III
Before going back to the fighting line, and especially before taking leave of our ally, France, I want to tell you of what was, perhaps, the bitterest blow suffered by her in the early weeks of the war.
That blow was the bombardment of Rheims Cathedral.
Round Rheims are the most famous vineyards in France. All the little hills are covered with grape-laden vines, and when the writer was in that lovely, peaceful province of the Marne two years ago, all the happy peasant people, men, women, and little children, were gathering in the fruit, singing and laughing as they went along the narrow, fragrant pathways cut through the vines.
Rheims is a beautiful city, as old as France herself. Once more, as in 1870, fierce fighting was taking place there at the time of the grape harvest, recalling the fine lines of Bret Harte:
“Let me of my heart take counsel;
War is not of life the sum;
Who shall stay and reap the harvest
When the autumn days shall come?
But the drum
Echoed, ‘Come!
Death shall reap the braver harvest,’ said the solemn-sounding drum.”
And death did reap a brave harvest amid the vineyards of France. Not a human harvest alone, but one composed of cherished memories—memories composed of all the French nation holds dear in its glorious, shadowy past. Memories of every figure in the magnificent procession of France’s kings and queens, of her saints, her statesmen, her warriors—especially of Joan of Arc, the beloved warrior-maid. The Cathedral of Rheims was not only the most perfect building of its kind in Europe—it was the Westminster Abbey of France, respected by her enemies for a thousand years.
Rheims has been sung by many poets, but perhaps the most beautiful lines on the cathedral were written by James Russell Lowell:
“I stood before the triple northern port,
Where dedicated shapes of saints and kings,
Stern faces bleared with immemorial watch,
Looked down benignly grave and seemed to say,
Ye come and go incessant; we remain
Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past;
Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot,
Of faith so nobly realised as this.”
It was with a feeling of amazement as well as of horror that one September day the world learnt of the bombardment of Rheims Cathedral.
The interior of the great church had been filled with wounded, most of them, be it noted, German, and a large Red Cross had been hung out from one of the towers. When the bombardment began, an effort was made to move these poor soldiers out, but they were lying on straw, the straw caught fire, and several of the people in the cathedral were killed by the German shells, including four Sisters of Mercy. Much of the floor became thickly littered with the stained glass, which fell in showers out of the great windows, six hundred years old, which were, perhaps, the chief glory of the Cathedral. To add to the horror of the scene the wounded, terrified by the sight of flames and smoke, began trying painfully to drag themselves out of danger.
As the unhappy German wounded appeared at the great doors, which someone had already flung open, there rose from the townspeople assembled outside a hoarse, insistent cry of “Kill them! Kill them!” For some of those in the crowd unjustly suspected these men of having set the cathedral on fire.
For a while it looked as if the German prisoners would be massacred, but at the critical moment the Abbé Andrieux, a gentle, quiet little priest, sprang forward, placing himself with outstretched arms before the great doors. Behind him pressed forward the terrified wounded, standing, crouching, and crawling—their one thought to escape the fire, smoke, and falling glass and masonry inside.
“Stand back! Don’t fire!” shouted the Abbé “If you kill them you will be far more guilty than they!”
Ashamed, the crowd shrank back. But they went on hissing and hooting while their enemies were carried to shelter close by.
The present writer is almost as grieved at the injury which was also done to the ancient Church of Saint Rémy, at Rheims, which is a hundred years older than the cathedral. It had already been built some time when Joan of Arc was born at Domrémy, the little village on the Upper Meuse, which was, in a sense, the creation of the Abbé and monks of St. Rémy of Rheims. The Abbé had a very kindly feeling for Domrémy, and he generously gave Joan’s father, Jacques d’Arc, a patent exempting the village from all taxes and tribute. This exemption was maintained until the French Revolution. In the registers kept by the tax-gatherers the blank space opposite the name of this parish was quaintly inscribed year after year, and century after century, “On Account of The Maid.”
During the bombardment, the people of Rheims kept up their courage, and that even when they had to live for many days in their cellars. An Englishman had a talk with one old French gentleman in a cellar dwelling.
“The one thing that keeps us going,” he said, “is my wag of a son, my seventh, for every time a shell falls, or bursts over the house-tops, he makes some fresh joke, the young beggar.”
“And where are your other six sons?” his English acquaintance inquired.
“They are all at the front, and I’ve heard from them too. They are as happy as happy can be, for, you see, Monsieur, we are daily gaining ground.”
This little anecdote will make you understand the great outstanding fact about France. It is that every one of her sons is, will be, or has been, a soldier! During the course of a great war, it is a splendid, inspiring thought that the whole manhood of a nation is in arms to defend her. No need of recruiting there—no need to remind the young men that their country needs them. The French soldier is the French Everyman.
In old days I often felt pained to hear English people, just returned from a holiday in France, smile—even jeer—at the rough, often unsmart, look of the French soldier. These same people do not smile and jeer now when they watch a rough, unsmart detachment of young Englishmen marching to their drilling ground. They are touched and thrilled—or if they are not, they ought to be. You cannot have smart uniforms when every man over eighteen and under fifty is a soldier—or if you do, you sacrifice the rest of the nation, as we now know Germany has done, to the awful, sinister War god, the evil genius who lies in wait for happy, peaceful, busy countries, which only arm, as France had done, not for attack, but for defence.
CHAPTER XI
BELGIUM ONCE MORE
The future’s gain
Is certain as God’s truth; but, meanwhile, pain
Is bitter, and tears are salt: our voices take
A sober tone; our very household songs
Are heavy with a nation’s griefs and wrongs;
And innocent mirth is chastened for the sake
Of the brave hearts that never more shall beat,
The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet.
Whittier.
You will remember I told you that long before this great war Belgium had already been called for hundreds of years “the Cockpit of Europe.” This vivid phrase comes down to us from the time when cock-fighting was a favourite sport among Englishmen.
Belgium was indeed the pit in which the gamecocks of many nations—the Flemings, the Dutch, the Spanish, the English, and the French—battled furiously. There is no town, and there is scarcely a village, the name of which is not proudly borne by some regiment among its battle honours. From the British point of view the most memorable of these are Quatre Bras, Ramillies, and Waterloo.
The most famous, I need hardly tell you, is the Battle of Waterloo, which was fought within a few miles of Brussels, the capital of Belgium. That was one reason why a great many English-speaking and English-reading people all over the world felt very sad when they heard that the German Army was in Brussels. But there is another reason why many men and women who have never been there feel a familiar and affectionate interest in the town. That is because three of our greatest writers and romancers have chosen to lay scenes of their stories in Brussels.
The first of these was Laurence Sterne, of whose most famous character, Uncle Toby, I have told you.
The second was William Makepeace Thackeray. He showed an intimate knowledge of the Brussels of a hundred years ago in his account in “Vanity Fair” of what took place there before, during, and after the Battle of Waterloo. But those who claim to be true Thackerayans will tell you that even finer, even more firmly fixed on their minds, is the account of Esmond’s visit to his mother’s grave in the Brussels of the eighteenth century.
It was, however, a lady, Miss Charlotte Brontë, who, in “Villette,” which good judges consider the best of her stories, has made many of us feel really intimate with the highways and byways of Brussels. In fact, it is not too much to say that there are many people (the writer among them) who, when before the War they heard the name of Brussels suddenly pronounced, immediately thought of “Villette.”
In every war certain men seize on what is called the popular imagination. Three such soon towered above all their fellows in Belgium.
The first was King Albert, who has shown himself the heroic defender of his kingdom’s rights and liberties, and who continually shared in the trenches the dangers and discomforts of his brave troops.
The second was General Leman, whose name will ever be linked with the magnificent defence of Liège.
And the third was Adolphe Max, the Mayor or Burgomaster of Brussels. This civilian hero might well take as his motto, “Peace hath her victories as well as war,” for his extraordinary moral and physical courage saved his beloved city from the fate which befell Louvain and Termonde.
When the Germans were about to make their triumphal march through the Belgian capital, the Mayor insisted that as he was the First Citizen of Brussels he must ride at the head of the procession. In this way he proved that he was not the captive but the host of the rough intruders. And when the German General Staff arrived at the Town Hall, and, declaring that they meant to make it their Headquarters, commanded M. Max to provide them at once with three hundred beds, “I will provide three hundred and one beds,” replied the Mayor of Brussels, smiling, “for of course I shall sleep here too!”
“You will hand over to us a hundred of your notables as hostages for your people’s good behaviour,” said the German General. “I will be your hostage,” instantly replied M. Max, “and I will provide you with none other.” Small wonder that this brave, good-humoured man won the love as well as the respect of the people of whom he was the shepherd.
On one occasion the German General, trying to threaten and bully M. Max, laid his revolver on the table with what he apparently thought was a grand gesture. M. Max, with a smile, took up his pen and laid it beside the revolver. And never was there a better example shown of the fact that the pen can be mightier than the sword.
At last, as punishment for his sturdy courage and his determination to protect his people’s legal rights, M. Max was suspended from his office, and put in what the enemy quaintly called “honourable custody” in a German fortress. Fierce were the grief and anger of the unfortunate inhabitants of Brussels, and the Germans soon found that it was far more difficult to govern the city in the absence, than with the help, of M. Max.
The Germans had not been at Brussels very long when it became known that British Marines had been landed at Ostend. They only stayed there a short time, but their temporary presence was a great comfort to the poor Belgians.
Ostend was then simply a pretty watering-place, but that was not always so. The town whose name, as you will see later, was to become a familiar one in this great war, was once besieged by the Spaniards for three and a half years, and it was said that the noise of the bombardment was heard in London! It was at Ostend that the Duke of Wellington, then plain Arthur Wellesley, first set foot on the Continent.
Early in the War Ostend became a place of desolation and distress, for the unfortunate Belgians, when fleeing from their burnt towns and villages, naturally made for the sea. There was no room in the town to lodge them all, and many of them lived for quite a long time in bathing-machines on the beach. It was mostly from Ostend that the Belgian refugees embarked to find kind new friends and homes in England.
Before the Germans marched on Brussels King Albert and his brave Queen had left for Antwerp, the beautiful old city and port which was, till this war, regarded as one of the best fortified strongholds in Europe.
The King and Queen, together with their little children, had not been there many days when one night the enemy basely sent a huge Zeppelin airship over the town. It tried to drop bombs over the Palace, where the Royal family were sleeping, but, missing the mark, only destroyed a small house, in which, however, a young mother and her tiny baby were killed. This cruel and unwarlike act shocked and disgusted all civilised people. But it seems to have delighted the Germans, who loudly proclaimed that London would be the next city visited. It is, however, a curious fact that during the first three months of the War no Zeppelin flew over French territory, although in this way a great deal of legitimate damage might have been done, not to women and children, but to soldiers and stores of arms.
At the time that I am writing, no Zeppelin has yet flown over London, but from the first day of the War a great many sensible people fully expected that the enemy would send one of these enormous aircraft over to England, if only to surprise and terrify us.
Now a Zeppelin is a most wonderful thing, and for my part I should very much like to see one. The day may come when we shall journey by air as easily as by road or rail, and in Germany for some time past anyone could take a short trip in a Zeppelin by paying a comparatively small sum.
I have already told you that it is a foolish thing to underrate an enemy; it is also a rather mean thing to do. Let us, therefore, give all honour to Count Zeppelin, even if he has allowed his invention to be turned to a despicable and inhuman use.
This remarkable man, like most inventors, was regarded for a long time as a dreamer, even as a madman. Undeterred by this mortifying fact, he worked on and on till at last he produced the airship which was known as Zeppelin I. It was not, however, till Zeppelin III, just seven years ago, made a successful flight, that the German Government agreed to purchase the ship, and further granted him a good sum of money in order that he might carry on his experiments. In the year following, in 1908, a much larger sum was given to Count Zeppelin, and he found himself, from being an obscure inventor, suddenly raised to a pinnacle as the most belauded man in his Fatherland!
When this war broke out the Germans undoubtedly counted immensely on their fleet of Zeppelins. But, fortunately for those of us who live in London, a Zeppelin is so huge and unwieldy that it can only be started with considerable difficulty, and it cannot alight and fly up again as can an aeroplane. Moreover, it requires an enormous shed for its protection when it is not in the air, for on land it is a very helpless machine. Once in flight, however, it is a most formidable-looking engine of war. It has been said that if a Zeppelin were stood on end by St. Paul’s, it would appear at least a third longer than that vast building.
To return to Antwerp. The city has long been dear to many English people, and it is very easily reached from our shores. Perhaps that is one reason why it has been a favourite holiday place for a great many years. When the news came that it was to be fiercely attacked by the enemy, a wave of sorrow swept through our country.
It is a beautiful town, and the steeple of the Cathedral is so exquisite, so delicately lovely in design, as to have become one of the wonders of the world. Napoleon, who was not apt to admire fine architecture, said it was like a piece of old Mechlin lace. Antwerp is a city of churches, and in each church there are wonderful paintings, many of them the work of men born in the city itself.
The most delightful of Flemish painters was Quentin Matsys. He began life as a blacksmith, and the city possesses some fine ironwork done by him in youth. Fortunately for the world, he fell in love with an artist’s daughter. The artist would not give his daughter to a blacksmith, and declared that she must marry a painter. So Quentin Matsys immediately began to paint, and he very soon painted much better than his future father-inlaw! In the Cathedral is a tablet to his memory on which are inscribed the words:
“’Twas love connubial taught the smith to paint.”
Antwerp has always been one of the fighting fortresses of the world. We must, however, remember that it was far easier to defend the little old Antwerp of the Middle Ages than the big modern city.
I think the most interesting thing about the Antwerp of the past is that Godfrey de Bouillon, of whom I am sure some of you must have heard, started from there for the Holy Land, where he was to die bearing the fine title of “Baron and Defender of the Holy Sepulchre.”
Antwerp went through many terrible trials before this last siege—in fact, so cruelly was it treated about five hundred years ago that the episode still lives in history as “the Spanish Fury.”
In the middle of the French Revolution Antwerp became French. Napoleon delighted in its possession, and uttered the famous words, “Antwerp is a pistol aimed at the heart of England!” He found it, however, as we believe the Germans will find it, of as little or of as much use as an unloaded pistol; and in due course he had to give it up, just as the Germans will have to give it up.
It is strange now to reflect that a British Army besieged Antwerp in 1814, when it was splendidly defended by the French.
War is full of curious, funny, and terrible incidents.
Before Antwerp surrendered to the enemy, everything was destroyed that could possibly be of any use to the German hosts. Among other things so treated were hundreds of motor-cars. Some, of course, had seen a good deal of service and were old, but there were some splendid new ones too. An energetic Belgian officer had them all brought together in a square, and then he set strong men, including as many blacksmiths as he was able to find, to carry out the job of putting the motors out of action. They fell to their work of destruction with a will, puncturing tires, hammering cylinders, and wrenching gears.
Tons and tons of excellent corn were also emptied out into the river, and the cold-storage apparatus of the town, which enabled meat and all perishable foods to be kept for an indefinite time, was also destroyed. All the ships in the fine harbour were made useless by their boilers being smashed up. Thus, when the Germans walked in expecting to find everything nice and comfortable, they discovered that the town was but an empty husk.
The Germans began to bombard Antwerp on the second day of October, and they took the city solely because they had better and bigger guns than the defenders. The Belgians, headed by their splendid King, put up a valiant fight, and England sent a party of British Naval Volunteers to help in the defence.
Now very few people know about the British Naval Volunteers. They are a fine force, dating from the reign of Queen Elizabeth. It is a curious fact that Antwerp saw them for the first time under fire since the Napoleonic scare, which frightened quiet folk in England so very much more than the Kaiser with all his legions and terrifying threats has been able to do! It is, therefore, the more creditable that our officers and men acquitted themselves so excellently, showing remarkable firmness, discipline, and courage, and that though some of these Naval Volunteers had only been in training a very short time.
As Antwerp fell, some people regretted that this British force had been sent there. But they were wrong in so regretting. The presence of these volunteers heartened the defence, and in such a case as that we should all feel:
“’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”
CHAPTER XII
THE FAR-FLUNG BATTLE LINE
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set
His Britain in blown seas and storming showers,
We have a voice with which to pay the debt
Of boundless love and reverence and regret
To those great men who fought and kept it ours.
Tennyson.
Then each shall take with stubborn grip
His rifle as he took his whip,
And when the Flag’s unfurled,
The clerk shall drop his futile pen
To lift his well-loved lance—and then
A nation fronts the world!
Arthur H. Adams.
How long will the War last? No two people agree about this, and that however wise, however clever, even however experienced in war they may be. It will be very interesting to see who among our friends have proved right; those who say it will be over soon, or those others who believe it may last years.
There is one thing, however, about which even now we all are agreed. This is that, however long the war may last, Britain and her Allies will never give up the fight until victory is assured.
This great war has been full of surprises, which soldiers and historians will go on discussing for many years to come. Never before, as I have already explained, had such vast masses of men been engaged, never before had battle fronts extended for two hundred, and even three hundred, miles. Not so very long ago, battles never took more than a week or ten days at the most before what soldiers call a “decision” was reached. By “decision,” soldiers mean the complete defeat of one army or the other, so that it is unable to gather itself together and fight again. Even the Battle of the Aisne, which was really a row of battles on a line as long as from London to Carlisle, did not produce a decision of that kind.
Without going into a long explanation which you might not be able to understand, I will try to show how the Battle of the Aisne simply did not end at all, but gradually melted, so to speak, into what we may call the Battle of the Dykes.
One great reason for this singular result, or absence of result, is to be found in the use of aircraft. In the Italian War in Tripoli, and in the Balkan War, aeroplanes had done good service, but this was the first occasion on which they had been employed on a great scale, and the effect of their employment was that neither side could prepare those surprises for the enemy which, in old days, brought about decisive victories.
Napoleon used always to feel by means of scouts for the point at which his enemy was weakest, and against that point he would throw his whole strength. But if Napoleon were alive now, he could not wage war in that way. It is true that his aeroplanes would find out the enemy’s weak point quickly, but the enemy, in his turn, would quickly find out where Napoleon was bringing up fresh men, and would make arrangements to meet them.
This is the sort of thing that happened on the Aisne. Both sides pushed hard, and there was terrible loss of life in numerous battles along the whole front. Villages were taken and retaken, sometimes five or six times over, and on the whole the Allies gained a good deal of ground, and to that extent they defeated the enemy, to whom it was very important to get on quickly.
England and France were not in such a hurry. They could afford to wait because fresh troops were constantly coming up, not only French, but also British, including the magnificent Indian regiments, while the New Army enlisted on the appeal of Lord Kitchener, and the Canadian and the Australian forces, were steadily forming and training, ready to be thrown into the battle. It was quite enough for the Allies simply to hold the Germans, and prevent them from getting to Paris.
There is reason to believe that the German generals, and the Kaiser in particular, determined at this crisis to make a great dash for the coast. If you look at the map you will see that on the Belgian coast, going westwards beyond Ostend, we come to Dunkirk, in France; and then, still further on, to Calais.
Calais has had such a long and romantic history that I cannot help being glad that it has played a part in this great war. The people of Calais are as brave now as they were in the days when the burghers, themselves behaving nobly, gave, as the doing of a noble action nearly always does, the opportunity for the performance of another. Long before the Kaiser set his heart on occupying the nearest port to England, mighty warriors had fought for Calais.
“A thousand knights have reined their steeds
To watch this line of sand-hills run,
Along the never silent Strait,
To Calais glittering in the sun;
To look towards Ardres’ golden field
Across the wide aerial plain,
Which glows as if the Middle Age
Were gorgeous upon earth again.”
The Kaiser wanted to get to Calais for two reasons; one was to encourage the people in Berlin, and the second object was to frighten people here, in England, and to attack the British warships with submarines and destroyers, working from the harbour of Calais.
But a very disagreeable surprise awaited the Germans when they threw themselves towards the coast. This surprise was a number of British and French warships, which shelled them from the sea!
Among the British ships were three very strange-looking craft called monitors. You know well what a monitor means at school, though in some schools they are called prefects. The word exactly means a person who advises, and to whose words attention must be paid.
The Germans certainly had to pay attention to the observations of the three British monitors. These ships, named the Humber, Severn, and Mersey, are like nothing else in the Navy—I can only compare them to floating fortresses. Everything else is sacrificed in building them to having on board as big guns as possible. They are therefore shaped rather like barges, so that they may stand the violent shock when their big guns are all fired. Their speed is not great, and they do not lie deep in the water, so that they can come very near the coast. They are, indeed, meant entirely for coast defence.
These three curious-looking ships were being built in this country for Brazil, and our Admiralty very cleverly took possession of them, of course paying the full price, and very useful they turned out in this Battle of the Dykes.
You can easily understand that the German trenches and other positions had to be mostly, not alongside the coastline, but at right angles to it, so that the monitors could fire their shells lengthwise at the doomed Germans, and so they killed many more than they would otherwise have done.
The country in which the battle was fought is covered with little rivers and canals and dykes, and that is why I have called it the Battle of the Dykes. Parts of it also were flooded, and the German advance became extremely difficult. The British destroyers used to run up the rivers and canals and shell any German position which had escaped the shells of the monitors.
The loss of life was terrible, and not on the German side only. The gallant Belgian Army, though a good deal diminished in numbers, fought magnificently. The Germans, however, continually brought up fresh troops, regardless of the terrible slaughter. And there came a day at the end of October when the Belgian forces found that they were running short of cartridges and shells. It was then that the Germans had their great chance, but for some extraordinary reason they missed it. If they had pressed on, they must have driven their enemy before them and obtained an important success. Instead of that, to the astonishment and delight of the Belgians, they actually fell back, and the golden opportunity was gone.
What a lesson this is in the value of perseverance! The Romans had an excellent proverb, namely, “Opportunity is bald behind”; meaning that when you have once allowed your chance to pass you, there is nothing by which you can catch hold of it to drag it back.
You may have heard the expression “the romance of war.” Even in this awful conflict, where there has been so much that was frightful, certain romantic facts have come to cheer the heart of the nation. Thus, under Rear-Admiral Horace Hood, who commanded the flotilla off the Belgian coast, was Commander Charles Fremantle. They are both descended from heroes of the Napoleonic wars. A Fremantle commanded a line of battleships at Copenhagen and Trafalgar. It was Viscount Hood who, in 1759, destroyed the transports which had been got ready by the daring of the French for the invasion of England. Another Hood served with Nelson in the Mediterranean; this was Samuel Hood. His elder brother, Alexander, commanded the Mars, which fought a duel with the French warship Hercule, and he died of his wounds just as the sword of the French captain was placed in his hands.
The British Army never fought more bravely, more doggedly, and with more splendid cheerfulness than during this fierce, water-logged battle. The enemy, even with his great advantage in numbers and in weight of artillery, was no match for our men. The London Scottish, the first complete unit of our Territorial Army to fight by the side of Regulars, covered themselves with glory by magnificent charges, again and again repeated, at a place called Messines. It was at this time, too, that the Indian troops first came into action, with terrible results for the Germans.
It is difficult to select what to tell you about the Indians, there is so much that is curious and interesting. What struck me personally most was the fact that their batteries of mountain guns and Maxims, according to an observer who saw them in their French camp, are carried on mule-back. Being in Europe has made no difference at all to these wonderful people’s immemorial traditions. Thus, they have brought all their food from India, and they live when on foreign soil exactly as their ancestors lived. There are thousands of goats in the Sikh lines, and very well they bore the long journey from India.
Some of the Indian troops cannot eat any food over which has passed even the shadow of a person belonging to another religious creed. Some of the Indians, also, can only take their food separately, and as it were in secret. But, with the help of the native officers and of white officers who had served in India, such difficulties were easily met, and these gallant Sikhs, Rajputs, Gurkhas, and Pathans suffered no injury to their religious faith, while at the same time they fought shoulder to shoulder with their white comrades in defence of the British Empire.
It would be a great mistake to suppose that the enemy was content only to fight in the cockpit of Europe. The far-flung battle line reached at last from Belgium to Switzerland, something like three hundred miles, and all along there was constant fighting. The struggle swayed backwards and forwards—indeed, for weeks it seemed like a joust between two determined wrestlers, each of whom, if he gave way an inch one day, got back an inch the next.
Particularly violent was the struggle round and for Arras. This quaint town has been described as the most picturesque in Northern Europe. This was partly owing to the fact that it still retained great traces of the old Spanish occupation. One square in Arras looked as if it had been lifted bodily out of Spain. Like so many north of France and Belgian towns, it also had a singularly beautiful town hall and belfry. Alas! all this beauty, including the little Spanish square, was bombarded and destroyed. But, sad as was the fate of Arras, it was shared by many other historic towns.
All along the battle line deeds of valour, of daring, and of quiet, unostentatious heroism were daily performed. Many of our soldiers and airmen earned not only the Legion of Honour, but the Médaille Militaire, which is only awarded for deeds of exceptional daring performed on active service.
Private F. W. Dodson, of Meadowwell, North Shields, serving with the 2nd Coldstream Guards, was recommended for the V.C. for saving a wounded comrade under fire. When writing to his wife on their wedding anniversary an account of what had happened he said:
“You will know by the time you receive this that I have been recommended for the V.C., an honour I never thought would come my way. I only took my chance, and did my duty to save my comrade. It was really nothing, but I shall never forget the congratulations and praise I received from our officers, my comrades, and our Brigadier-General. I shall ever remember them.”
Mrs. Dodson must have been a proud woman when she read this modest, manly letter, as also when she received yet another letter from the wife of her husband’s commanding officer, Captain Follett. Lady Mildred Follett sent her the following extract from a letter received from her husband:
“A thick fog came down, so I sent a group of three men out 100 yards to our front to warn us of an attack from the enemy. After they had been there an hour, the fog suddenly lifted, and they were fired on at close range by the Germans. One man was killed, one was wounded badly, and one crawled back. I didn’t know how to get the wounded man back, so I had to call for a volunteer, and a reservist, Dodson, at once responded, and went out and fetched him. He was heavily fired at, but not hit. He is quite all right.”
It is comforting to know that the bravest, even the most reckless, men constantly have marvellous escapes. Take the case of Lieutenant A. C. Johnston, the Hampshire county cricketer. The day before he was wounded, the nose of a shell hit a wall six inches above his head. Shortly after that a bullet hit the ground half a yard in front of him, bounded up, and hit him on the body, bruising his ribs. Then a bullet hit him over the heart, but was “spent” before reaching him. Finally, while he was sitting on the steps of a house, half the building was blown up, and he was not even touched!
You will often hear contemptuous allusions to “amateurs” and their doings. But amateurs have proved, especially in this war, that they often are just as good as those who have been carefully trained to do a special job.
One of the finest “amateur” corps in this war was that of the British Volunteer Despatch-riders. Thanks to their work the generals commanding were able to keep in constant touch with one another, a matter of vital importance in warfare.
Many of these young fellows were just fresh from their Universities, and had no previous military experience, but they showed remarkable dash and bravery while travelling on motor-cycles through a country infested with enemies.
Many and thrilling were their adventures. On one occasion an Australian from Cambridge, while speeding along a country road, suddenly came upon a party of fourteen German cavalrymen. With characteristic audacity he drew his revolver and shot down an officer and one man, whereupon the others ran away. Thus the Australian was able to deliver his despatch, which informed a corps commander that Germans were in the neighbourhood, and so prevented what might have been a disagreeable surprise.
The spy service, or, as they prefer to call it, the Secret Intelligence Department, has always been very cleverly conducted by the German War Office. Of the many devices resorted to by the enemy to convey secret information to those whom it concerned, the most curious and original was that known as the sign of the Black Cow.
All over the area of war the French and British troops were much surprised and mystified by seeing rough sketches of a black cow on walls and the sides of houses, even on gates and fences. Sometimes it was a small cow, sometimes a large cow; sometimes the cow was standing, sometimes she was lying down.
At last a French officer, cleverer or blessed with more imagination than his fellows, suddenly “tumbled to” the explanation. The small cow meant that the road in front was weakly defended. The large cow conveyed the warning that the enemy were strongly entrenched near by. Always the direction in which the head pointed told where the enemy lay. Only when the head was tossed back, and the horns were long and pointed, did it indicate to the enemy that an aeroplane reconnaissance would be valuable over there.
I think one of the stories of plain-man valour which impressed me most was that of a young telegraphist at Lille. He managed to move his instruments into the cellar of the house next to the Post Office. He then went and installed himself there; and for three weeks, helped by a few faithful friends who managed to give him food and water at certain long intervals, he conveyed valuable information to the Allied forces.
Now one of the most extraordinary features of this war has been the way in which towns and villages, aye, and even houses, have been taken and retaken alternately by friends and enemies. When the French had a temporary success the young telegraphist did not come out, as most people would have done; he remained where he was, knowing how probable was the presence of spies. Thus, when Lille was once more in German occupation, he was able to go on with his valuable help to the Allies.
A good many of us just now are anxious about some prisoner of war, and it is curious how few people know the pains, penalties, and privileges to which the prisoner of war is doomed or entitled. To begin with, the person of a prisoner of war is sacred, and on the whole he is well treated. Thus his captors have not the right to ask him for information which would do harm to his own side. He can, however, be forced to work for his captors. The Germans are said to make their prisoners work at digging trenches and making earthworks, which is not fair, for of course such defences are intended to be used against the prisoner’s own side. If a prisoner of war gives his word not to escape he is often allowed much more liberty, but, as a rule, British and French officers refuse to give any such promise. Should one of them escape, he may be fired at, but if he is retaken he may not be punished for having tried to escape.
In this war, Britain has treated her prisoners in a very generous and humane fashion. Those among them who are wounded were actually visited by our King and Queen, who spoke to them kindly in their own language, and gave orders that their comfort should be studied.
Immediately after what I have called the Battle of the Dykes, came one of the fiercest struggles of the war, that which centred round the curiously-named town of Ypres. This quaint, beautiful, old town was once, strange to say, besieged by an English Churchman, Henry Spencer, Bishop of Norwich. He failed to take Ypres because of the stout resistance offered to his soldiers by a hedge of thorn-bushes! This hedge grew on the ramparts, and proved a very real defence. In memory of their preservation the people of Ypres hold a fair every August, and in the Cathedral is a fine painting called “Our Lady of the Garden,” to show that the aid of Heaven as well as of the thorns had been invoked.
One wonders if the Kaiser had heard of that old siege, when he issued his cruel and wanton order commanding that Ypres, with its lovely old houses, and its famous Cloth Hall, should be razed to the ground. Such destruction could bring no military advantage. In fact, the British held on to Ypres with splendid tenacity, though many gallant and noble young lives were laid down during the fierce fighting which went on there.
Other cities, not less beautiful than Ypres, and not less famed in history, were the scene of awful battles during this phase of the great war.
Tournai, where an important engagement was fought, is a quiet, placid town where are made what are called “Brussels” carpets. According to tradition, the art of weaving these carpets was brought home from the Crusades by Flemish soldiers, who had learnt it from the Saracens. Tournai is quite used to being the scene of fierce and bloody conflicts. It was splendidly defended nearly five hundred years ago by a woman, Princess Christine d’Espinoy, an ancestor of the Comte de Lalaing who is now Belgian Minister in England. It was said of this princess that she united the skill of a prudent general to the valour of a brave warrior, and, although she was herself badly wounded, she only gave in when three-fourths of her garrison were either dead or unable to fight. You may be interested to learn that Tournai is not far from the famous battlefield of Fontenoy, where English, Dutch, and Austrians were defeated by the French with the help of the gallant Irish Brigades which had been raised by, and for, the Stuarts.
Then there is the town of Courtrai, where was fought the beautifully-named battle of the Golden Spurs. This must not be confused with the Battle of the Spurs which was fought two hundred years earlier. The Battle of the Golden Spurs was won by the weavers of Ghent and Bruges, fighting against the French. Hundreds of gilt spurs worn by the French officers were gathered on the field where British and French have now fought side by side.
Round Peronne, too, fierce fighting went on during the struggle in Northern France and Flanders. This town has had the honour of holding more than one king captive. King Charles the Simple was imprisoned there for fifteen years, and is even said to have been starved to death there. When Louis XI came to Peronne to meet Charles the Bold, the latter shut him up for two days in his castle to punish him for having stirred up Liège to rebel, and only released him when Louis consented to sign the Treaty of Peronne. The town was once finely defended by a woman, Catharine de Poix, five hundred years ago, and the fortress never fell till the Duke of Wellington took it in 1815.
I suppose there has never been before so long a battleline as that which extended from the sea at Ostend right across Flanders and through Northern and Eastern France to the borders of Switzerland. The armies of the Allies were under the supreme command of General Joffre, whom Lord Kitchener described at the Guildhall banquet as not only a great soldier but a great man. Sir John French and the British Army fought mostly in Flanders, where they repulsed terrific onslaughts delivered by the flower of the enemy, notably by the famous Prussian Corps of the Guards.
It is interesting to recall that among the British and French who thus fought side by side were descendants of heroes who had fought against one another on the field of Waterloo. For instance, a great grandson of the Duke of Wellington was, through his work in the Flying Corps, brought into daily touch with the Duke of Elchingen, a direct descendant of Marshal Ney.
As the fighting grew fiercer, so the number of the wounded rose to terrible proportions. Splendid deeds of valour were performed by the men and women, doctors, nurses, and ambulance men, whose duty it is to bring in and care for the soldiers who have fallen on the battlefield.
I must tell you of one truly heroic deed done by an English officer:
After an engagement in which the Germans were repulsed, they fell back, taking with them all their wounded except one, who was overlooked. An English officer, having given the order “Cease fire,” himself went out into the open to pick up the wounded German. He was struck by several German bullets and badly wounded, but the Germans, as soon as they saw what his object was, also ordered the “Cease fire.” Thereupon our officer staggered to the fallen man and carried him to the German lines. A German officer received him with a salute, and, calling for cheers, pinned upon his breast an Iron Cross. Then the officer returned to his own trenches. He was recommended for the Victoria Cross for this notable example of chivalry, but he died of his wounds.
The German soldier is sometimes a more gallant foe than is his commander. A couple of wounded Germans arrived at the hospital of Saint Mandier, Toulon, bearing round their necks cards on which had been written by the senior surgeon who had sent them there, the words: “These two Germans are recommended to the special care and attention of my colleagues, because they have saved a French officer.”
It then appeared that on the field of battle these Germans lay by the side of a French officer, who, like themselves, was badly wounded. Presently there came along a party of German cavalry, who, seeing the Frenchman, proposed in a mean and cowardly way to finish him off. But the two Germans—believed to be Bavarians—would have none of it, and themselves defended the wounded Frenchman. When all three reached hospital, the French officer told the story.
While our men were fighting and dying for their country in Flanders, people at home did all they could to help them. No one was too great, no one too humble, to support the many kindly and ingenious schemes which were devised.
Lord Roberts, by a personal appeal, obtained thousands of field-glasses for the use of our officers, and then, with like success, he obtained great numbers of saddles for our cavalry. To each donor, whether of the field-glasses or of the saddles, he sent a personal letter of thanks.
You know, of course, that Lord Roberts died as he would have wished to die—with the Army. It was about the middle of November that he went to France to see and speak with the Indian troops, and there he caught a chill which, alas! he had not strength to resist.
It would take a great book to tell you all that Lord Roberts tried to do, and all that he succeeded in doing, for his country. I can only here give you the splendid and heartening message which he sent to the children of the Empire:
“You have all heard of the war; you have all heard of the fighting forces sent from every part of the Empire to help the Mother Country. Why are we fighting? Because the British Empire does not break its promises, nor will it allow small nations to be bullied.
“Now, the British Government promised, with all the Great Powers of Europe, including Germany, that no army should set foot on the territory of the little nation of Belgium without her leave; in other words, she ‘guaranteed the neutrality of Belgium.’
“Germany, however, was bent on war, and on dominating other nations. Britain did her best to keep the peace, but Germany (breaking her word) marched her armies into Belgium to try and conquer France.
“Children of the Empire, this is why we are at war—to hold our promise, to help our friends, and to keep the Flag of Liberty flying, not only over our own Empire, but over the whole world.
“God Save our King and Empire.
“Roberts (Field-Marshal).”
Truly to Lord Roberts may be applied the famous lines:
“Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.”
You will remember my telling you of the exploits of the German cruiser Emden. Well, early in November she was caught and destroyed by the cruiser Sydney, of the Australian Navy.
The captain of the Emden, whose name is Karl von Müller, became a sort of hero of romance. This was partly because of his extraordinary ingenuity and daring, partly because he treated the crews of the liners he captured with humanity and politeness. Our seamen chivalrously gave him and his officers all the honours of war, allowing them to keep their swords.
Von Müller was accused by the crew of at least one of his captures of having sent out S.O.S. signals to lure merchant ships into his net. These signals, as you know, mean, “I am in great distress. Come as quick as you can to the rescue.” If he really played this trick, I find it difficult to admire him for it.
I do not know whether Captain von Müller is a reader of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne’s entertaining books, but he certainly repeated in real life an exploit of Commander M‘Turk in “The Western Ocean Pirate.” He added a sham funnel to the Emden, and crept into Penang Harbour, pretending to be a British cruiser. He was thus able to dispose of two warships, one of them Russian.
As winter drew near, everyone turned their thoughts to providing warm garments and warming comforts for the troops. The Queen appealed to the women of the Empire and splendidly they responded. Young and old fingers knitted socks, mittens, comforters, and body belts, till hundreds of thousands were despatched to the front and to the Fleet.
Always remember that a deed of real kindness warms the heart as truly as a cosy garment warms the body. Our brave men, as we know by their grateful letters home, felt ever so much heartened by these and other signs of our gratitude.
And while we were all working here, French women, Russian women, and German women, helped by their children, were also all intent on providing their soldiers with winter comforts. But thinking of those industrious, devoted German mothers and wives, I wonder if they ever give a thought to those Belgian women who, homeless wanderers owing to Germany’s ruthless inhumanity, can provide nothing for their sons and brothers, but have to rely entirely on the kindness of their Allies and of America.
I do not think I can end this record of gallant, merciful, and kindly deeds without telling you of the Santa Claus ship from America.
The poor little Belgians, and those French boys and girls whose homes have been destroyed by fire, shell, and shot, are not likely to have any Christmas presents this year. Neither are the children of the other combatant nations likely to have a very happy Christmas. So a kind American editor bethought himself that here was a chance for the boys and girls of America. The American Government entered very heartily into the project of sending what is now known as the Santa Claus ship to Europe with Christmas presents for the children of the warring nations, and they offered the use of a United States battleship. It was settled that the battleship should fly at her foremast a large white flag, with a red Star of Hope in the centre, and under it the word “Inasmuch.” It was further arranged that the Santa Claus ship should proceed first to England, then to France, and then to Belgium, the German children’s presents being sent through Rotterdam.
I want you to try and make a special effort to remember the following deed of heroism, because it seems to me to be in some ways the most moving and splendid told you in this book. That is why I have put it last.
It was during an engagement near Nancy that Corporal Lancaster, of the Coldstream Guards, was shot in the neck. It was a terrible wound, and his comrades dragged him into the shelter of a haystack. “Be quiet,” they whispered, “for if you groan you will give away the position.”
Lancaster remained silent for six hours.
At last the Germans advanced. At a hundred yards from the haystack they were met by the blinding hail of the machine-gun section of the Coldstreams, and the silence of Corporal Lancaster was rewarded. Still grimly silent, he was gathered in by the Red Cross men at the end of a terrible day, and was soon on his way to England, who, we may safely assert, has never borne a braver son.
As the War Christmas drew in sight, kind Princess Mary suddenly bethought herself how nice it would be to send each of our sailors and soldiers a Christmas gift, or rather a Christmas parcel. Her Royal Highness accordingly issued a touching appeal to the public. It was responded to with great eagerness and enthusiasm. As a result five articles were sent to each man on active service, from Sir John French and Sir John Jellicoe to the youngest private or sailor serving under him. Every parcel contained some tobacco in a brass box on which was engraved, in a medallion, the names of the Allies, the proud words “Imperium Britannicum,” and a portrait of Princess Mary.
I feel I cannot end a record of gallant and merciful deeds more suitably than with the beautiful supplication for peace written by a French prince, Charles of Orleans, when a prisoner in England five hundred years ago.
I have not attempted to find or to provide a translation, for this poem, written in what a boy poet once called stained-glass-window French, is perfect, full of the humble piety and unquestioning faith of an age more trusting and holier than ours.
“Priez pour paix, douce Vierge Marie,
Reine des cieux et du monde maistresse,
Faites prier, par vostre courtaisie,
Saints et saintes, et prenez vostre adresse
Vers vostre fils, requérant sa hautesse
Qu’il lui plaise son peuple regarder
Que de son sang a voulu racheter,
En déboutant guerre que tout désvoie;
De prières ne vous veuillez lasser,
Priez pour paix, le vrai trésor de joie.”
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. at Paul’s Work, Edinburgh
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.