Chapter VIII: Paris and the Trenches

The ten days of the great conflict across France were now ended. The military machine, the most powerful that the world has seen, had swept past us across the silence of the frontier. Perfectly prepared beyond all anticipation, and driven by the utmost forces of military despotic tradition, it had achieved a performance remarkable in the history of wars. But the machine had been met, and though we did not yet know it, the momentum of its hammer-blow had been exhausted, by a defensive retreat which will rank as unsurpassed not only in military history but in the record of the greatest feats of human endurance, of the supreme conquests of the spirit of man over the machinery of man's invention.

Outmatched by ten to one, fighting by regiments, by groups, by individuals, the soldiers of the independent racial spirit, of voluntary subordination to the service of war, had resisted, doggedly, inch by inch, and outlasted in the end, the devastating impetus of the vast war engine. Still an unbeaten army of unconquerable personality, the survivors waited outside Paris, reinforced, ready to resume the offensive. Failure in organisation, suspected failures in collaboration might have been fatal to the moral of a mechanically trained army. To the elastic temperament and combination of our soldiers, bringing each a free man's personality to the work of his chosen profession, nothing could be fatal but loss of life itself, or loss of faith in the common cause.

I returned again to Paris when the Germans were within a long march of the outer forts. The journey took an interminable time. The direct lines were threatened by the enemy or blocked with the movements of troops. We wandered to remote junctions west of Paris, and had to fight good-humouredly for standing-room with crowds of reservists recalled to the colours. No doubt owing to the greater magnitude of the problem the French railway organisation, for other than military service, did not compare well, during the earlier stages of the war, with that of the Belgians, who showed a remarkable power of keeping their ordinary traffic almost normal, and of reconciling it with the movements of their own or the enemy's troops.

Paris was practically empty. A second greater exodus was going on. The Government had retired to Bordeaux the day before. With few exceptions even the war correspondents, the last usually to cling on, had vanished. Our Embassy had left with the Government. Our Consulate had also vanished, leaving a large number of anxious countrymen stranded. Doubtless they acted under orders. But, in pleasing contrast, a few of our Consuls seem to have been allowed to exercise a more considerate discretion, and remained doing excellent service till the threat of occupation passed. Most of the Government offices were being occupied by soldiers. General Gallieni, the Military Governor, was taking a firm hold. We felt at once that the defence of Paris in his hands was to be really "_jusqu'au bout_."

Life in Paris was undergoing a second mutation. On the occasion of my first visit, at the outbreak of the war, it was in the throes attending the surrender of individual liberty to the control of the Departments of official military government. The Departments had now retreated, and civilian life was under the necessity of readjusting itself to the confused beginnings of a purely "soldier" rule. The inconveniences lasted only for a few days. The Military Governor organised his staff for the unaccustomed work of administration with conspicuous energy.

All that was left of Paris, passive, observant, and quick to grasp the necessity of subduing even its natural inclination to caustic comment, accepted the situation philosophically. For a day or two we still listened for the sound of the guns of the forts, which should announce the beginning of the siege. But in place of them came the quick rumour of the British successes near Compiègne, of the German faltering and hesitation, of the swing south, and finally of the retreat from the Marne. People began to return. Paris life regained something of its vivacity; only the dark quiet evenings, and the occasional visit of an airman, survived inside the defences to remind us of the war. Now and then the sight of a British soldier being embraced on the streets, and treated to an extent that jeopardised the influence of Lord Kitchener's letter, made a link with the with-drawing armies. News was reduced to the customary minimum.

In the trenches, Friday.

Here, outside the gates of Paris, within the circle of the forts, there is a note of instancy and reality which is hardly shared by the city itself even since the nearer approach of the invaders. The red and blue dots of soldiers move briskly with purpose over the fields, under the heavy, summer trees. Just a flash of sun here and there on bayonet or helmet.

Fortune has introduced me to a collection of non-commissioned officers--jolly follows, in good heart. Some spoke English. One was a Russian who had served as a volunteer in most of the armies of the world. We sat under a tree in the shade, and they superintended the heavy work of more red dots with grey shirts, sweltering in the sun and digging trenches in the dusty, brown soil. In the distance, business-like little lines of blue and red moved away over the horizon. For the German cavalry is near us, in the Forest of Compiègne, to the north. It had reached to Soissons, even to Creil, yesterday.

The British caught them well two days ago; but now they are between us and the British, in their distracting, scattered Uhlan fashion.

We do not ask now: "Where are the English?" We know! But now it is: "Where are the Indian troops? How many are they? Where do they land?" Most of my friends are volunteers, full of spirit, and new to the work. We are rather puzzled by the position. Of course the German strategy is contrary to all sound rule. But still the "strategic retreat" seems to have drawn out the French lines almost as long as the line to the German base. We appear to pin our faith to that mysterious unknown factor, of which the Press speaks, and to the Indians and Turcos, and other oddments.

Then comes the interruption of reality. A few dispatch riders, in faint dusty blue, gallop past. A few wounded, supported, bandaged, or carried, come more slowly through the hot fields, along the dusty trenches and entanglements. A German mitrailleuse car, "blindée" (armoured)--that French invention that the Germans have turned to such account--has rushed on a French outpost. These are its victims. But the car is--we are told--"accounted for."

The touch of war is only a momentary disturbance to the quiet, busy work of the red-and-blue and red-and-grey dots, marching and mattocking in the afternoon sun round us.

Paris itself is "empty." Four weeks ago the Boulevards were deserted, but it was the emptiness of emotional stress, varied by the rush of sudden crowds and alarms. This was followed by our declaration of war; and coincidentally the streets grew again alive. Now they are deserted, but this time in earnest, for the inhabitants have dispersed where they may. There is no panic; none of the "nerves" of a month ago. The little unrest is due to the _reductio ad absurdum_ of war news, which characterises this war in all countries. The only crowd to-day was the crowd of automobiles at the Invalides, getting permits to leave the city before 7.30 to-night, the last moment of passage permitted. Even the 5 o'clock circuit of German aeroplanes created small sensation. It is no longer "new." Yesterday, gentlemen of sporting tastes took shots at the aeroplanes, as they sat at coffee on the Boulevards. To-day, some of the Brussels caution, which found in such promiscuous shooting a yet greater danger for the inhabitants, has asserted itself. A mitrailleuse on the Madeleine secures the civic safety.

Four weeks ago chance made it necessary for me to pass hours in almost every Government office in the city. There was then the inevitable confusion due to the fact that most of the efficient staff had gone to the front just at the moment at which every individual found his rights to move and exist had become vested in a series of public offices, and no longer in himself. Chance took me to-day to wait in almost all these offices yet once again. It was again a moment of dislocation, for the Government have gone. The offices are in the hands of soldiers. The citizens have to adjust their existence anew to yet another control, that of a purely military organisation.

All the landmarks are shifted. Begins anew the scuffle for the usual permissions to move or exist. As a pleasant contrast to the general flight and upheaval, the United States Embassy and Consulate are looking after the individual anxieties of half the nationalities of Europe with a courtesy and efficiency beyond all praise. Paris is empty, but sunny and still itself. Through the empty street the columns of red and blue soldiers pass, with dusty boots, making bright streaks of colour. Like a mother of pearl shell left on the beach, the colours of Paris remain vivid, though the life in her Government is gone south.

Friday night.

Another interlude--Shakespearean if you like. The talk of the first and second Watchmen and the second Citizen outside the walls. A drop-scene before Paris, in the second act of the great war tragedy.

The gates had closed before I could get in. A corporal, who considered himself under an obligation, suggested taking refuge in a shelter with five non-commissioned officers, who were superintending the defence works. He knew one of them. The rest were not of his regiment, and suspicious, as men are behind the lines. But two or three gathered round to smoke; and, Parisian-like, thawed with their own talk. The rest rolled up on the straw, and moved restlessly in tired sleep, outside the range of the single light.

Naturally the talk turned first on the stranger: "What a risky job. Now, a soldier goes safely where he's told, and can fight there, with friends round. But you may be shot by anyone, as the easiest thing to do! No inquiries as in peace time. Anyone may do it; and it's only an unlucky incident. No mention in the papers even! Why, even generals and officers have been shot in this war by mistake."

The risk set my corporal talking of a younger brother of his, whom he had brought up and seen married; their two wives are together at home with the babies. "He is of the--1st line, the little brother--only so high. I do not know where he is. Only one postcard with no date or address, saying 'Still living.' That is all, two weeks ago; and the war may be over, and we shall never know. Perhaps we shall have his regimental number returned, and never know. The little one whom I brought up--only so high."

There was only one opinion about the English troops. "What fellows they are--_charmants garcons!_--big and cool-looking in their 'green'; and impassive! And then, so gay, always so gay--except their songs!"

"I cannot understand them, but they laugh all the time, even when they are too tired to walk;"--it was a cuirassier speaking--"I helped to carry one in the other day; four of us. It was near Amiens. He was dying; his legs--so. He kept on saying something which we could not understand; perhaps it was a message to his mother or sweetheart. But he smiled always, and shook hands. And he said: 'Good friends. Good old England.' I understood that. He died before we found the ambulance."

I asked cautiously, later, why there was the constant question about the whereabouts of the "Turcos," Indians and Japanese. Were we not enough? There was a volume of answer. "Ah, but we are civilised! We thought this fighting would be civilised. They cut the heads off their bullets. Here is one! And they rough the edge of their bayonets--I have picked them up! But it is with savages. And we have not the temperament." A volunteer emphasised this, a bearded manufacturer, with a family, in ordinary times: "And these others know the barbarous methods of fight. It is of their nature. They can be ferocious. The savages fear them."

The old walls of Paris, the third line of defence, remain a cherished sentiment. The famous story of Todleben riding round them on inspection, with two officers, in silence, and only remarking quietly at the end: "_C'est tout? Paris est prise d'avance!_" was treated as a German's joke!

"The walls? They will be fought to the last! The stones of the street of Paris will rise up in new barricades--if 'they' get so far!"

A volunteer infantryman arrived with a packet of salt. Salt is getting rare. The arrival was made the occasion of a quick cooking of the universal soup. The talk flickered up; chiefly of friends and positions of regiments, details confused and not to be recorded. The end of one story, however, stands out vividly: "We were only three, and he could not walk further, and it was a cold night. We could not put him in a haystack, for the 'Bosches' burn them; or in a cottage, till 'they' had gone past. So we made a shallow trough between the furrows, leaving him warm with his head uncovered, and pulled a harrow above him. In the morning the peasant who had left the harrow would find him, warm; or it would be easy to finish burying him."

The last of them rolled up in their coats and straw to sleep, my corporal still murmuring: "I wonder where he is, the little one--so high? Perhaps, after the war----"

And it seemed only a moment later that the dawn began behind Paris, yellow behind the grey towers above the still mists.

Paris, Saturday dawn.

During the respite of the last days the army of defence has at least got what sleep it could.

The trenches within the circle of forts are cloaked before dawn by mist. Here and there, hidden under temporary shelters, a groan or murmur tells where the soldiers sleep on straw, behind the entrenchments. The stations of the local railway lines are filled with straw, and among sacks and accoutrements the more fortunate are asleep, crowded close under the open sheds.

If I move my head, shadows loom out of the mist--the close-standing sentries. Singular figures, hidden in white vapour to the waist. All wearing heavy cloaks of different types, but made uniform by the military cap, the shouldered or grounded musket.

The challenges run round, in subdued tones. Even suspicion seems lulled. In the truce of the night the mind even of the sentry is passive. The artificial atmosphere, that makes all but the known uniform an enemy, is forgotten for the moment.

Back towards Paris, the city is shoulder-deep in white mist. Only the spires and towers emerge, grey and sleepy. The summit of the Eiffel Tower is lost again in a yet higher belt.

As the grey light grows yellow and red with the coming sun, the towers are projected against it as if floating in mid air, a city of dreams. Can this be the town that is waiting half empty, garrisoned with soldiers, every public office a barrack or ambulance, for expected bombardment, almost certain siege?

Yet only a few miles to the north--how few the citizens do not yet know--the advance patrols of the enemy are also resting, sleeping under the same bands of white mist. They are at Pontoise; some of them have been encountered even near the Seine in the glades of the Forest of St. Germain.

And behind us, also hidden by the mist, the restless movement of our own troops continues. Trains are shunting and banging; there is the rattle of heavy wheels on the roads....

The yellow light widens; the mist lifts and grows thin. The sentries seem to shape themselves, and swing their cloaks. A general stir rustles out of the shelters. The clatter of cooking-pots and boots, even of voices, begins round us. The night has been warm, and a sultry feeling falls again at once with the opening of day. A cavalry patrol, visible already in its lighter blue uniforms, files past. The men move out to their work on the earthworks. There is the rattle of arms as the rifles are freed from their standing stooks. Strange sheaves these, in their threatening lines, by the edges of uncut cornfields. They begin to glitter as they are lifted in the early sunlight.

The sound of a distant shot, unexplained, startles my little circle of view into alertness. The truce of night goes in an instant with the mist. Suspicion, the sharp tension of prospective attack, change in a second the atmosphere. Orders, loud voices, and movements tell the beginning of another inconsequent day in the unnatural war.

Paris, as I return, is already awake: sharp outlined and stirring. Carts are moving in and out of one gate, which has opened early. Small parties of officers roll out noisily in motor-cars from their city quarters.

It is time to get back to the suppressed, shepherded existence of a civilian in a town under military government, for whom rumour-fed ignorance is considered to be the only safe-guard against panic.

Psychology of an elementary character might form a part of the training of the experts in war.

Paris, Saturday midnight.

The pause outside Paris continues. It is neither ominous nor reassuring. After their astonishing march the Germans have to collect themselves for the great move. Rushed by their pace and volume, but acting on a concerted plan, the Allies have retired with deliberate skill upon their intended positions; with Paris as pivot. For the time fighting tactics are of less importance. Strategy, for the first time since the failure beyond the frontier, is again to decide.

The Germans have failed to force a decisive victory on their course across France. The Allied Armies are still unseparated, their temporary dislocation is cemented five times as strongly. Havre is still covered, Paris is covered, the connection is retained with the armies in Lorraine. The Crown Prince's army has failed to keep pace in the centre. The front for the Allies is contracted; they have again a strategic base on Paris; they have succeeded in gaining, in spite of the tremendous pursuit, their chosen lines of defence to north and east of the capital.

During the last few days the Germans have discovered the strength of the position of the Allies by means of their unsuccessful raids at Compiègne and elsewhere. They have possibly got some further news from the west. They have had to rest their men and horses after the terrific march; get up their great siege guns; prepare their positions and platforms, and reconnoitre the admirable defensive strategic positions. Do they mean to attack Paris? There is now doubt of it. It has been "Paris or die." May we hope the "die" will be cast?

There has been a considerable movement of their troops to the south, east of Saint Denis. This has been construed into an attempt to turn the rear of the French positions on the frontier; to create a diversion in favour of the Crown Prince's army; to link up with this, and either surround the French army of Lorraine or advance in double force on Paris. This would imply a hesitation in the advance of the terrible "marching column," a relenting of the pace--in fact, a blunder of magnitude, in view of the importance of time.

It is more than probable that the movement south, to the east of Paris, is preparatory to an advance upon the capital from two directions, the east and north-east. This would at once threaten the connection with the armies of Lorraine; do something to clear the road for the Crown Prince in the centre; and substitute for an immediate attack upon Paris an advance upon the main position of our armies.

The design is being retarded by the usual measures; measures which, to the lay mind, might well have been employed in retarding the advance through Flanders and mid-Belgium.

Paris is going to be defended to the last wall. General Gallieni's thirty-eight-word proclamation has created a profound impression. If it comes even to street fighting, the few survivors in the city here are prepared to see the walls burning about them.

Perhaps I may mention the open secret that, if the Germans are rejoicing in the progress of their great siege guns, towed by 30-50 horses, we have a surprise quite as cheering for them here, once they get to close grips.

And besides this, we are all asking ourselves how long their nice sense of humanity will prevent the French making more use of their explosive secret? This is a war to kill, to be decided by the number killed.

And then Lord Kitchener's "unknown factor"; we know a great deal about it now.

General Gallieni is an administrator of established reputation, and a fighter by temperament. I met him to-day on his round of the fortifications. He is never away from the vital points; at the same time his administration of the town has got into working order with rapidity. He passed, with a salute, in a cloud of dust, the car in front guarded by a black orderly.

And even if Paris goes? Well, the campaign is clear. Sentiment is not to interfere with this ingenious campaign against superior forces.

It is impatient work, waiting in a placid town for an unheard enemy. I went out to look for him to-day. The roving "Uhlan," the "hooligan" of the war, had been reported yesterday at Pontoise, and in the Forest of St. Germain. I had an enchanting tour through the long glades, in sunlight, for my pains. Not the gleam of a lance as far even as Pontoise. The windings of the Seine were only alive with boys bathing and the sharp detail of red and blue sentries on the bridges. Many bridges are closed, but there is none of the worry of the stops by "Civic Guards" at every corner that jolted one in Belgium. The challenges are rare, and business-like.

I ran all through the forest, cheated of even a "view" of the enemy. It is not saying much to say that our lines are not yet back upon the Seine. The French aviators floated overhead, but not even the audacious "Taube" broke the blue and green of sky and forest.

At Versailles I ran again into the suspicious atmosphere of the purely military town. Hardly a civilian to be seen. All houses closed. Why is the purely military town the most nervous? At Paris we look calmly even on aviators and dragoons; only the British soldier, one of the many "missing" returning now in numbers to rejoin their units via Paris, is overwhelmed with greetings, little crowds, and embraces. But at Versailles the vibration of war nerves made every bare cobbled street "jumpy" in atmosphere.

All along the shady roads through the forests of Marly wound the peasant carts, freighted with refugee women and children. Under the trees by the wayside carts in hundreds were drawn up, loaded with household goods and trusses of hay or straw for the patient horse or donkey. The women sat round cooking-pots set on wood fires. The children played noisily. The chief game was "Germans"--a tin pot on a stone, at which a gipsy-looking band hurled bricks from a safe ten feet.

Drifting aimlessly here and there, ready to move at a rumour, the great army of the homeless, just as in Belgium, moves through the fertile fields. It is depressed, purposeless, puzzled. Turned back from the big towns, reluctant to cross the Channel, uprooted from the home-fields, like plants torn up and swirled endlessly in a weir pool--moving endlessly back and forwards. The generations of peace, the rich product of human progress, that war is killing.

Through their unheeding lines on either side passed ceaselessly the wagon-loads of hay, the munition carts, the cavalry patrols, all the sacrifices to the new idol of devastation. We are long past cheering soldiers in the war-lands.