Dodging Shells
[From The London Morning Post, Feb. 1, 1915.]
The Echo de Paris has published today a letter that throws a considerable amount of light upon the psychology of the French soldier, and that shows how he behaves himself when subjected to very trying fire and compelled to act on his own initiative. It is written by the man to his wife, and is as follows:
I am acting as guard to a convoy, and am comfortably installed, with no work to do, in the house of an old woman who has lent me a candle and writing materials. I shan't be suffering from the cold in the way I have done on previous nights, as I have a roof over me and a fire. What luxury! It's been freezing for several nights, and you feel the frost when you are sleeping in the open. But that is nothing to the three days we passed in the village of ——. We were stationed in the mairie. In front of us in the clock tower an artillery Captain was taking observations. On the road between the church and the mairie a Sergeant and four artillerymen were sending orders to the battery behind us. Suddenly a shell struck. We saw the artillerymen on the ground and the Sergeant alone left standing.
The fire was so thick that no one could think of going out. But suddenly one of the men moved, so I got up to find out about it, taking care to put on my knapsack. When I was among them I found that one had been hit right in the heart; two others were dying, one with his head in a pulp and the other with his thigh broken and the calf of his leg torn to a jelly. I helped the Sergeant to mend the telephone wire that had been broken by the shell, and all the time we were having shells and bits of brick breaking around us.
Then I went back to the mairie, and asked for some one who would not be frightened to come with me. Two of us went off to the village for a stretcher. I found one at the old ambulance, and was just leaving it when I heard the scream of a shell, and took cover in the chimney—just in time. A big black brute smashed half the house in. My comrade and I hurried off after the wounded man. Our pals were watching us from the mairie, wondering if we should ever get back. Old Gérome, (that's me,) they said, will get back all right, and when back at the mairie I began to give the wounded man first aid. Another shell came along, and the place shook, window panes rained upon us, and dust blinded us, but at last it cleared.
Left alone with my wounded man I went on dressing him, and when the others got back I got them to help me take him to the schoolhouse near by. I got congratulated by my comrades and the senior Sergeant, but the Colonel and Lieutenant said nothing, though later I heard they were pleased with me, but suddenly the Colonel said: "We can't stop here. Go and see if there's room in the cellars of the castle for four officers and thirty men. If there is don't come back, as we will follow you."
We got there at last, two of us, but the owner took a long time opening. Meanwhile scraps of roofs and walls were raining on us, but with our knapsacks on our heads we were a bit protected. At last our knocks were answered, and we learned that there was room for four officers, but not for thirty men! The Colonel and the men had to be warned, so my comrade started running back and I followed about fifteen yards behind.
We passed a gap in the houses, with no cover, nothing but gardens. A shell came along. I dropped, while the other man hid in a doorway. The bits of it sang about our ears. I then sang out: "As you are nearly there, go on, and I'll see if there is room in the farm near by." I reached the houses and waited to see that he got through, because if he'd fallen I should have had to go back to warn the rest. As he was going two shells burst in the courtyard of the mairie, and I thought of the Colonel and the rest, but at last my comrade; reached the place and went in, and I was free to try for the farm.
VICE ADMIRAL SIR DAVID BEATTY—Youngest of British Admirals,
Whose Fleet Sank the Bluecher, and Won the Battle of the Bight of Heligoland—
(From the painting by Philip Alexius Laszlo de Lombos)
COUNT VON REVENTLOW—The German Naval Critic
Who Has Intimated That the United States
Might Be a Divided Nation in Case of War
On my way I met a friend and asked him to join me. At the time I was thinking of you all, and it was not till later that I got frightened. There were five horses at the gate of the farm. I shifted them and showed my friend the entrance to the cellar. It was narrow, and he lost time through his knapsack, and these are the occasions when your life depends on seconds. I heard the scream that I know only too well, and guessed where the beast would lodge, and called out to him "That's for us." I shrank back with my knapsack over my head and tried to bury myself in the corner among the coal.
I had no time, though. The shell reached, smashed down part of the house, and burst in the basement a couple of yards from me. I heard no more, but stone, plaster, and bricks fell all around me on the coal heap. I was gasping, but found myself untouched. I got up and saw the poultry struggling and the horses struck down. I ran to the cellar, with the same luck as my friend.
My knapsack caught me. A shell screamed a second time again for us, and it struck, wallop, on the gable, while the ruins fell around my head. I pulled at my knapsack so vigorously that I fell into the cellar, and some of our men who were there called "Here's a poor brute done in." Not a bit of it. I was not touched then either.... At last the bombardment stopped, and we all got out. I noticed about forty hens. Some were pulped. Others had had their heads and legs cut off. In the muddle three horses lay dead. Their saddles were in ribbons. Equipment, revolvers, swords, all that had been left above the cellar had vanished, but there were bits of them to be seen on the roof. My rifle, which had been torn from my hands, was in fragments, and I was stupefied at not having been hit. I noticed, however, that my wrappings that were rolled around my knapsack had been pierced by a splinter of shell that had stuck an it. Later in the evening when I started cutting at my bread the knife stuck. I broke the bread open and found another bit of shell in it. I don't yet know why I was not made mincemeat of that day. There were fifty chances to one against me.
The two following days I stopped in the cellar, hearing nothing but their big shells, while the farm and the buildings near it were smashed in. Now it is all over. I am all right and bored to death mounting guard over wagons ten miles from the firing line, with a crowd of countrymen who have been commandeered with their wagons.
I ought to tell you that the two shells I saw fall on the mairie when my comrade was going there unfortunately killed one and wounded five. It was a bit of luck for me, as I always used to be hanging about the courtyard. That's the sad side of it, but we have an amusing time all the same. [The writer goes on to explain how he and his friends dressed up some men of straw in uniform and induced the Germans to shoot at them, and finally to charge them, while they fired at the Germans and brought several of them down. He continues.]
But that's nothing to what they'll get, and their villages will get, and their mairies, chateaux, and farms, and cellars, when we get there. I will respect old men, women, and children, but let their fighting men look out. I don't mind sacrificing my life to do my duty, and to defend those I love and who love me, but if I've got to lose my skin I want to lose it in Boche-land. I want the joy of getting into their dirty Prussia to avenge our beautiful land. Bandits! Let them and their choucroute factories look out! If you saw the countryside we are recovering—there's nothing left but ruins. Everything burned and smashed to bits. Cattle, more dead than alive, are bolting in all directions, and as for our poor women, when I see them I would destroy everything.
Our officers say: "We'll never be able to hold our men when we get into their country." But I say that I want to go there all the same, and yet when I say that I had a German prisoner to guard at the mairie. I gave him half my bread and knocked walnuts off the trees for him. All the time I saw five or more villages in flames around. Well, it all proves that a soldier should never say what he will do tomorrow. My job is to protect the flag, and the Boches can come on. Before they get it they'll have to get me.... Vive la France!