from the enemy lines. Taking a 100-fr. note from her bag, she placed it on the desk, saying, "M. le Kommandantur, here is the 50 frs. fine, and also another 50 frs. which I am glad to subscribe for the starving women and children in Berlin."

"No one starves in Berlin," replied the Kommandantur.

"Oh, yes, they do," replied Madame X. "I know, because the captain who so kindly informed you that I had received a letter from my husband showed me a letter the other day from his wife, in which she spoke of the sad condition of the women and children of Germany, who, whilst not starving, were far from happy." Thus she not only had the pleasure of seriously annoying the Kommandantur, but also a chance to get even with the captain who had informed against her, and who is no longer in soft quarters in Lille, but paying the penalty of his indiscretion by a sojourn on the Yser.

The bridge at Meaux, destroyed in the course of the German retreat, has not yet been entirely repaired. Beneath it rushes the Marne, and the river sings in triumph, as it pa.s.ses, that it is carrying away the soil that has been desecrated by the steps of the invader and that day by day it is washing clean the land of France.

In the fields where the corn is standing, the tiny crosses marking the last resting-places of the men are entirely hidden; but where the grain has been gathered, the graves stand out distinctly, marked not only by a cross, but also by the tall bunches of corn which have been left growing on these small patches of holy ground. It has always been said that France has two harvests each year. Certainly in the fields of the Marne there is not only the harvest of bread--there is also springing up the harvest of security and peace.

The peasants as they point out the graves always add: "We of the people know that those men sacrificed their lives that our children might live.

Those who have died in vain for an unjust cause may well envy the men of France who have poured out their blood for the benefit of humanity."

Looking on the crosses on the battlefield of the Marne, I realised to the fullest extent the sacrifices, borne with such bravery, of the women of France. I thought of the picture I had seen in Paris of a group of mothers standing at the foot of Calvary, looking out over the fields of small black crosses, lifting their hands to Heaven, with the words--"We also, G.o.d, have given our sons for the peace of the world."

At Montmirail the real activity of the war zone first became apparent.

We drew the car to the side of the road and waited whilst a long procession of empty munition-wagons pa.s.sed on the way back from the munition-parks near the fighting-line. There was a smile on the face of every one of the drivers. Each of them had the satisfaction of knowing that there was no chance of his returning with an empty wagon, as there is no lack of provisions to feed the hungriest of the "75's" or any of her larger sisters.

The fact that it is known that there is an ample supply of munitions plays an important part in the "moral" of the troops. The average _poilu_ has no sympathy with the man who grumbles at the number of hours he may have to work. We heard the tale of a munition-worker who was complaining in a cafe at having to work so hard. A _poilu_ who was _en permission_ and who was sitting at the next table, turned to him, saying, "You have no right to grumble: you receive 10 to 12 francs a day for making sh.e.l.ls, and we poor devils get 5 sous a day for stopping them!"

We lunched in the small but hospitable village of Sezanne, in company with a most charming invalided officer who informed us that he was the princ.i.p.al in that district of the S.D.R.D.R. (Service de Recherche des Rattiers) (the Princ.i.p.al Recruiting Officer for Rat-catchers). In other words, he is spending his time endeavouring to persuade suitable "bow-wows" to enlist in the service of their country. Likely dogs are trained until they do not bark, and become entirely accustomed to the sound of firing; they are then p.r.o.nounced "Aptes a faire campagne," or "Fit for service," receive their _livret militaire_, or certificates--for not every chance dog is allowed in the trenches--and are dispatched to the trenches on a rat-hunting campaign.

From Sezanne we proceeded direct to the new camp for German prisoners at Cannantre. The prisoners were mostly men who had been taken in the recent fighting on the Somme or round Verdun. The camp was already excellently installed, and the prisoners were busy in groups gardening, making bread, or sitting before great heaps of potatoes, preparing them for the evening meal. The German sense of order was everywhere in evidence. In the long barracks where the men slept the beds were tidy, and above each bed was a small shelf, each shelf arranged in exactly the same order, the princ.i.p.al ornaments being a mug, fork, and spoon; and just as each bed resembled each other bed, so the fork and spoon were placed in their respective mugs at exactly the same angle. There were small part.i.tioned apartments for the noncommissioned officers. The French Commander of the camp told us that the German love of holding some form of office was everywhere apparent. The French made no attempt to command the prisoners themselves, but always chose men from amongst the prisoners who were placed in authority over their comrades. The prisoners rejoiced exceedingly and promptly increased in self-importance and, alas! decreased in manners, if they were given the smallest position which raised them above the level of the rest of the men.

In the barrack where they were cutting up bread for the prisoners, we asked the men if they deeply regretted their captivity. They replied unanimously that they were "rather glad to be well fed," which seemed an answer in itself. They did not, however, appreciate the white bread and stated that they preferred their own black bread. The French officers commanding the camp treat the prisoners as naughty children who must be "kept in the corner" and punished for their own good. In all my travels through France I have never seen any bitterness shown towards the prisoners. I remember once at Nevers we pa.s.sed a group of German prisoners, and amongst them was a wounded man who was lying in a small cart. A handbag had fallen across his leg, and none of his comrades attempted to remove it. A French woman, pushing her way between the guards, lifted it off and gave it to one of the Germans to carry. When the guards tried to remonstrate, she replied simply, "J'ai un fils prisonnier la-bas, faut esperer qu'une allemande ferait autant pour lui"

("I have a son who is a prisoner in their land, let us hope that some German woman will do as much for him").

On the battlefields the kindness of the French medical men to the German wounded has always been conspicuous. One of my neutral friends pa.s.sing through Germany heard from one of the prominent German surgeons that they were well aware of this fact, and knew that their wounded received every attention. There is a story known throughout France of a French doctor who was attending a wounded German on the battlefield. The man, who was probably half delirious, s.n.a.t.c.hed at a revolver which was lying near by and attempted to shoot the doctor. The doctor took the revolver from him, patted him on the head, and said, "Voyons, voyons, ne faites pas l'enfant" ("Now then, now then, don't be childish"), and went on dressing his wounds.

Everywhere you hear accounts of brotherly love and religious tolerance.

I remember kneeling once by the side of a dying French soldier who was tenderly supported in the arms of a famous young Mohammedan surgeon, an Egyptian who had taken his degree in Edinburgh and was now attached to the French Red Cross. The man's mind was wandering, and seeing a woman beside him he commenced to talk to me as to his betrothed. "This war cannot last always, little one, and when it is over we will buy a pig and a cow and we will go to the cure, won't we, beloved?" Then in a lucid moment he realised that he was dying, and he commenced to pray, "Ave Maria, Ave Maria," but the poor tired brain could remember nothing more. He turned to me to continue, but I could no longer trust myself to speak, and it was the Mohammedan who took up the prayer and continued it whilst the soldier followed with his lips until his soul pa.s.sed away into the valley of shadows. I think this story is only equalled in its broad tolerance by that of the Rabbi Bloch of Lyons, who was shot at the battle of the Aisne whilst holding a crucifix to the lips of a dying Christian soldier. The soldier-priests of France have earned the love and respect of even the most irreligious of the _poilus_. They never hesitate to risk their lives, and have displayed sublime courage and devotion to their duty as priests and as soldiers. Behind the first line of trenches a soldier-priest called suddenly to attend a dying comrade took a small dog he was nursing, and handing it to one of the men, simply remarked, "Take care of the little beast for me; I am going to a dangerous corner and I do not want it killed."

I have seen the Ma.s.s celebrated on a gun-carriage. Vases made of sh.e.l.l-cases were filled with flowers that the men had risked their lives to gather, in order to deck the improvised altar. A Red Cross ambulance drove up and stopped near by. The wounded begged to be taken out on their stretchers and laid at the foot of the altar in order that "they might receive the blessing of the good G.o.d" before starting on the long journey to the hospital behind the lines.

Outside the prison-camp of Cannantre stood a circle of French soldiers learning the bugle calls for the French Army. I wondered how the Germans cared to listen to the martial music of the men of France, one and all so sure of the ultimate victory of their country. Half a kilometre farther on, a series of mock trenches had been made where the men were practising the throwing of hand grenades. Every available inch of s.p.a.ce behind the French lines is made to serve some useful purpose.

I never see a hand grenade without thinking how difficult it is just now to be a hero in France. Every man is really a hero, and the men who have medals are almost ashamed, since they know that nearly all their comrades merit them. It is especially difficult to be a hero in one's own family. One of the men in our hospital at Royaumont had been in the trenches during an attack. A grenade thrown by one of the French soldiers struck the parapet and rebounded amongst the men. With that rapidity of thought which is part of the French character, Jules sat on the grenade and extinguished it. For this act of bravery he was decorated by the French Government and wrote home to tell his wife. I found him sitting up in bed, gloomily reading her reply, and I inquired why he looked so glum. "Well, mademoiselle," he replied, "I wrote to my wife to tell her of my new honour; and see what she says: 'My dear Jules, we are not surprised you got a medal for sitting on a hand grenade; we have never known you to do anything else but sit down at home!'"

It was at Fere Champinoise that we pa.s.sed through the first village which had been entirely destroyed by the retreating Germans. Only half the church was standing, but services are still held there every Sunday.

Very little attempt has been made to rebuild the ruined houses. Were I one of the villagers, I would prefer to raze to the ground all that remained of the desecrated homesteads and build afresh new dwellings; happy in the knowledge that with the victory of the Allies would start a period of absolute security, prosperity, and peace.

It was on the same day that we had the privilege of beholding some of the 400-cm. guns of France, all prepared and ready to travel at a minute's notice along the railway lines to the section where they might be needed. Some idea of their size may be obtained from the fact that there were ten axles to the base on which they travel. They were all disguised by the system of _camouflage_ employed by the French Army, and at a very short distance they blend with the landscape and become almost invisible. Each gun bears a different name, "Alsace," "Lorraine," etc., and with that strange irony and cynical wit of the French trooper, at the request of the men of one battery, one huge gun has been christened "Mosquito," "because it stings."

The French often use a bitter and biting humour in speaking of the enemy. For instance, amongst the many pets of the men, the strangest I saw was a small hawk sitting on the wrist of a soldier who had trained him. The bird was the personification of evil. If anyone approached, he snapped at them and endeavoured to bite them. I asked the man why he kept him, and he replied that they had quite good sport in the trenches when they allowed the hawk to hunt small birds and field-mice. Then, his expression changing from jovial good-humour to grimness, he added: "You know, I call him 'Zepp,' because he kills the little ones" ("parcequ'il tue les tous pet.i.ts").

In one small cantonment where 200 _poilus_ sang, shouted, ate, drank, and danced together to the strain of a wheezy gramophone, or in one word were "resting," I started to investigate the various kinds of pets owned by the troopers. Cats, dogs, and monkeys were common, whilst one _poilu_ was the proud possessor of a parrot which he had purchased from a refugee obliged to fly from his home. He hastened to a.s.sure us that the bird had learned his "vocabulary" from his former proprietor. A study in black and white was a group of three or four white mice, nestling against the neck of a Senegalais.

The English Tommy is quite as devoted to animals as is his French brother. I remember crossing one bitter February day from Boulogne to Folkestone. Alongside the boat, on the quay at Boulogne, were lined up the men who had been granted leave. Arrayed in their s.h.a.ggy fur coats, they resembled little the smart British Tommy of peace times. It was really wonderful how much the men managed to conceal under those fur coats, or else the eye of the officer inspecting them was intentionally not too keen.

Up the gangway trooped the men, and I noticed that two of them walked slowly and cautiously. The boat safely out of harbour, one of them produced from his chest a large tabby cat, whilst the other placed a fine c.o.c.k on the deck. It was a c.o.c.k with the true Gaelic spirit: before the cat had time to consider the situation it had sprung on its back.

The cat beat a hasty retreat into the arms of its protector, who replaced it under his coat. Once in safety, it stuck out its head and swore at the c.o.c.k, which, perched on a coil of rope, crowed victoriously.