Chapter X: Part 10

The plan unfolded was as follows. Using his boatman as an intermediary--José was generally believed to be fairly well-to-do--he would enter into negotiations with the brothers Z---- for the purchase of the _Virgen del Socorro_. One of the conditions of the agreement would be particularly tempting to the owners. On the understanding that the purchase was kept secret--the rumor might indeed be set afloat that the brothers had decided not to part with their dearly-beloved boat--they should be allowed to retain possession until the very last moment before the schooner was required by the new proprietors. There was evidently a double advantage in this: it would allay any suspicions which inquisitive harbor authorities or other officials might have whilst preparations were being made on board the _Virgen del Socorro_ for the reception of the fugitives from Pampeluna, and it would enable the Vice-Consul, the captain, and other helpers to carry out those preparations at their leisure. No one could say how long it would take them to prepare the road to the "open door" of Vigo. Though the Vice-Consul's secret service fund was still well supplied, it was no good to minimize the difficulties, which were greater than the captain of the _Wehrt_ could possibly comprehend until he had explained the full extent of his plan.

The _Virgen del Socorro_ was to be sent right round the British Isles, in order to descend the North Sea unobserved, and, flying the Dutch flag, reach a Belgian port. It was a risky plan, but, the British Navy notwithstanding, the conspirators thought it had possibilities of success. The Vice-Consul, in assisting the scheme, proposed to make the Fatherland a present of more than the eleven officers at Pampeluna.

It was advisable to get as many able-bodied German subjects on board as possible, and so he planned to include in the party of fugitives nine others, including four officers from the _Goeben_, a naval doctor, a law student, and two sailors, none of whom was interned, in addition to a sergeant interned at Alcala de Henares, seventeen miles north-east of Madrid. Twenty was certainly a large crew for a schooner of the _Virgen del Socorro's_ size, but the voyage was to be undertaken during the summer--and an exceptionally fine summer, too--so the risk of a mishap, provided there was good seamanship, was slight. As this question of weather was important, the Vice-Consul proposed to see to the purchase of the vessel without delay, and to communicate at once with Lieutenant Koch.

IV--SECRET PURCHASE OF SHIP--TO ESCAPE

Within the next few days the secret purchase by the Vice-Consul of Vigo of the _Virgen del Socorro_ was an accomplished fact, and he had had his first interview at Pampeluna with his old friend, Lieutenant Koch. Other meetings followed, at intervals of a week or so, and before the end of the month, thanks to a lavish "greasing" of palms, the arrangements for the escape of the eleven officers and their concentration with other fugitives at Vigo were all made. The captain of the _Wehrt_, as surreptitiously as possible, bought inordinate quantities of provisions and stores during July, in order that José and the others might, at the opportune moment, tranship a part of them to the _Virgen del Socorro_.

At last everything was ready. Nothing remained to be done but for someone to send a signal from Pampeluna to the Vice-Consul at Vigo, who was to pass it on to other quarters. But the signal, so eagerly awaited on the appointed day, August 4th, never came!

Instead, two days later came a letter of explanation, stating that Lieutenant Karl Koch had fallen ill at the critical moment. The plan of escape, therefore, had to be indefinitely postponed. It was a bitter disappointment to the Vice-Consul, who pictured himself being reproached by his superiors for building castles in the air, if not being saddled with the whole of the expenses. But he consoled himself, in the presence of the captain of the _Wehrt_, with the argument that it was "just as well, since it would allow the authorities time to go to sleep." The astute seaman could not, however, quite agree with this. He knew the advantage of fine weather for such a perilous voyage as the one projected, and feared that if the escape were not effected soon it might be too late or too full of risk to be worth undertaking.

Lieutenant Koch's illness dragged on for week after week. August went by, September came, and the hopes of the Vice-Consul of Vigo fell lower and lower. In the first three weeks in September the officer entered the convalescent stage. One result of his breakdown was, indeed, in his favor; he was allowed greater and greater liberty, and, on the plea of taking the air, got out several times in a motor-car, with the authorization of the governor and doctor of the prison and under the discreet eye of an official. Soon even this supervision was relaxed, and then, when October came in, the U-boat lieutenant saw the chance for which he and his companions had been waiting. It was about this time that the Vice-Consul of Vigo (now almost on the verge of despair) unexpectedly received the long-awaited warning.

V--PLOT LAID FOR THE FLIGHT

On the morning of October 5th, Lieutenant Koch and his companions, having obtained a pass for an unofficial "joy ride" in two motor-cars, set out for a little country village some twenty miles from Pampeluna. As they were all on parole and the chauffeurs of the hired cars were connected with the police, permission was given to the party to remain at their destination for luncheon. It was understood, however, that as soon as the meal was over the return journey should be made, so as to be back well before the day was declining. Koch and his friends, through intermediaries introduced to him by the Vice-Consul of Vigo, laid their plans very cleverly. Just outside the village is a rustic inn where excellent luncheons are served. The dining-room looks out, at the back of the house, on to a garden with a bowling-alley and arbor, and this garden adjoins meadows, bordered by the railway line. Not far away is the little country railway station. What happened can easily be imagined.

The eleven officers had their luncheon served in the restaurant proper; the chauffeurs were served in a smaller room adjoining, looking out on to the front and the road. The landlord had been instructed (and had been well paid in advance for this and other little services) to ply these two worthy fellows with as much liquor as they could hold, with the result that they were deep in their cups long before the boisterous officers had got through their coffee and liqueurs. They were in such an advanced state of intoxication, indeed, that they took no heed when a singular silence followed the noise of voices and laughter in the adjoining room; and it was not until the appointed hour for departure had long since passed that they recovered their senses sufficiently to learn the truth. Their erstwhile "joy riders" had flown! They might have been seen, fully three-quarters of an hour before, strolling down the garden and making their way, as unobstrusively as possible, across the fields to the countryside railway station, where, provided beforehand with tickets for different stations on the line to Vigo, they boarded the train, once more in as nonchalant a manner as possible in groups of twos and threes, in different carriages. By the time the chauffeurs came to their senses and realized they had been fooled, the fugitives were well out of danger and, having got together again at the first big stopping-place, had put themselves _en règle_ as regards through tickets for their common destination, to which they continued to travel, however, separately, in order to minimize the risks of capture. The outwitted chauffeurs had another unpleasant surprise on rushing to their cars, with the object of dashing back to Pampeluna and recounting to the authorities their sorry tale of misadventure. Though they cranked their machines like madmen, the motors stubbornly refused to work. The reason soon became evident: the sparking-plugs had been removed by the far-seeing Koch.

Meanwhile, on October 2nd, the interned Sergeant Dietrich Gratschuss had slipped away from Alcala. His escape, facilitated by the four uninterned officers from the _Goeben_, who provided him with a suit of civilian clothes, thrown over a wall into the prison-garden where he worked daily, was made doubly sure by certain judicious bribes to a sentry, who kept his back turned and eyes averted at the critical moment. Gratschuss slipped into his disguise in a tool-shed, and calmly walked out of the prison-yard--saluted by the unsuspecting man on guard--as though he had been a visitor. His friends were waiting round the corner for him with a hundred horsepower motor-car, in which, with the other uninterned Germans (the naval doctor, the law student, and the two sailors), he was whirled away at sixty miles an hour. The whole of the journey to Vigo was made in this powerful car, which the owners had been able to provide with an amply supply of petrol and food for a long and rapid flight, lasting well into the night.

The whole of the machinery of the Vice-Consul of Vigo was now in motion. All the fugitives reached that port in safety and scattered themselves over hotels and lodging-houses.

A hue and cry was, of course, set up from Pampeluna and Alcala de Henares; but the Spanish police went off on various wrong tracks before they thought of ordering a watch to be set at all the ports. Even when this tardy step was taken, no one ever suspected--so well had the Vice-Consul and his accomplices laid their plans--that Vigo was the port from which the escape was to be effected.

VI--MIDNIGHT--THE FUGITIVES BOARD THE SHIP

On October 6th the _Virgen del Socorro_, to allay any suspicion, made a voyage to sea, and, on returning, moored alongside the _Wehrt_. Then, one pitch-black night, the fugitives left their hiding-places. One by one they slipped out into the darkness and, following the narrowest and most deserted streets leading to the harbor, reached the quays unobserved. At such an hour of the night--it was getting on for eleven o'clock--they could be fairly certain of meeting no one, save, perhaps, a drunken sailor or two. These revellers took no more notice of Koch and his companions than they did of their own dim shadows. One by one, under cover of the darkness, the fugitives disappeared down the same iron ladder the Vice-Consul had used so often, into José's boat.

By midnight all the fugitives were on board the _Wehrt_, from whose well-replenished store-rooms they immediately began transhipping the provisions to the _Virgen del Socorro_. All through the night and until 2 A.M. this work continued. The _Virgen del Socorro_ was then towed out a little farther into the bay, and on the first signs of daylight appearing her bow was turned north-east. Soon afterwards a fresh early morning wind sprang up from the land, her sails filled, and she set off on her long voyage.

What happened to the _Virgen del Socorro_ I will now relate, in accordance with details furnished by various members of her crew.

The little vessel had no sooner left Vigo and got out into the open than the land wind suddenly increased in strength and drove her into exceedingly rough and treacherous water. Some of the crew were for turning back, despite the risks that step would have entailed, and the matter was discussed at some length by Lieutenant Koch and the other leaders. They came to the conclusion, however, that they were "between the devil and the deep sea," and must keep on. It seems doubtful, indeed, whether, had they decided to make an attempt to get back to Vigo, they could have accomplished it.

That first day, and for many days afterwards, the _Virgen del Socorro_ became a veritable plaything of the waves, which soon began to rise mountain-high. The sufferings of the crowded fugitives in this terrible weather were intense. All were drenched to the skin, and for more than three days and nights they had to remain in this miserable condition. To these tortures were added the craving for sleep and adequate nourishment, for, amidst the continual buffeting of the waves and wind, they could neither sleep nor get anything cooked. Under these conditions, it was not surprising that the twenty occupants of the _Virgen del Socorro_ were finally reduced to the state of not caring what happened. One of the two sailors on board, on whose shoulders devolved much of the work of navigation, said that, "old seaman though he was, he had never before experienced such weather." He felt at times that "all his strength and hope were sapped," and hourly, during those terrible first six days, when the little schooner was tossed about like a cork, "expected death would relieve him of his tortures."

The storm then calmed down a little and gave the fugitives a respite. They were able to dry their drenched clothes and attend to the needs of the inner man. At the same time they could pay more attention to the question of their course. On this score they were soon to receive a shock, for there hove in sight a vessel that was undoubtedly a British patrol. For a couple of hours there were many anxious searchings of heart on board the _Virgen del Socorro_. Would she, thanks to her insignificance and the Dutch flag flying from her mast, be taken for an inoffensive fishing smack, and be allowed to go unchallenged? That had been part of their plan all through.

At one moment it looked as though the patrol was bearing down upon them at full speed; but when the dreaded vessel got no bigger, but instead gradually receded into the distance, the crew of the _Virgen del Socorro_ realized that for the time being they were safe.

VII--FOILED BY A STORM--THE CAPTURE

Safe from the clutches of their human enemies, perhaps, but by no means safe from the angry sea. Had some of the crew been able to foresee what was in store for them, they would perhaps have welcomed the arrival of that British patrol with outspread arms and expressions of joy. Once more they were caught up in the embrace of a furious storm, and driven helplessly westward, expecting every moment to be their last.

On October 24th another brief calm set in, enabling the navigator to ascertain his position. The little vessel was found to be some distance west of Bantry, on the south coast of Ireland. Here the storm again increased in violence, and once more the ill-fated _Virgen del Socorro_ seemed likely to founder. A consultation was held by Koch and the other leaders. They came to the conclusion that it would be madness to attempt to continue with the original plan. In such seas as were running, they would run the risk of being shipwrecked a hundred times before they got halfway round the British Isles. The only thing to be done, if they were to prevent the _Virgen del Socorro_ from being smashed to matchwood on the British coast, was to keep as much as possible in the open sea and steer for the English channel, in hope of making the Belgian or Dutch coast unobserved.

Six more terrible days followed. By this time more than half the crew of the _Virgen del Socorro_ were in a parlous condition. Their store of provisions had shrunk to such an extent that everybody had to be placed on rations, and the fresh water had dwindled so alarmingly that it was reserved for those who were actually on the point of collapse. Several of the crew, through the cold and constant seasickness, were utterly helpless.

It was about this time that the coast of Cornwall came into view, and on November 4th the crew found themselves in sight of Lundy Island, at the entrance of the Bristol Channel. From there, proceeding with a slowness which must often have driven them to the verge of despair, they circled the Scilly Islands, and it took them two more dreadful days before they had rounded the Lizard.

The Odyssey of the _Virgen del Socorro_ had now stretched over no less a period than a month. Three of the crew had by now become delirious; all were reduced to half their ordinary weight, and with the exception of the hardened seamen were on the point of collapse. Although they had experienced several alarms, they had so far succeeded--no doubt owing to the awful weather--in avoiding the vigilant eyes of the British patrols. But now they no longer cared one way or the other; all the fight had been knocked out of them by their sufferings.

On November 8th the little vessel approached the Goodwins. Shortly after dawn a British destroyer was sighted and reported by the man at the helm. Hardly a man on board, unless it was Lieutenant Koch, took the trouble to raise his glassy eyes when he heard the danger announced. Nor did they manifest any concern when it further became evident that there was no avoiding the vigilant war vessel. Nothing expressed so eloquently the fact that they regarded themselves as beaten as their attitude of utter indifference when they were challenged by the British destroyer. One and all were evidently heartily glad to confess their nationality, the circumstances in which they came to be there, and the extraordinary dangers through which they had passed.

The _Virgen del Socorro_ was taken into Ramsgate, says _El Liberal_, the Madrid newspaper which published the first brief account of the adventures related above, and there we may well leave Lieutenant Koch and his companions. They are henceforth in safe keeping, for, with all their ingenuity and daring, the only thing they succeeded in doing was to exchange one prison for another, and at the same time drag eight free German citizens with them into durance vile.

THE POET'S DEATH IN BATTLE--HOW ALLEN SEEGER DIED

_A Young American in the Foreign Legion_

_Told by Bif Bear, a Young Egyptian in the Foreign Legion_

The artists of Europe--the painters, poets, singers--the æsthetes
of France and Italy, of Britain and Russian, and of Germany, the
Hungarian musicians--all answered the "call of war" and threw
their souls into the "rendezvous with death." Thousands of them
died on the battlefields. Among them is the young English poet,
Rupert Brooke, and the American poet, Allan Seeger, who "loved
France and gave his life to her." This young American enlisted
early in the war in the Foreign Legion. He was fighting in the
battles in Champagne in July, 1916, when he fell. A young Egyptian,
who was with the poet in the trenches, tells of his end. After
the battle, he wrote this letter to Mrs. Caroline L. Weeks, of
Boston, who has acted in the rôle of "marraine" (godmother) to many
American volunteers. The following is a translation from the French
forwarded from Paris.

I--STORY OF THE AMERICAN POET

It was in the Thiescourt Woods, I remember, that I saw Alan on his return from convalescent leave. My section was in first line trenches and his, in reserve, in the second line. I was on soup fatigue and was going to the Chauffour Quarry when I saw him in front of me, walking along alone. Throwing down the marmites (tin receptacles) with which I was loaded, I rushed to shake him by the hand. He had, it seemed to me, grown slightly thinner, his pale face seemed slightly paler, and his eyes, his fine eyes with their far-away look, ever lost in distant contemplation, were still as dreamy as ever.

He told me how sorry he was not to be still with me as he had been transferred to the first section and I belonged to the third. But we saw each other every day. He would recount the joys of his two months' convalescent leave, and I shall never forget how one phrase was often on his lips, "Life is only beautiful if divided between war and love. They are the only two things truly great, fine and perfect, everything else is but petty and mean. I have known love for the last few weeks in all its beauty and now I want to make war, ... but fine war, a war of bayonet charges, the desperate pursuit of an enemy in flight, the entry as conqueror, with trumpets sounding, into a town that we have delivered! Those are the delights of war! Where in civil life can be found any emotion so fine and strong as those?"

And we would exalt our spirits with hopes of making an assault with the bayonet, hopes that were not doomed to disappointment, for a few weeks later we were to attack.

II--AN ODE TO AMERICAN PATRIOTISM

One day while we were in reserve at the Martin Quarries Alan came to look for me. He was full of joy and showed me a telegram that he had received from Paris, asking him to compose a poem which he himself was to read in public at a Franco-American manifestation, for which he was to receive forty-eight hours' leave. Alan was overjoyed at the opportunity of obtaining leave, but was too retiring to think of reading his poem himself; he would try, he told me, to have it read by some one else.

The eve of the ceremony arrived--I cannot recall the date--but no leave came. We were in the trenches and chance had placed me near Seeger in "petit poste" (the small outlook post, some yards in advance of the first line trench). He confessed that he had lost all hope of going, and I tried to find all sorts of arguments to encourage him, that his leave might come at dawn, and that by taking the train at Ressons at 7 A.M. he could still reach Paris by noon and would have plenty of time, as the ceremony was at 2.

The morning came, and instead of bringing the much desired permission to leave it brought a terrible downpour of rain, and the day passed sadly. He found consolation in the thought that July 4 would soon arrive, when the Americans with the Foreign Legion might hope for forty-eight hours' leave, as last year. Alas! He little thought that on that date....

[The ceremony referred to was held on May 30, in connection with Decoration Day celebrations. Wreaths to the Americans killed for France were placed around the statue of Washington and Lafayette, in the Place des Etats-Unis, Paris. By an unfortunate mistake the forty-eight hours' leave granted for the event was made for June 30 instead of May 30. The ode which Alan Seeger composed for the occasion was printed in _The Sun_ a few days after the author had fallen in battle.]

On June 21 we left the sector of the Thiescourt Woods for an unknown destination, which proved to be the Somme. We took the train at Estrees St. Denis and on June 22 about 10 A.M. reached Boves. Under a blazing sun, in heat that seemed to have escaped from the furnace of hell, we started for Bayonviller. We had undergone no such march since the war began.

Weighed down by their sacks, prostrated by the heat, men fell by hundreds along the road. Hardly twenty of the 200 forming the company arrived without having left the column. Seeger was one of these few. He told me afterward of the terrible effort he had had to make not to give up. At every halt he drank a drop of "tafia" (rum and coffee) to "give himself heart," and when he reached the end of the march he was worn out, but proud--he had not left the ranks.

We passed the eight days of repose at Bayonviller, almost always together, seeking the greatest possible enjoyment in our life at the moment and making dreams for the future after the war. Alan confided to me that "after the war" caused him fear--that he could not tell what destiny reserved for him, but that if the fates smiled on him it was toward the Orient that he would make. He loved the Orient--Constantinople, Cairo, Damascus, Beirut had a powerful fascination for him; their names would plunge him into profound reverie.

"It is in the mysterious frame of the Orient," he used to say, "in its dazzling light, in its blue, blue nights, among the perfumes of incense and hashish, that I would live, love and die."

And then the talk would turn again on the war and he would say: "My only wish now is to make a bayonet charge. After that I shall see. Death may surprise me, but it shall not frighten me. It is my destiny. 'Mektoub' (it is written)." He was a real fatalist and drew courage and resignation from his fatalism.

During the night of June 30-July 1 (1916) we left Bayonviller to move nearer the firing line. We went to Proyart as reserves.

At 8 o'clock on the morning of July 1 there was roll call for the day's orders and we were told that the general offensive would begin at 9 without us, as we were in reserve, and that we would be notified of the day and hour that we were to go into action.

When this report was finished we were ordered to shell fatigue, unloading 8 inch shells from automobile trucks which brought them up to our position.

All was hustle and bustle. The Colonial regiments had carried the first German lines and thousands and thousands of prisoners kept arriving and leaving. Ambulances filed along the roads continuously. As news began to arrive we left our work to seek more details, everything we could learn seemed to augur well.

About 4 P.M. we left Proyart for Fontaine-les-Capy and in the first line. Alan was beaming with joy and full of impatience for the order to join in the action. Everywhere delirious joy reigned at having driven the enemy back without loss for us. We believed that no further resistance would be met and that our shock attack would finish the Germans. After passing the night at Fontaine-les-Capy we moved in the morning toward what had been the German first lines. I passed almost all the day with Alan. He was perfectly happy.

"My dream is coming true," he said to me, "and perhaps this evening or to-morrow we shall attack. I am more than satisfied, but it's too bad about our July 4 leave. I cannot hope to see Paris again now before the 6th or 7th, but if this leave is not granted me 'Mektoub! Mektoub'!" he finished with a smile.

The field of battle was relatively calm, a few shells fell, fired by the enemy in retreat, and our troops were advancing on all sides. The Colonials had taken Assevillers and the next day we were to take their place in first line.

On July 3 (1916) about noon we moved toward Assevillers to relieve the Colonials at nightfall. Alan and I visited Assevillers, picking up souvenirs, postcards, letters, soldiers' notebooks and chattering all the time, when suddenly a voice called out, "The company will fall in to go to the first line."

III--LAST PARTINGS OF COMRADES

Before leaving one another we made each other the same promise as we had made before the Champagne battle (September 25, 1915), that if one of us fell so severely wounded that there was no hope of escape the other would finish him off with a bullet in the heart rather than let him await death in lingering torture. He showed me his revolver, saying, "I have more luck than you. If I can still use one arm I shall have no need of any one," and then we rejoined our different sections.

About 4 o'clock the order came to get ready for the attack. None could help thinking of what the next few hours would bring. One minute's anguish and then, once in the ranks, faces become calm and serene, a kind of gravity falling upon them, while on each could be read the determination and expectation of victory.

Two battalions were to attack Belloy-en-Santerre, our company being the reserve of battalion. The companies forming the first wave were deployed on the plain. Bayonets glittered in the air above the corn, already quite tall. Scarcely had the movement begun when the enemy perceived them and started a barrier fire (artillery fire to bar any advance), the quick firers started their rapid, regular crackerlike rat-tat. Bullets whizzed and shells exploded almost as they left the gun, making a din infernal. And the wave went forward, always forward, leaving behind the wounded and the dead.

The losses were heavy and the enemy made a desperate resistance. The company of reserve was ordered to advance with the second wave of assault. "Forward!" cried the Captain, and the company deployed "in files of squadron," advancing slowly but surely under the enemy's intense and murderous fire.

The first section (Alan's section) formed the right and vanguard of the company, and mine formed the left wing. After the first bound forward, we lay flat on the ground, and I saw the first section advancing beyond us and making toward the extreme right of the village of Belloy-en-Santerre. I caught sight of Seeger and called to him, making a sign with my hand.

He answered with a smile. How pale he was! His tall silhouette stood out on the green of the cornfield. He was the tallest man in his section. His head erect and pride in his eyes, I saw him running forward, with bayonet fixed. Soon he disappeared and that was the last time I saw my friend.

"Forward!" And we made a second bound, right to the wave of assault, which we left behind a little, and down we threw ourselves again. The fusillade became more and more intense, reaching a paroxysm. The mitrailleuses mow men down and the cannons thunder in desperation. Bodies are crushed and torn to fragments by the shells, and the wounded groan as they await death, for all hope of escaping alive from such a hell has fled.

The air is saturated with the smell of powder and blood, everywhere the din is deafening; men are torn with impatience at having to remain without moving under such a fire. We struggle even for breath and cries resound from every side. Suddenly a word of command, an order of deliverance, passes from mouth to mouth. "Forward! With bayonets!"--the command that Seeger had awaited so long.

IV--THE POET'S DEATH ON THE BATTLEFIELD

In an irresistible, sublime dash we hurl ourselves to the assault, offering our bodies as a target. It was at this moment that Alan Seeger fell heavily wounded in the stomach. His comrades saw him fall and crawl into the shelter of a shell hole. Since that minute nobody saw him alive.

I will spare you an account of the rest of the battle. As soon as the enemy was driven back and Belloy-en-Santerre won I searched for news of Seeger. I was told of his wound and was glad of it, for I thought he had been carried away and henceforth would be far from the dangers of bullets and shells.

Thus ended this Fourth of July that Seeger had hoped to celebrate in Paris. On the next day we were relieved from the first lines and went into reserve lines. A fatigue party was left to identify the dead.

Seeger was found dead. His body was naked, his shirt and tunic being beside him and his rifle planted in the ground with the butt in the air. He had tied a handkerchief to the butt to attract the attention of the stretcher bearers. He was lying on his side with his legs bent.

It was at night by the light of a pocket electric lamp that he was hastily recognized. Stretcher bearers took the body and buried it next day in the one big grave made for the regiment, where lie a hundred bodies. This tomb is situated at the hill 76 to the south of Belloy-en-Santerre.

As I think of the circumstances of his death I am convinced that after undressing to bandage himself he must have risen and been struck by a second bullet. I asked permission on the night of July 6 (1916) when I heard of his being wounded, to go and see him, but I was refused.

THE GUARDIAN OF THE LINE--HERO TALE OF LITHUANIA

_Told by Frederic Lees_

One of the most remarkable facts connected with the war on the
Russian front is the large number of women who have distinguished
themselves by conspicuous bravery, sometimes in the actual
fighting-line, but more often in a civilian capacity. This story
deals with the ordeal undergone by a humble railway-crossing
keeper's wife in Lithuania, as told in the _Wide World Magazine_.

I--"THE LONELIEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD"

One morning in April, 1915, Stephania Ychas, the wife of the keeper of a railway-crossing to the north of the Lithuanian town of Shavli, felt the saddest and loneliest woman in the world. Do what she could, she found it impossible to rid herself of the feeling that a catastrophe was imminent--that the terrible war into which her country had been plunged meant the end of all things. Poor Lithuania! Once so fair a place, now so desolate a wilderness!

Stephania's duties, in these troubled times, kept her continually on the _qui vive_. At all hours of the day--and latterly during many of the night--she had to be in and out of her little house, in order to see that the rails were clear, or to note the numbers of the troop trains as they swept past towards the north. Backwards and forwards, from her door to the telephone, fixed against the wall on the right-hand side of a little window through which she could overlook a big sweep of the line in the direction of Shavli, she went, welcoming the never-ending succession of trainloads of soldiers, wounded, or mere war material passing on to the new line of defence, and reporting their progress to the railway and military authorities.

Day after day, night after night, the great retreat of the Russian forces continued, until, single-handed as she was, Stephania Ychas was almost dropping with fatigue. A hundred times she told herself that human flesh and blood could never stand such a strain. It was not the fatigue alone which was crushing her. Added to her physical tortures were mental ones, the feeling of being alone, so horribly alone, and the knowledge that the enemy, as announced by the retreat and the nerve-racking booming of the guns, was rapidly advancing on Shavli, and that until Russia had had time to recover, the hated Teutons would inevitably overrun Lithuania as far as Vilna. At night her brain was filled with pictures of burning farms, ravaged orchards, and indescribable scenes of brutality such as she knew the German soldiers had been guilty of in Belgium and Poland.

A dozen times a day, dizzy and sick at heart, she had been on the point of staggering to the telephone to inform the commander of a neighbouring station that she could continue no longer. But a sense of duty had held her back. When it came to a point of renunciation, her stout Lithuanian heart said "Nay," and she recalled the parting from her husband and his final adjurations.

Buried in thought, while waiting for a train which has just been signalled from Shavli, she recalled the morning when Michael Ychas, suddenly called to the Colours, had left her. It seemed like an eternity since those days of the mobilization.

II--"GOOD-BYE, STEPHANIA--GUARD THE LINE WELL!"

"Good-bye, Stephania," he had said. "Be of good cheer whilst I am away, and guard the line well. It is sad to leave you here all alone. Sad to be obliged to leave one's native country and abandon it to unknown dangers. How much better I should have liked to have defended Lithuania, I, a Lithuanian bred and born, than to have been drafted into a regiment bound for the Caucasus. As if the Government could not trust us in our own country! However, Stephania, you are left, and you are doing a man's duty. It makes me happy, in the midst of my misery, to think that you are there to look after the home and the crossing and the rails. Guard them well, Stephania, and rest assured that, in my absence, I shall constantly pray to the Virgin to watch over you."

Her reflections were interrupted by a shriek from the locomotive of the expected train, which was made up partly of compartments packed with soldiers, partly of wagons filled with the most heterogeneous collection of things she had ever seen in her life--pieces of machinery piled one on the top of the other, heaps of metal articles of every imaginable description, and every scrap of copper or lead, apparently, which Shavli contained. A waving of hands from the soldiers, a friendly yell from a hundred throats, and the train had sped on its way.

Stephania Ychas had no time now to waste over daydreaming. Hurrying into her cottage, she went straight to the telephone and rang up the commander of the station farther up the line. After ringing in vain for fully a minute, she got the connection and made her report.

"Train number three hundred and forty-six passed North Shavli crossing a minute ago," she said. "A mixed train, men and materials. Any news?"

"Shavli reports that things are getting warm," replied a voice. "I should not be surprised to hear that we have to leave before the day's out. You'd better 'phone to headquarters."

She lost not a moment in carrying out the suggestion.

"Halloa, halloa! Is that Shavli?"

"Yes," came a quick answer. "You're the North Shavli crossing-keeper, aren't you? Good! Well, we were just about to call you up. Matters are coming to a climax here. There are only two more trains to go through now. One with men will be with you in a couple of minutes at the latest; the other, with goods, should follow ten minutes afterwards. We are telling the driver to pick you up."

At this point the speaker was called away from the telephone, and an indistinct buzz as of a whole office in conversation, mingled with the trampling of feet and the slamming of doors followed. But finally the speaker returned.

"Halloa, halloa! Are you still there, North Shavli? Telephone forward all I have said, and prepare them for the worst."

Stephania Ychas, now tingling with excitement, did as she was bid. Once more she stood on duty to see the reported train pass, and again she went to the telephone to send her report forward. Having finished, she was about to hang up the receiver when, on looking through the window on her left, her eyes caught sight of something unusual far down the line, almost at the point where the metals curved out of view. To run and fetch a pair of glasses which, ever since the beginning of the war, she had kept hanging in their leather case by the side of the fireplace, to bring them to bear on the point in question, and at the same time to ring up Shavli, was the work of a minute. What she saw, though her calm voice in no way revealed her inner emotion, made the blood run cold through her veins.

"Halloa, halloa! Are you there, Shavli?"

A reply came in the affirmative.

"For Heaven's sake remain at the 'phone. There's foul work going on near the great curve. You must give orders at once to keep back the train."

"One moment, and I will return," replied the railway official.

III--A WOMAN'S MESSAGE: "THEY ARE DYNAMITING THE RAILROAD!"

A pause, which seemed to the woman with the glasses fixed to her eyes an eternity, followed.

"You were just in time," continued the voice to her infinite relief. "Courage! Fear not. Orders have been given to pick you up, with the others along the line, when we evacuate the town by car. But tell us what is happening."

"I can see a number of men tampering with the metals," telephoned Stephania Ychas. "They have dismounted from their horses. One of them, an officer, is giving orders. Yes, I can see now. They are Uhlans, and are going to dynamite the line. There are at least twenty of them, evidently a portion of an advance guard that has made a turning movement round Shavli by way of the woods. Halloa, halloa! In the name of Our Lady of Vilna, do not leave the instrument. It is a blessing they did not begin by cutting the wire. Now they are scattering to await the explosion. There!"--as the speaker beheld the explosion, followed by a cloud of smoke and dust, which rose high in the air--"it is done. Holy Virgin! They are making off now. No, the officer is pointing here. They are coming towards me. Telephone to the nearest military station to send me help immediately. And for the love of the saints, come back to the instrument!"

Stephania Ychas left the receiver dangling by its cords, and made her little home ready to withstand a siege. She locked and doubly bolted the door, and with the object of giving the Uhlans the idea that the place was uninhabited prepared to block up the windows with the boards which, as in most Lithuanian country cottages, served as shutters, fastened from the inside.

"Perhaps," she thought, "if they see the house shuttered, they will conclude it is uninhabited and will ride away."

Unfortunately, the Uhlans rode quickly, and Stephania had more than she could do with just one shutter, that which protected the little window on the left of the telephone, and which, when up, plunged the room into semi-darkness. Whilst she was fixing this barrier, the Uhlans surrounded the house and the officer momentarily caught sight of her. Simultaneously there came a violent knocking at the door with the butt-end of a rifle, a command to open, and the sharp crack of a revolver. A bullet crashed through one of the panes, traversed the centre of the shutter-board, and buried itself in the opposite wall.

The brave woman was now back at the telephone, but not before she had managed to make the entrance to her home doubly sure by dragging a heavy dresser against it.

"Halloa, Shavli! You have sent for help? Thank you. They have surrounded the house, and are trying to force an entrance. They have discovered that I am here. But they will have a difficulty in forcing open the door, unless----"

She paused and listened. There was a long and ominous silence, which made her think at first that the enemy must have decided it was not worth while to waste further time over a woman. But the hope was short-lived. She heard a sharp command in German, the sound of muffled voices, a burst of laughter, and the clatter of horses' hoofs around the house. What was happening? Were they really riding off?

Again her hopes were shattered. The scampering backwards and forwards continued, one of the horses neighed, and she imagined she could almost hear the Uhlans' heavy breathing, sounds which brought back to her the danger which she had hesitated to frame in words. Very soon her fears were confirmed. A vision flashed to her brain and made her sick with fear. A faint cracking sound broke upon her ears from several points simultaneously, spreading until it seemed to envelope her on all sides, and especially over her head. By slow degrees the crackling grew to a roar, and then she fully realized what the barbarians had done.

IV--"HELP! HELP!"--A VOICE FROM THE BURNING THATCH

"Help, help!" called Stephania into the telephone. "They have fired the thatch. For Heaven's sake, send me help. But a few minutes and the rafters, I fear, will catch fire. Are you still there, Shavli? Oh, speak--speak!"

An exclamation, mingled sorrow and anger, came from the telephonist at Shavli.

"Oh, the ruffians, the abominable assassins!" he cried. "I beseech you to have courage. Help is surely on the way."

"I will try to be brave and do my duty to the end, as Michael told me," replied Stephania, as though to herself. "But unless they come soon, it will be too late. The thatch has burnt like tinder. I can hear the flames roaring like a furnace underneath the rafters. There! One of them has given way and fallen on to the joists of my room. Already the heat is suffocating, the smoke almost unbearable. Holy Virgin! What a death."

"Alas, what more can we do than beg you to bear up?" returned the voice at Shavli, in an agonized tone. "We have just been informed that a party of Cossacks left twenty minutes ago to rescue you. Once more, courage! And may Our Lady of Vilna indeed protect you."

When Stephania Ychas next spoke through the telephone the roof fell in with a crash and pierced a hole, through which the burning embers fell, in the ceiling of her room. At the same time communication with Shavli was suddenly interrupted, either through the Uhlans having discovered and cut the wire, or, as is more probable, owing to the fire having fused the terminals. She could not, however, have sustained her appeals for help much longer. Indeed, it was not many minutes afterwards that, stupefied and blinded by the smoke, as she groped her way to the door in an instinctive movement towards the open air, she sank to the floor unconscious.

It is a characteristic of the Cossacks, many times admitted even by German military critics, and those who have been describing the operations in Lithuania for the enemy Press, that they rarely if ever waste a shot. Unlike the French cavalry, they do not fire from a distance, but fearlessly swoop down upon their adversaries and seek to bring them down, one by one, at a range of but a few yards. And that was the fate of the Uhlans, who, hungering to feast their eyes and ears on the suffering of a defenceless woman, lingered a little too long around the burning cottage of Stephania Ychas. Not one escaped.

Stephania Ychas did not lose her life after all. The brave Cossacks broke in the already half-consumed window and dragged her forth. She was badly burnt, but lived to tell this tale to a nurse in a Russian hospital, whither the railway officials of Shavli transported her, almost immediately after her rescue, in one of their motor-cars.

WITH A FLEET SURGEON ON A BRITISH WARSHIP DURING A BATTLE

_Under Fire on His Majesty's Ship, the "Fearless"_

_Told by Fleet Surgeon Walter K. Hopkins, of the Royal Navy_

I--ON A HOSPITAL SHIP IN BATTLE

On August 27 (1914) we were hoping to meet the enemy early on the following morning.

On August 28, at 3:45 A.M., "Action" was sounded off. Two cruisers (supposed enemy's ships) having been suddenly observed, had caused us to take up "stations" somewhat earlier than had been anticipated. It was quickly discovered, however, that the cruisers were our own. Shortly after, therefore, breakfast was piped to each watch in turn, and at about 7 A.M. the enemy's ships were actually sighted. From this time on to close upon 2 P.M., successive actions were fought between various opposing forces of the two fleets.

The day was fine and calm, while the sun gleamed through a very hazy atmosphere, in which patches of fog shortened up the visual distance from time to time.

I remained on the upper deck during the earlier part of the affair, and found it a most interesting and inspiring sight to watch our destroyers and the _Arethusa_ and her divisions dashing at full speed after the enemy, while soon the frequent spurts of flame from their sides, the following reports, and the columns of water and spray thrown up by the enemy's shells pitching short or over, began to create in most of us a suppressed excitement which we had not hitherto experienced, telling us that the "real thing" had begun, that an action was actually in progress.

Shortly our interest was to multiply fourfold, when the order to fire our own guns was given. After a time shells began to drop ominously near. I retired to my station, a selected spot just below waterline in the after bread room, one of the few available places in a ship of this class where some of my party of first-aid men could be accommodated; the other half of the party in charge of the sick-berth steward being situated at a similar station forward. This period one found trying. For knowledge as to how matters were progressing we had to rely upon fragments of information shouted down the nearest hatchway from someone in communication with those on the upper deck.

The rat-tat-tat! rat, tat, tat, tat! on our side from time to time, as we got into the thick of it, told us plainly of shells pitching short and bursting, whose fragments struck but did not penetrate the ship's skin; it was a weird sound, occasionally varied by a tremendous "woomp," which once at least made the paymaster, who was reclining near me on a flour sack, and myself, look hard at the side close by us, where we fully expected, for the moment, to see water coming in. As a matter of fact, this shell entered some forty feet away, bursting on entry into the Lieutenant Commander's cabin, while its solid nose finally fetched up in the wardroom, where later on it was christened "our honorary member." For this trophy I believe we have the _Mainz_ or _Koeln_ to thank. The wardroom steward found a similar piece of shell in his hammock that night. It had penetrated the ship's side and a bulkhead before finally choosing its highly suitable place of rest.

The shells that missed us burst upon the surface of the ocean near by and, strange as it may seem to those not familiar with such things, the fragments flew from the water with sufficient force to dent the sides of the ship and to kill men when they dropped on the deck.

When a shell actually struck our ship and penetrated the structure there was a reverberating crash that roared from end to end and nearly drove our eardrums in and made work of any delicacy impossible. It was bad enough with us, but what must have been happening on some of the German ships that were now sinking and were being pierced by great shells from three sides at once I leave to some one with imagination.

II--"I WATCHED THE BURNING CRUISER SINK"

It would surely require the pen of a Dante to depict all the horrors that were happening on the German cruiser _Mainz_, as she went down. We knew that she was burning. The men stayed at their guns until the flames actually began to burn up their legs. The wounded lay in heaps on the deck and the flames destroyed them without help. The blood ran on the decks so that the men who were still trying to work the light deck guns slipped in it and fell.

Our shells passed through their hospital ward and killed the wounded and the surgeons as they were working over them. That any men could have passed through such an ordeal and retained their senses is a tribute to the wonderful effect of naval training and discipline.

The _Fearless_ appears to have borne a somewhat charmed life--a large number of shells pitched just short and just over her--she was hit fair and square by seven, one of which played a lot of havoc with the middle deck forward and the mess gear there. Her sides showed some twenty-three holes of varying size, and yet her list of casualties was only eight wounded, none dangerously. She also had two narrow escapes from being torpedoed, one torpedo passing just forward from an unknown source, and another aft from a submarine.

During comparative lulls I went onto the upper deck once or twice, to visit the forward station and to see that all was correct. For suppressed excitement and vivid interest I should say the seeker after sensation could scarcely ask for more than a modern naval action.

The shells were falling all about us, and why we were not sunk I can never understand. The captain kept the ship zigzagging on her course to upset the enemy's aim. At one time we came within 2,000 yards of the Mainz, which had already been partly wrecked by the long-distance fire from our big battle cruisers, the _Lion_, _Invincible_, and _Queen Mary_. It was our duty to help finish her without sinking our big ships.

She made two attempts to torpedo us. I watched one torpedo skimming through the water like a shark about ten yards from the bow, as it seemed to me. We just escaped it by a turn of the wheel in the nick of time. Then another skimmed by our stern, running over the spot we had left only a minute before.