Before relating how I escaped from Le Mans on the day when the retreat was ordered, there are a few other points with which I should like to deal briefly. It is tolerably well known that I made the English translation of Emile Zola's great novel, "La Débâcle," and a good many of my present readers may have read that work either in the original French or in the version prepared by me. Now, I have always thought that some of the characters introduced by Zola into his narrative were somewhat exceptional. I doubt if there were many such absolutely neurotic degenerates as "Maurice" in the French Army at any period of the war. I certainly never came across such a character. Again, the psychology of Stephen Crane's "Red Badge of Courage," published a few years after "La Débâcle," and received with acclamations by critics most of whom had never in their lives been under fire, also seems to me to be of an exceptional character. I much prefer the psychology of the Waterloo episode in Stendhal's "Chartreuse de Parme," because it is of more general application. "The Red Badge of Courage," so the critics told us, showed what a soldier exactly felt and thought in the midst of warfare. Unlike Stendhal, however, its author had never "served." No more had Zola; and I feel that many of the pictures which novelists have given us of a soldier's emotions when in action apply only to exceptional cases, and are even then somewhat exaggerated.
In action there is no time for thought. The most trying hours for a man who is in any degree of a sensitive nature are those spent in night-duty as a sentry or as one of a small party at some lonely outpost. Then thoughts of home and happiness, and of those one loves, may well arise. There is one little point in connexion with this subject which I must mention. Whenever letters were found on the bodies of men who fell during the Franco-German War, they were, if this man was a Frenchman, more usually letters from his mother, and, if he was a German, more usually letters from his sweetheart. Many such letters found their way into print during the course of the war. It is a well-known fact that a Frenchman's cult for his mother is a trait of the national character, and that a Frenchwoman almost always places her child before her husband.
But what struck me particularly during the Franco-German War was that the anxieties and mental sufferings of the French officers were much keener than those of the men. Many of those officers were married, some had young children, and in the silent hours of a lonely night-watch their thoughts often travelled to their dear ones. I well remember how an officer virtually unbosomed himself to me on this subject one night near Yvré-l'Evêque. The reason of it all is obvious. The higher a man's intelligence, the greater is his sense of responsibility and the force of his attachments. But in action the latter are set aside; they only obtrude at such times as I have said or else at the moment of death.
Of actual cowardice there were undoubtedly numerous instances during the war, but a great deal might be said in defence of many of the men who here and there abandoned their positions. During the last months their sufferings were frequently terrible. At best they were often only partially trained. There was little cohesion in many battalions. There was a great lack of efficient non-commissioned officers. Instead of drafting regular soldiers from the dépôts into special regiments, as was often done, it might have been better to have distributed them among the Mobiles and Mobilisés, whom they would have steadied. Judging by all that I witnessed at that period, I consider it essential that any territorial force should always contain a certain number of trained soldiers who have previously been in action. And any such force should always have the support of regulars and of efficient artillery. I have related how certain Breton Mobilisés abandoned La Tuilerie. They fled before the regulars or the artillery could support them; but they were, perhaps, the very rawest levies in all Chanzy's forces. Other Breton Mobilisés, on other points, fought very well for men of their class. For instance, no reproach could be addressed to the battalions of St. Brieuo, Brest, Quimper, Lorient, and Nantes. They were better trained than were the men stationed at La Tuilerie, and it requires some time to train a Breton properly. That effected, he makes a good soldier.
Respecting my own feelings during that war, I may say that the paramount one was curiosity. To be a journalist, a man must be inquisitive. It is a sine quâ non of his profession. Moreover, I was very young; I had no responsibilities; I may have been in love, or have thought I was, but I was on my own, and my chief desire was to see as much as I could. I willingly admit that, when Gougeard's column was abruptly attacked at Droué, I experienced some trepidation at finding myself under fire; but firmness may prove as contagious as fear, and when Gougeard rallied his men and went forward to repel the Germans, interest and a kind of excitement took possession of me. Moreover, as I was, at least nominally, attached to the ambulance service, there was duty to be done, and that left no opportunity for thought. The pictures of the ambulances in or near Sedan are among the most striking ones contained in "La Débâcle," and, judging by what I saw elsewhere, Zola exaggerated nothing. The ambulance is the truly horrible side of warfare. To see men lying dead on the ground is, so to say, nothing. One gets used to it. But to see them amputated, and to see them lying in bed suffering, often acutely, from dreadful wounds, or horrible diseases—dysentery, typhus, small-pox—that is the thing which tries the nerves of all but the doctors and the trained nurses. On several occasions I helped to carry wounded men, and felt no emotion in doing so; but more than once I was almost overcome by the sight of all the suffering in some ambulance.
When, on the morning of January 12, I heard that a general retreat had been ordered, I hesitated as to what course I should pursue. I did not then anticipate the street-fighting, and the consequent violence of the Germans. But journalistic instinct told me that if I remained in the town until after the German entry I might then find it very difficult to get away and communicate with my people. At the same time, I did not think the German entry so imminent as proved to be the case; and I spent a considerable time in the streets watching all the tumult which prevailed there. Now and again a sadly diminished battalion went by in fairly good order. But numbers of disbanded men hurried hither and thither in confusion. Here and there a street was blocked with army vans and waggons, whose drivers were awaiting orders, not knowing which direction to take. Officers and estafettes galloped about on all sides. Then a number of wounded men were carried in carts, on stretchers, and on trucks towards the railway-station. Others, with their heads bandaged or their arms in slings, walked painfully in the same direction. Outside the station there was a strong cordon of Gendarmes striving to resist all the pressure of a great mob of disbanded men who wished to enter and get away in the trains. At one moment, when, after quite a struggle, some of the wounded were conveyed through the mob and the cordon, the disbanded soldiers followed, and many of them fought their way into the station in spite of all the efforts of the Gendarmes. The mêlée was so desperate that I did not attempt to follow, but, after watching it for some time, retraced my steps towards my lodging. All was hubbub and confusion at the little inn, and only with difficulty could I get anything to eat there. A little later, however, I managed to tell the landlord—his name was Dubuisson—that I meant to follow the army, and, if possible, secure a place in one of the trains which were frequently departing. After stowing a few necessaries away in my pockets, I begged him to take charge of my bag until some future day, and the worthy old man then gave me some tips as to how I might make my way into the station, by going a little beyond it, and climbing a palisade.
We condoled with one another and shook hands. I then went out. The cannonade, which had been going on for several hours, had now become more violent. Several shells had fallen on or near the Caserne de la Mission during the morning. Now others were falling near the railway-station. I went my way, however, turned to the right on quitting the Rue du Gué-de-Maulny, reached some palings, and got on to the railway-line. Skirting it, I turned to the left, going back towards the station. I passed one or two trains, which were waiting. But they were composed of trucks and closed vans. I might perhaps have climbed on to one of the former, but it was a bitterly cold day; and as for the latter, of course I could not hope to enter one of them. So I kept on towards the station, and presently, without let or hindrance, I reached one of the platforms.
Le Mans being an important junction, its station was very large, in some respects quite monumental. The principal part was roofed with glass and suggested Charing Cross. I do not remember exactly the number of lines of metals running through it, but I think there must have been four or five. There were two trains waiting there, one of them, which was largely composed of passenger carriages, being crammed with soldiers. I tried to get into one carriage, but was fiercely repulsed. So, going to the rear of this train, I crossed to another platform, where the second train was. This was made up of passenger coaches and vans. I scrambled into one of the latter, which was open. There were a number of packing-cases inside it, but there was at least standing room for several persons. Two railway men and two or three soldiers were already there. One of the former helped me to get in. I had, be it said, a semi-military appearance, for my grey frieze coat was frogged, and besides, what was more important, I wore the red-cross armlet given me at the time when I followed Gougeard's column.
Almost immediately afterwards the train full of soldiers got away. The cannonade was now very loud, and the glass roof above us constantly vibrated. Some minutes elapsed whilst we exchanged impressions. Then, all at once, a railway official—it may have been M. Piquet himself—rushed along the platform in the direction of the engine, shouting as he went: "Dépêchez! Dépêchez! Sauvez-vous!" At the same moment a stray artilleryman was seen hastening towards us; but suddenly there came a terrific crash of glass, a shell burst through the roof and exploded, and the unlucky artilleryman fell on the platform, evidently severely wounded. We were already in motion, however, and the line being dear, we got fairly swiftly across the viaduct spanning the Sarthe. This placed us beyond the reach of the enemy, and we then slowed down.
One or two more trains were got away after ours, the last one, I believe, being vainly assailed by some Uhlans before it had crossed the viaduct. The latter ought then to have been blown up, but an attempt to do so proved ineffectual. We went on very slowly on account of the many trains in front of us. Every now and again, too, there came a wearisome stop. It was bitterly cold, and it was in vain that we beat the tattoo with our feet in the hope of thereby warming them. The men with me were also desperately hungry, and complained of it so bitterly and so frequently, that, at last, I could not refrain from producing a little bread and meat which I had secured at Le Mans and sharing it with them. But it merely meant a bite for each of us. However, on stopping at last at Conlie station—some sixteen or seventeen miles from Le Mans—we all hastily scrambled out of the train, rushed into a little inn, and almost fought like wild beasts for scraps of food. Then on we went once more, still very slowly, still stopping again and again, sometimes for an hour at a stretch, until, half numbed by the cold, weary of stamping our feet, and still ravenous, we reached the little town of Sillé-le-Guillaume, which is not more than eight or nine miles from Conlie.