Four Hours with the Boches
From the Diary of Dr. van der Ghinst, of the Cabour (Adinkerque) Military Ambulance, and an Account given by Léon Deliens, Private of the 11th Line Regiment
October 24th. Dixmude, at night. By the sinister light of the burning houses, the Belgian soldiers and the French Marine Fusiliers were moving about among the ruins, in the midst of the flames which skimmed along the ground. With blackened faces, haggard eyes, and unkempt beards, their uniforms covered with blood and with dust, they went up and down the streets, springing over the stones, beams, and débris of all kinds, and climbing over walls. The gigantic shadows which they threw added to the phantasmagoria of the strange scene. From time to time a shrapnel burst, vibrating in the air with the sound of a huge timing-fork, or with a great flood of light the explosion of a shell made the cracked walls shake.
Our relief post was installed in what had formerly been a much frequented drawing-room in the house of a notary. Presently, the stretcher-bearers brought in a wounded man who, between his groans, told us that the Germans had entered the town. This seemed incredible, as our trenches formed an uninterrupted barrier. We thought the man must be delirious. Very soon, a second wounded man told us the same thing and it was confirmed by a third. One of them told us that he had seen the dead body of a German at the Square, nearly two hundred metres away from our ambulance. We began to wonder whether our line had been broken? If so, it would mean street fighting. Two days ago, the French doctors had transported their installations beyond the Yser. The only thing for us to do was to imitate them and so save our wounded. Without wasting a minute, I had them put into an ambulance carriage. We crossed the bridge and took the road leading to Caeskerke. On arriving at a little wine-shop, about four hundred yards outside this place, where another Belgian relief post had been installed, we carried our patients in and made them as comfortable as we could.
In the night, I was roused suddenly by my faithful orderly.
"The Germans are here!" he shouted, shaking me out of my slumber. In a second, I was on my feet. All my companions, doctors and stretcher-bearers, I found in the principal room of the wine-shop, talking together in the dark. I asked what had happened and they explained to me, in a whisper, that a trumpet blast, which was not ours, had been heard. After that there had been firing and shouts, and then a rush of men passing like a hurricane by our door, in the direction of Caeskerke. They were all shouting: "Hurrah!"
If this were so, our lines must have been forced and, whatever happened, it was necessary for us to know the truth. Anything was better than this mortal anguish. I opened the door. It was pitch-dark outside, an October night, cold and rainy. I could hear groans coming from the house opposite. With my Browning in my hand I entered and, by the light of my electric lamp, I saw two men stretched out on the floor, side by side, giving no sign of life. On approaching, I recognised Lieutenant Richard, of the Navy, and Abbé Le Helloco. I heard a groan coming from a corner of the room and found Dr. Duguet, the Head Doctor of the Marine Fusiliers.