Chapter IX: With the Fourth Army

On the 29th September I made a trip in the company of Count von Eichstedt to the little village of Séchault, chiefly with the object of quietly taking a few photographs of the daily life of the soldiers, such as I found it on a comparatively peaceful day immediately behind the front. We proceeded along a familiar road past marching columns of all kinds, and villages and woods. Our road took us past many fields where there was nobody to bring in the over-ripe corn, whilst in others the sugar-beet was simply rotting away. On reaching the above village we put up the car in a yard and went off to look for some tempting subjects.

Of these there was no dearth and I will simply say a few words by way of explanation. In a field of white beet we came across the encampment of an infantry ammunition column, the men having already put up their shelter-tents. The foreground was littered with beet pulled up and thrown aside. By the side of the road an artillery ammunition column was resting, and its magnificent team of six horses was being regaled with hay, whilst to complete the picture a _Fussart.-Mun. Kol. Abteilung_ (_s. F.H._)[18] comes creaking past. From a side-road there suddenly issues a _Fuhrparkkolonne_, or food column made up of farmers’ carts. A mounted military policeman presides over the crossing. He is making notes on the column which is marching past. A little further on another ammunition column has halted by the side of a barn which looks very picturesque with its decrepit patched-up walls eaten and worn away by wind and weather. We also catch a glimpse of one of those blessed institutions, a dressing wagon, which I have already spoken of. It is probably not the only one. It looks as if we had chanced upon a spot where what we call in Sweden the first _échelon_ of the great train belonging to the army corps in front was about to assemble.

[18] Foot artillery ammunition column detachment for heavy field howitzers.

In all yards and alleys in the village we see groups of these strong and cheerful German soldiers, always happy and contented, busy extricating their gear from the baggage wagons or cooking their dinners or patching their clothes. The infantrymen--of whom there are many in the village--are concentrating their attention on their kitchen wagons, which stand steaming and appetising as usual, ranged up at sheltered spots. The others, who had no such luxuries, did their cooking in cooking-trenches in the old familiar way. Around the large awnings stretched over and in front of the wagons, the crews of the transport columns often form really idyllic little picnic groups.

Out in the field a bridging train has halted. Its vehicles, drawn by four horses, have been dispersed. Why? It is because yesterday a French airman flew over the column and dropped a bomb which mauled several horses horribly and seriously injured four men. One of the pontoons was pierced by several shell splinters, but was quickly and most effectively repaired. It is best to be careful--one does at least what one can to minimise the effects of these little visitations. Presently a few infantry soldiers come along, driving a flock of about a dozen sheep before them; we presume they have come across them wandering about in the open. Next day there will probably be Irish stew for at least a couple of companies.

Before a barn stands a steam-engine, busy driving a threshing machine. Soldiers have brought in the wheat, and soldiers are driving the engine. So it seems at any rate that a part of the crop is being gathered. In the copse close by a company of Landwehr have halted by the side of their piled arms. What they are doing I cannot tell, but they seem ready for anything that may turn up.

In the village we come across the 38th reserve field hospital. Accommodation is scanty, and the primitive farmhouses have had to be requisitioned. The wounded are lying on straw on the bare floor. I cannot resist the temptation of looking in, and step into a little hovel which has once been a kitchen. It is now occupied by six men. They are lying comfortably and softly on their backs and are all fast asleep. They must be terribly tired since they are sleeping so soundly, although it is eleven o’clock. I try to step as lightly as possible on the creaking floor boards so as not to wake them. “Up, ye warriors, arise and hie ye to the fight!” Had I exhorted them thus, they would have lain there just the same, sound asleep with peaceful placid faces and a smile playing about their lips. Why is their sleep so deep, I wonder? They are all shot through the head, and in most of them the bullet is still there.

Here is a reservist. What a tremendous figure of a man. What can Latins, Slavs, Celts, Japs, Negroes, Hindoos, Ghurkas, Turcos, and whatever they are called, do against such strapping giants of the true Germanic type? His features are superbly noble, and he seems pleased with his day’s work. He does not regret that he has offered his life for Germany’s just cause. I cannot leave him, he holds me back, and I ask for a chair to make if but an imperfect sketch of the dying hero and his neighbours. But yesterday he had sung himself hoarse with the proud refrain: “_Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein!_” But yesterday he lay in the cold, narrow trench, and when he and his comrades dashed forward to charge, he was struck in the head by a bullet which lodged in the lower part of the temple. From the first collecting-place he was now on his way to the field hospital.

The doctor comes in accompanied by two assistants. They support and lift him into a sitting posture, whilst the doctor carefully undoes the bandage and lays bare his skull. A large lump of cerebral matter has been squeezed out of the wound and still lies exposed. The doctor does not remove it, merely dries the edges after the hair round the wound has been cut away. The edges of the lump are painted with tincture of iodine, and a fresh, spotlessly white bandage is wound round his head. “But why don’t you remove the exposed cerebral substance?” I ask the doctor. “Because one wants to disturb his poor head as little as possible, and cerebral inflammation must be avoided.”

“Can his life be saved?”

“There is little or no hope for any of those lying in this room.”

The wounded man half opens his eyes. The doctor taps him gently on the shoulder and asks: “What regiment do you belong to?” He mumbles a few unintelligible words which we take to mean “Reserve Regiment 87.” The brain-centre controlling his organs of speech has been injured. He lapses once more into unconsciousness, his thoughts no longer wander. Shortly they will cease altogether and the soldier will rest, as now beside his comrades, in the little churchyard in the village.

The doctor passes on to the next man and rearranges his bandages. “What regiment?” he asks once more. “Ninety-nine,” is the reply. “Where are you from?” “Ninety-nine.” “Are you married?” “Ninety-nine.” He gave the same answer to all the questions put to him. “Anyhow, I suppose he really belongs to the ninety-ninth regiment of reserves?” “No, his regiment has quite a different number.”

But why this persistent answer to everything? Had there been ninety-nine men in his trench or had he estimated his opponents at this number? Had his battalion or company at some time or other lost ninety-nine men? Or had he thought that he would reach the French trenches with his bayonet before counting to one hundred and had just got to ninety-nine when struck by a bullet in the forehead? Why had this figure, or its counterpart in the mechanism of his brain, imprinted itself on his mind like the image on the photographic plate? Who knows? The dying soldier was about to sink into his last sleep, in which there would be no counting to one hundred to disturb him. And when his immortal soul awakens beyond the churchyard, other sights than bayonets and trenches will meet his gaze.

Right opposite the doorway lay some ten seriously wounded soldiers in a living-room. Near the door lay a man who had had one leg torn away from the hip joint by a shell. A few ragged muscle fibres were all that held it to his body. His face was whiter than the bolster, his big eyes were wide open; I noticed vaguely that he had a good nose and a dark beard. No doubt he had already been drained of blood. But as we stood opposite him, he turned his head and asked for a glass of water. It was brought at once, he drank eagerly and thanked us. We made a hasty round amongst the others and in five minutes we were back at the soldier by the door. He was now dead and his vacant eyes were gazing into the unknown. The doctor stooped down and firmly closed his eyelids. He patted him affectionately on the forehead and said in a tender voice, “Sleep well, my poor boy.” Later on, the hero, dressed in his uniform and greatcoat, was carried out to the little churchyard outside the village.

Of course it was a depressing and melancholy experience to stand beside so many death-beds. Every day numberless men in the hey-day of youth were thus being gathered to the eternal rest, in hospitals and trenches. But one gets accustomed to such sights, as do the soldiers themselves, for it does not seem to depress or frighten them in the least to see their comrades die.

When a soldier sees his nearest neighbours fall, he does not think: Next time it is my turn. On the contrary his train of reflection seems to be like this: Yes, there they are, poor chaps, but I am still on my feet and the gaps will soon be filled. No need to lament over men who are dying for their country and for the liberty and honour of their people.

Before we left the hospital, we had a look at some of the identification discs carried by the German soldiers round the neck, by the French round the wrist. One of the former read: “_Res. 1. R. 17. 6. K. No. 220_,” and one of the latter: “_Seine, 6, Bau (Bureau) 601_.” A third bore the somewhat incomplete inscription: “Leclerc, Alfred, 1902.”

The party at dinner, which was served in the open air, included the Commander of the Army, Duke Albrecht of Württemberg, his three sons and his staff, and a young Lieutenant von Hindenburg, son of the famous Field-marshal.

On the return _via_ Cernay, Condé and Challerange I had a further opportunity of adding to my collection of photographs. In the first-named village I took a couple of pictures of an ammunition column, a few soldiers cooking their dinner in a yard, and a company on the point of starting out and receiving their marching instructions. In the next village we came across a fine-looking body of Landsturm, likewise formed up to receive instructions regarding the work in hand, and a parked food column with covered wagons and horses. The most amusing sight was an ammunition column, the wagons of which had been pulled right under the overhanging trees on the fringe of the wood and were in addition covered over with leafy branches, all to conceal them from observation by French aviators. A field hospital had, if possible, masked its vehicles still more skilfully, and had likewise established itself under the trees by the roadside. The horses were not to be seen anywhere. They had disappeared amongst the hazel shrub. A little further on a dressing station had been rigged up in the middle of the wood. The white flags with the red cross could just be seen through the foliage. Similar precautions had been taken for the protection of a number of kitchen wagons.

The French aviators were out daily between 5 and 6 p.m. They--like the corresponding German air scouts--have a double mission, consisting partly in damaging in a military sense, by means of bombs, the more delicate parts of the opposing mechanism, and partly in observing the transfer and grouping of troops, but especially of artillery positions, on the part of the enemy. The bridge across La Dormoise at Autry had been the victim of a bomb attack a couple of days previously, resulting in injuries to a couple of men, but leaving the bridge undamaged. At another point in our vicinity a soldier was struck by one of those horrible steel arrows which the airmen let fall from a height of 2500 metres and which pass right through a horse or bury themselves in the ground after having struck a man on the head. They travel at the speed of a rifle bullet, but weigh more. At Grandpré, a captain was killed a few days ago by one of these arrows, and twenty-seven men were injured by a bomb from the same aeroplane. The previous week the Germans were just in the act of putting the last touches to a repaired railway line running through a little town in the neighbourhood, which was to become the railhead. The French were at once informed through their aviators of what was going on. Three bombs were thrown, which burst close to the station building, but no damage was done. The airman was immediately fired on from an anti-aircraft gun, also without effect. The incident showed however how well prepared one must be for everything. At some points in Germany there is a constant watch for enemy aviators. If one comes soaring along over a fortified town at night-time, several searchlights are concentrated on him, he is blinded by the light and loses his bearings altogether, whilst from the nearest church tower he is pelted by the fire from machine guns, which pour a rain of bullets on him.

The aviator uses various methods of keeping in touch with his own side. This presumably is partly effected by direct signals, such as flags or electric torches, the light from which can be discerned from the ground through field-glasses. If an airman has seen, or thinks he has reason to suspect the presence of troops or transport trains on the fringe of a coppice or wood, he describes by the direction of his flight the outline of the area in question, and this is promptly followed by a rain of shells. One of the chief duties of the aviator is thus to guide the direction of the artillery fire. If one or several French batteries make it their business to bombard, and if possible to destroy, a German battery the approximate position of which is known by the airman, the latter ascends in the neighbourhood of the target and makes his observations, which are immediately conveyed to the artillery commander concerned. In case of “minus” hits--that is to say if the shells fall short of the object--the airman describes a circle of small diameter. In case of “plus” hits--if the shells burst beyond the object--the airman describes a circle of large diameter. If the shells fall to the left of the object, he makes an abrupt turn to the right, and if they fall subsequently to the right of the object he swings to the left. In this way the airman by his movements in the air brings the fire gradually closer to the target. It goes without saying that all these tricks are countered by the Germans with equal skill. If a German battery notices aerial observations on the part of the enemy, and that the enemy shells are coming nearer, it ceases fire and the battery is moved during the night. One advantage which the French possess, owing to the otherwise unfortunate circumstance that their own country is the theatre of war, is that they can gather much valuable information from the civil population. Amongst the latter it is of course easy here and there to conceal someone who by certain signs or by light signals at night is able to give information about the movements of the Germans. If the chief command of an army corps or other staff has taken up its quarters in a certain village, the French observers are informed thereof by prearranged signals, and it is soon revealed by the artillery fire whether they have been correctly interpreted. Signals can also be given in day-time, for instance, through a peasant driving his cattle to a certain spot when an airman is aloft and can see him.

Constant shifting of ground is the most effective means of overcoming the effects of spying and of direct observation. These changes are made at night. In daylight care is taken to remain quiet and concealed under such cover as the ground affords. The Germans are past-masters in the art of moving troops. The great mobility of the German Army, the rapidity with which its various units can be thrown backwards and forwards, according to requirements, the scientifically developed marching powers of the infantry--there we have a few of the reasons which contribute to make this army the finest in the world.

On our way eastward we just skim the zone which may at any moment be reached by the French fire. But we get past safely and all that we see is a column of yellow smoke ascending from the burning village of Sevron, set alight by German shells. Thenceforward we are on familiar ground and are soon home again after a thoroughly successful trip.

At half-past seven I was invited to supper with the Commander of the 4th Army, Duke Albrecht of Württemberg. The guests included the Minister of War, Lieutenant-General von Falkenhayn, the Chief of Staff, General Ilse and the Duke’s three sons, all fine-looking and talented young men, the eldest twenty-one, the second eighteen and the third seventeen years old. They performed their duties with their units like any other officer and had already on numerous occasions shown commendable ability and courage. We Swedes remember what the Württemberg Princes are like from the time of Charles XII., when Prince Max, not yet fourteen, arrived in the King’s camp at Okuniev east of Warsaw and subsequently shared our hard and scanty bread as well as the plentiful fare of more prosperous days, until he died at twenty as Colonel and Chief of the Scanian regiment of Dragoons.

At the end of the meal the son of seventeen rose to go. His duties took him to another part of the front and he had to return. He now walked round the table and said good-bye to all, and last of all to his father. The Duke took his head between both hands and kissed him, but said nothing. No scenes, no tears, no exhortations not to expose himself needlessly to the fire and other dangers. It was like an ordinary, “Good night, I shall see you to-morrow.” And yet, how many officers and soldiers are there not in this war for whom there is no such thing as “to-morrow”? How many families on parting from their dear ones do not see them for the last time? How many bonds have not been severed for ever? One of the Red Cross nurses had twenty-four relations in the war, and I was told about a father who had eight sons in the field and a ninth of sixteen who longed to follow their example. The whole German nation has during the past months displayed a fortitude and greatness the like of which has not been seen in our or any other time.

On my return “home” my friends Behr, Eichstedt and Tschammer were still sitting up talking. I settled down beside them. We were just discussing the events and news of the day, when a cavalry captain entered and told us that the inhabitants of two villages about twelve kilometres away had fired on the soldiers, although the village had been in German hands for six weeks. The order had therefore been given that all the men of one village and all men, women and children of the other should be arrested and taken to Vouziers. The distinction made was probably due to the shots in the first village having been aimed at aviators and in the second at troops. Half a company of Landsturm infantry, accompanied by a squadron, likewise of Landsturm, were therefore at 1 a.m. to proceed to the spot. The latter were to occupy all street exits and prevent any attempt at flight. Meanwhile every house was to be searched by the infantry and all inhabitants arrested. On arrival in the town they were to be court-martialled and the guilty ones shot. Such is the severe rule of war. There is no quarter, no salvation. Of course pity is felt for the wretched people, for what could they gain by firing a few paltry shots against a whole army? Is it possible that they believed in the mad rumours that the bridges of the German engineers had been built to assure the German retreat, and that the fortune of war had lately turned completely round? Whence could such news come? Obviously only from the civil population itself. Those who spread such rumours incur a heavy responsibility towards their countrymen for the lives they have risked, and gain nothing in return.

I wondered what would happen to the wretched creatures. The very next day I had an opportunity of seeing them in the dock. They were all old people, peasants and their women folk. The latter wept and looked surprised, the men showed an indifferent demeanour. The war had already taken from them everything, life had no longer any charms. During the few days that the trial lasted they wanted for nothing--once I saw the prisoners sitting round large tables in a yard, eating their dinner. My heart urged me to intercede for them and to appeal to charity and pity, but my reason told me that one cannot and must not interfere in the decisions of military authorities, who are guided by law. I could but harden my heart and let it grow as cold as ice. It may be asked what happened to them in the end, whether they were tied to trees and shot. I lost trace of them for the moment. But a couple of days later I asked one of my friends about their fate.

“They were all released through lack of evidence,” he said. “Those who had fired from the villages had clearly fled when our Landsturm arrived. The suspects have all returned to their homes.”

It must not be thought that the German court-martials treat such cases lightly or hastily, as if human life in a conquered country had no value. No, the court is utterly incorruptible and carries out its task with the most scrupulous thoroughness. Just as mitigating circumstances are when possible adduced in favour of a German soldier who--which is very rare--has assaulted a woman and therefore been condemned to death, it is sought in the same way to save the country’s own children when they are accused of crime. The court-martials of the German “barbarians” are in the highest degree conscientious and humane.

The last day in September was set aside for rest, that is to say, for short walks and excursions. One of the latter was made to the churchyard, where eighteen German soldiers had been buried the previous day in a common grave, which was still open. Dressed in uniforms, greatcoats and caps, the dead are laid in rows alongside one another, with thin layers of earth in between. The reason why this grave has not been filled in is probably that there is still room for more dead. The German warriors who have been resting since 1871 amongst the French crosses have now indeed got company from their own land. On a new grave I read the inscription: “_Hier ruht in Gott Ltnt. Hans Greiner, Inf. Reg. 29. Schlaf wohl, tapfrer Kamerad_.” (Here rests in God Lieut. Hans Greiner, Inf. Reg. 29. Sleep in peace, brave comrade.) And on another: “_Hier ruht in Gott Hauptmann Parsohen, Res. Feld Art. 16. Er starb für König und Vaterland._” (Here rests in God Capt. Parsohen, Res. Field Art. 16. He died for King and Country.) A third grave bore underneath the name and regiment the words, “_Auf Wiedersehen!_” To one of the German graves a French rosary had found its way and hung on the cross over the dead soldier’s helmet and two bunches of flowers. An obelisk bore the inscription, “_A la mémoire des soldats morts pour la Patrie. Armée Française 1870-71_,” together with a string of names.

Next von Behr and I drove to the flying station at ----, where six _Gotha Tauben_ with Mércèdes motors were housed in large yellow tents. One of the “doves” had a wing perforated with bullets. The holes had been covered over with little patches. These patches are regarded almost as medals for valour in the field. The more scars an airman has on his machine, the more exposed he has been and the greater has been his daring when above the enemy positions. I do not know which is the more unpleasant feeling, to know that one has an enemy aviator right above one’s head or to know that an anti-aircraft gun is planted right underneath and taking aim!

Whilst we were at the station, two “doves” spread their wings for flight. It is beautiful to watch their graceful, easy movements. Before one can quite realise it, the slender wheels have left the ground and the machine is slowly rising from the field and describes a little circle over the tree-tops round about. It gradually rises in a circling motion higher and higher and the two enormous iron crosses under its wings gradually dwindle in size. It reminds one of the carrier pigeon which first rises to a certain height to get a view of the surrounding country and then darts off as straight as a die towards its goal. For when our first Gotha “dove” had reached a sufficient height, she went off at a tangent from her last spiral and flew straight south to the French positions and to the rear of them. Once there, it was the duty of the “observer,” who sits in front with map, note-book and glasses, to make his observations and then to come back and report them--that is assuming that he does not happen to be shot down on his journey. When over the enemy lines, it is necessary to ascend to a height of 2000-2500 metres so as to be moderately safe from the shrapnel fire from below. But even at 1600 metres the airman and his companion begin to have a feeling of security. After a short while, the second _Taube_ ascended and followed the invisible track of its predecessor through space.

On my return I looked in to see the French prisoners. Five of them, from Bordeaux and Narbonne,[19] were seated round a tub peeling potatoes for their own dinner. Whilst I was sketching them, we had a chat on general topics. They were surprised at the kindly treatment they received in German captivity. They had expected something quite different. “One can’t expect more than a roof over one’s head, straw to lie on and sufficient food to eat, and all that we get here. We are on friendly terms with our German guards. They often offer us cigars or chocolate. We should quite well be able to live on good neighbourly terms with the Germans.” The Frenchmen further told me that they all had wives and children at home who of course were anxious about their fate. They wondered whether the war would last long, whether they would be taken to the interior of Germany, and whether they would be allowed to associate with their own countrymen in captivity so as not to feel too lonely. I was able to give them comforting answers to their questions. One of them said that he had seen quite fifty of his comrades being killed at the spot where he was taken prisoner. Another had lost an old school-fellow by his side, after they had long been together in the trenches. The five prisoners from southern France were calm, self-possessed and sensible men, whose views on the war had sobered down considerably since the day they first heard the reveille in Bordeaux and Narbonne. The glamour and the gloss had disappeared, and the triumphant chant of the victory which they had dreamt of, had died down to be succeeded by the naked, bleak reality. Now they saw the tricolor but dimly, as through a haze, and the music of the Marseillaise no longer sounded in their ears.

[19] From the 18th and 16th Army Corps or their reserves.

We spent the evening in the mess together with about thirty officers. The discussion was of course about the events of the day and the hopes of the morrow, and about the news brought by the latest newspapers from all parts of the front. One of those present told us that 270 military trains a day had passed through Kirn (between Kreuznach and Birkenfeld) during the first days of mobilisation, whilst another mentioned that when a regiment at Eiffel was told by its colonel that Britain had declared war, they broke into frenzied cheering. These war pictures were accompanied by the peaceful tones of a gramophone--which not long ago must have had very different listeners! The mess was housed at the residence of a French officer, and I had a look at the pleasing and attractive family portraits in an album, with groups of cavalry officers, amongst them a couple of Swedes, Counts Lewenhaupt and Cronstedt, lieutenants respectively of the Dragoons and Hussars of the Regiment of Life Guards.

On the 1st of October we made an excursion to the troops, and had the company of the delightful and plucky chief of the flying corps, stationed just then at Vouziers, Captain H. von Chamier-Glisczinski. He called for us in his car and we drove at a wild pace through the avenue south-westward to Somme Py. Before however getting so far, we stopped a moment at the flying station, where the Captain had some business to attend to. Whilst we halted a _Taube_ came swooping down in a glorious vol-plane. It descended at what appeared a terrific speed, with its light graceful wings sharply silhouetted against the glorious blue sky. It came to the ground quite close to us and I thought I should have to step aside a bit not to be struck by one of the planes. When near the ground, the machine made a slight movement as if intending to rise again. But it was merely to lessen the shock on landing. Then it rolled along a little way on its wheels and came quietly to a standstill.

The airman and his companion accompanied us a little distance on our way. Once more the many phases of the active life in the rear of the fighting troops unfolded themselves before our eyes. It was not so difficult to advance as I expected, for nowadays it is the custom to keep still and under cover during daylight. Here and there little fires were burning in the shadow of trees. Cooking was going on, and the soldiers were contentedly drinking their coffee, smoking their pipes or taking sun-baths on overthrown wheat-sheaves. The food wagons with their white and yellow arched awnings were as usual covered with leafy branches in order not to attract more than necessary the attention of the French airmen.

Somme Py was not much of a place to stop for, nearly the whole village is burnt and destroyed, leaving nothing but naked walls with sides blackened by the soot of flames. We proceeded on our way. Now and again we catch a glimpse of an ambulance section with doctors and stretcher bearers and vehicles, or of the fighting train of some infantry regiment. We recognise our old friends the foliage-shrouded kitchen wagons, the yellow ambulance wagons, surrounded by stretcher bearers with their white bands round the arm, and rows of grey ammunition wagons, all harnessed up with a team of two horses.

At length we reach a point in the road where four light field howitzers are posted in a strong position by the wayside. Captain Chamier tells the chauffeur to stop and to hide the car well in the shadow of a tree. It is not considered advisable to proceed further, as the car may attract the attention of the French observers. We therefore alight and take a little turn round the battery, which happens to be at work. A salvo has just been fired, and the reloading is proceeding. I seize the opportunity of taking a couple of pictures. The guns, like the ammunition wagons, were well masked and were either dug in or surrounded by a rampart consisting of stone and sandbags covered over with earth. The target for the day was the village of Souain, 4050 metres distant. I was told it was practically in ruins and that what remained was in flames. The firing of the battery was directed from the _Beobachtungsstand_ or observation post which we visited later on, and from which the effect of the shells could be discerned through good field-glasses.

When a shell strikes a house or other object, a dark column of smoke composed of gases, dust and earth, rises from the spot, and flames mingling with the smoke soon reveal the fact that combustible substances have been ignited. When unaccustomed to these weapons, one cannot but regard them with a certain amount of awe. This awe is no doubt still further increased with experience. The officers themselves appear perfectly unmoved, but I think this is mostly due to the exercise of self-control. A commander must not betray emotion before his men. He must be perfectly calm. But it _must_ nevertheless tell upon the strongest nerves to remain for long under fire. This battery had occupied the same spot for eighteen days without being discovered by the French aviators.

From the battery we proceeded on foot in open order through an avenue of trees, taking care to keep in the shade. Of course our security was not absolute, for here and there the trees had been cut in two by the French fire. We walked some five hundred metres southward to the observation post referred to, from which the fire was directed by telephone, and from which the foremost French positions could be kept under observation. The first thing that attracted our attention on approaching this very interesting point was something resembling a tree, rising above the young growth of the wood. On further inspection we found it to be a mast of the thickness and height of a telegraph pole, provided with a ladder, a little platform and a seat for an observer. A pair of glasses were left there permanently, and the observer was masked by leafy branches.

On reaching the spot we were received by not less than three colonels, of whom, however, two were accidental guests, and by a couple of other officers. Colonel Fischer, Brigade Commander of the Field Artillery, a most genial and amusing man, was full of talk about Asia and more especially India, where he had travelled very extensively. We had thus many memories and friends in common, and I am afraid that on this occasion Asia took precedence over the Franco-German war.

However, I could not go away without seeing the underground abode of these officers, for they live there day and night, and as the spot is exposed to the French fire, they have to take certain precautions. A stairway, the steps of which had been cut out of the soil, leads to a cave dwelling of two rooms, small and dark, faintly lighted by a paraffin lamp and heated by a little tin stove, now burning brightly. A table, let into the wall, made of half a plank, is laden with toilet articles, glasses, maps, instruments and pistols in delightful confusion. In the sleeping apartment the beds are laid on the floor close together. I could not suppress a pious wish that the inmates would be preserved from death by asphyxiation in this subterranean cavern. One must not suffer from a horror of confined spaces if one is to sleep comfortably in these holes. But nevertheless it must be a great comfort to have this haven of refuge if and when the spot is bombarded. I was told that the cave was not quite proof against common shells, but that there was no danger from shrapnel. The officers’ meals are usually taken in the cave, so that they may at least eat in peace.

A few steps further on we visited a telephone station installed in the masonried cellar of a wrecked house. This cellar was thus a subterranean chamber, to the walls of which a number of telephone appliances had been fastened. Below them several officers and privates were seated on benches let into the walls. Whilst I was there several telephones kept ringing simultaneously. Constant attention was therefore indispensable. Besides being in permanent communication with its own division, this station was in touch with the whole of the 4th Army through its Chief Command, and with Main Headquarters. There was, in fact, nothing to prevent its occupants from ringing up Germany, except of course that private conversations are forbidden. Two airmen, Lieutenants Count Rambaldi and Bürger, had just arrived at the observation post after a reconnaissance over the French positions. It was wonderful to hear how clearly and concisely they reported what they had seen. Rambaldi stood for a long while with the telephone receiver in one hand and in the other the map on which he had traced his observations. He was speaking to some member of the General Staff of his Army, with the same map before him and doubtless also with a pencil and note-book. The Lieutenant would, for instance, report something like this: 550 metres north-west of the village of X I observed artillery in position, but probably only 2 guns. On the road leading from the west to the village Y I saw a stationary column of eight vehicles. I could not make out whether it was an ammunition or food train. The battery which yesterday was posted in the hollow south of the village Z has to-day been removed, but it is impossible to tell at present where it has gone.

Information thus gained--especially if it is of the kind indicated in the above example--assists in the first place the direction of the artillery fire. But that is not all. The air scouting--as I have made clear above--is primarily at the disposal of the Chief Command in order to discover in time the grouping and shifting of the opposing forces. Movements of troops, in order to avoid observation from above, therefore now take place during the night. This is why between four and five in the morning one always encounters troops of every description on the march, whilst in daylight they are seldom to be seen--at least not the infantry--barring an occasional body of Landwehr or Landsturm.

From this observation post it was about two kilometres to the foremost German infantry positions, which in turn were from three hundred to five hundred metres from the French trenches. Sometimes, when the country is very open and affords no cover whatever, it may not be possible to get closer to the enemy than one thousand metres. In these advanced positions there is never any relaxation of tension. A moment of quiet can never be relied upon. Of course the occupants of a trench need not all be on the alert at the same time. If this were so, exhaustion would soon set in. But in every unit a certain number of men are always told off to watch the enemy whilst the others are “resting.” Glasses are always in use as long as daylight lasts. When it is dark, patrols are pushed forward to signal immediately in some way or other if there is any sign of approach on the part of the enemy. It is a dog’s life. If one pokes one’s nose over the edge, one becomes immediately the target of unwelcome attentions, and bullets start whizzing round one’s ears. The previous morning at ten o’clock it had been discovered that the French were proceeding to an attack on a part of the German position in front of us (north of Souain). One could see how, from a little wood at ----, they tried to creep forward under cover of the folds and creases of the ground. Two volleys of shrapnel were at once poured over them, 150 men fell and the others retired. But the French pay back in the same coin whenever they have an opportunity, and they fire with great skill from their excellent field artillery. Their ammunition, on the other hand, is said to be less good. Yesterday, for instance, only seven shells had burst out of thirty-six.

The German soldiers retain their good humour in the face of great danger. Sometimes, for the fun of the thing, they place a helmet which has lost its owner on a stick and move it with a nodding motion along the edge of the trench. In a trice the French bullets begin to rain around it and the soldiers bet as to the number of hits.

I am told there is no exaggerated cleanliness in these trenches, although one does what one can to remove anything that does not belong there. In these parts, I am told, the opposing troops have come to a mutual understanding, according to which, on certain solemn occasions, they are allowed to climb out of their trenches and walk one at a time and unarmed in the direction of the enemy. A soldier leaving some project of that kind need only raise his spade over the parapet and swing it three times backwards and forwards. After the signal he may confidently proceed on his errand and when completed return to his trench.

On one occasion two grazing cows happened to find their way to the space between two infantry positions facing one another at a short distance. How it came about it is difficult to tell, but by the mysterious code of soldierly freemasonry it was agreed that a French soldier should milk one cow and a German soldier the other. When the job was done, they returned quite placidly to their trenches. All this shows that the French soldiers also are not wanting in humour and high spirits, even though day and night death is like the breath in their nostrils.

The different infantry forces, large and small, are also in telephone communication with our observation post. One of my hosts asked if I would like to hear how the battalion in the most advanced position of all was getting on. Why of course I should, I said. I was handed one receiver and was at once ceremoniously introduced to the commanding officer of the battalion, who himself answered the call.

“How are things going, Major?”

“Thank you, very well.”

“Have you anything special to report?”

“Yes, there was some firing in the night, but no losses.”

“In what sort of spirits are the men?”

“Excellent, as usual.”

“Have you received the eight machine guns that were to be sent you last night?”

“Yes, they have arrived and are already in position, but one of them has no shield. However, we will manage with an earth parapet for the present.”

“Have you any other wishes?”

“No, thanks, everything else is all right.”

The Major’s voice sounded calm and confident, but I could detect an undercurrent of solemnity in his answers.

That part of the observation post which lay above ground had been transformed into a pleasant little arbour or enclosure among the young trees, visited now and again by cycle and other orderlies. A telescope, well protected and concealed, stood ready on its tripod. Another had been mounted in the road outside the arbour. With these glasses one can see almost everything, right away to the horizon. Thanks to the vertical position of the tubes, the observer’s head can be protected altogether by an armoured shield or a wall. From our commanding position we had an excellent view of the nearest infantry positions. Colonel Fischer explained everything to me. He focussed the horizontal cross line on a German trench. I saw it very clearly, it appeared like a somewhat uneven dark line. I could even see a man getting up out of the trench, probably after having waved his spade backwards and forwards the regulation number of times.

Thereupon the telescope was focussed on one of the French infantry lines. This was not quite plainly discernible, but yet fairly clear.

Still further to the south, about 3550 metres from the point where we were standing, we saw the burning village of Souain and a few clumps of trees, behind which we had reason to suspect the presence of cleverly masked artillery positions.

In the east-south-east, between Souain and Perthes, we could clearly see a French battery of four field guns and a little nearer towards us a few abandoned gun ramparts.

Suddenly the Colonel shouts, “_Deckung!_” A French aeroplane, a Blériot, is approaching. We hurry under the trees so as not to attract its attention. A few orderly mounts, tethered in a hollow, are likewise moved to a place offering better concealment. The airman comes nearer. We hear faintly but distinctly the drone of his motor. He is sailing along right over our heads. Is he going to drop bombs or smother us in a shower of arrows? It would be a useful day’s work for him to destroy an observation post from which the fire is directed and where the telephone wires of the neighbourhood run together. Some civilian spy may have conveyed a signal. But the alarm seems needless, the aviator flies past and there are no explosions. With a feeling of satisfaction we see the great bird disappear. He is seeking some other target for his bombs.

Although it was combined with a certain risk, we walked a couple of hundred metres closer to the infantry positions. The ground sloped slightly downward in this direction. We follow the road in open order, keeping to the shadow of the trees, and where there are shrubs we keep close to them. If we are caught sight of from some French observation post, the enemy guns will immediately be trained upon us. However, we safely reach an infantry reserve unit. In this war, where one lies for weeks and months at practically the same spot, the former open fighting has gradually given place to a sort of siege war, with its attendant methods and customs. I here found that every infantry unit was divided into a number of shifts. The “changing of the guard” usually took place at about six every morning. A battalion which for twenty-four hours has occupied the area entrusted to the defence of its regiment, may then return to the rear after a fresh battalion has moved up into the position in question.

But even at the point where the reserves are posted it is necessary to dig oneself in, and above all to be well screened from observation. These shelters usually take the form of niches or “dug-outs” in the soil. The openings are covered over with a slender roof of sticks, twigs and hay. We looked into one or two of these “caves” and saw the soldiers fast asleep and apparently not lacking anything. I noticed that all the men were wrapped up in their canvas tent sections. In this case we had happened to come across a detachment which had arrived from the firing line in the morning and was now to sleep till midday. Afterwards there was to be exercise--_drill_. As darkness comes on, the kitchen wagons are brought up with their comforting hot food. Such was the life in the German reserve positions on the north side of the wooded country north of Souain. Nobody cared to advise us to continue from this point, as in that case we should certainly have been visible from the French observation posts and should have been exposed to a murderous fire. Even a kitchen wagon, which does not travel far except under cover of darkness, was hit the other day by a shell and had four men killed. Some light or other had probably been seen by the enemy, and as he had the range to a nicety, he fired a volley. But now it was day-time and we had open ground before us. I was told on this occasion--in connection with the advice not to proceed further--a story of an attack made from the German side a few days previously in order to capture an advanced French position in the neighbourhood of Souain. The attack was launched at dusk, but failed. Several Germans remained on the ground. The lightly wounded were taken prisoners by the French, but three men had been so badly hurt that they were not considered worth taking, and were left on the ground. The nearest French soldiers took pity on them and went out each night in the dark to take them food and water, and even cigarettes. One fine day a plucky German doctor with a few stretcher bearers came forward from the German line. They had brought a Red Cross flag, carried high on its pole. At first a few shots were heard from the French lines, but as soon as the Frenchmen realised what was up, they ceased fire, as nobody wanted to interfere with the rescue work. Thus the doctor was able to carry his charges into safety.

At another reserve position we chatted awhile with the grey-coats, who had recently lost a Lieutenant Johannes. The mound which covered his remains was surrounded by a perfect battery of shells, standing like a set of nine-pins with the cross for its centre. Young pines had also been planted as sentries round his grave.

After a couple of hours with these friendly, merry, brave and manly fellows, we started out on the return journey to the flying station, where the guard delivered his report to Captain Chamier, adding: “It was lucky you did not arrive a quarter of an hour ago, for just then an aviator passed over the station and dropped a bomb which burst close by here but without doing any damage.” As a memento I was given a splinter of the bomb, which it was pleasanter to have in one’s pocket than in one’s body.

From Somme Py we proceeded south-east to Tahure and passed on the way an ammunition column perched on the fringe of the wood by the side of its little cooking-pits. Inside the wood we caught sight of numberless items making up a transport train, such as infantry ammunition wagons, ambulance wagons, kitchen wagons and spare horses.

In the yards and alleys of the little village there was an incessant bustle, and it took us some time to thread our way through. A little way beyond Tahure we left the car once more and proceeded on foot to another observation post, a little less important than the previous one, but otherwise on the same lines. We had hardly got there before shrapnel began to burst around and over us. An officer advised us to seek cover in a little trench, which, however, had no roof. For my part I was quite willing to follow his suggestion, and was glad to stop in the hole until the fire had died away. A few moments later another of those winged monsters of the air, known by the name of war aeroplanes, passed over us, without however showing signs of wanting to harm us.