Adventures in Journalism

by Philip Gibbs

I also contrasted it later with the greeting given to the Kaiser by a group of English people at Hamburg, not a year before the war, in which England and Germany devoted all their strength to each other’s destruction. I was on a voyage in one of the Castle Line boats, and we put off at Hamburg to be entertained by the Mayor in his palace of the Town Hall. The Kaiser was expected, and we lined up to await his arrival. It was heralded by the three familiar notes of his motor horn, and when he appeared there was a loud “Hip, hip, horrah!” from the English party. The Emperor acknowledged the greeting with a grim salute. He had no love for England then in his heart, and believed, I think, in that “unvermeidlicher Krieg”—that “unavoidable war”—which was already the text of German newspapers, though in England the warnings of a few men like Lord Roberts seemed to be the foolishness of old age, and popular imagination refused to believe in a world gone mad and tearing itself in pieces for no apparent cause.

When that war happened, I caught a glimpse, now and again, in lulls between its monstrous battles, of the man I had seen when he went weeping from the bedside of King Edward; whom I had seen bowing his head under the burden of the crown which came to him; whom I had followed in triumphant processions through his peaceful kingdom—peace seemed so lasting and secure, then—and who had come to visit his youth of the Empire, dying in heaps in defense of their race and power and tradition, as they truly believed, and as, indeed, was so, whatever the wickedness and folly that led to that massacre, on the part of statesmen of all countries who did not foresee and prevent the world conflict.

On his first visit the King was not allowed to get anywhere near the firing line, but was restricted to base areas and hospitals and convalescent camps, and distant views of the battlefields. On his second visit, he insisted upon going far forward, and would not be deterred by the generals, who, naturally, were intensely anxious for his safety.

With another war correspondent—Percival Phillips, I think—I went with the King over the Vimy Ridge where there was always, at that time, the chance of meeting a German shell, and to the top of “Whitesheet Hill,” which was a very warm place indeed a few days after the battle which captured it. The Prince of Wales was with his father, and by that time well hardened to the noise of guns and shell bursts. To the King it was all new, but he was perfectly at ease and lingered, far too long, as the generals thought, among the ruins of a convent, reduced to the size of a slag-heap, on the top of the hill looking over the German lines. As though they were aware of his visit, the Germans put down a very stiff dose of five-point-nines on the very spot where the King had been standing, but a few minutes too late, because he had just descended the slope of the hill and was examining one of the monster mine craters which we had blown at the beginning of the battle. He was there for ten minutes or so, and had hardly moved away before the Germans lengthened their range and laid down harassing fire around the crater. The King adjusted his steel hat, and laughed, while the Prince of Wales strolled about, looking rather bored.

The Prince did a real job out there, and though, as an officer on the “Q” side of the Guards, he was not supposed to go into the danger zone, he was constantly in forward places which were not what the Tommies called “health resorts.” I met him one day going into Vermelles, which was a very ugly place indeed, with death on the prowl amid its ruins. He and a Divisional General left their car on the edge of the ruins while they walked forward, and, on their return, found that their poor chauffeur had had his head blown off.

Another time when the King saw a little of the “real thing” was when he visited the Guards in their camp behind the lines near Pilkem. Their headquarters were in an old monastery, and the King and the officers took tea in the garden, while the band of the Grenadiers played selections from Gilbert and Sullivan. I remember it was when they were playing “Dear Little Buttercup” that three German aëroplanes came overhead, flying very low. To our imagination they seemed to be searching for the King, and we expected at any moment they would unload their bombs upon his tea table and his body. Our anti-aircraft guns immediately opened fire, and there was a shrieking of three-inch shells until the blue sky was all dappled with the white puffs of the “Archies.” The enemy planes circled round, had a good look, and then flew away without dropping a bomb, much to our relief, for one good-sized bomb would have made a horrible mess in the Guards’ camp, and might have killed the King.

That afternoon I was trapped into a little conspiracy against the King by the old abbot of the monastery. He was immensely anxious for the King to sign the visitors’ book, but the officers put the old man off by various excuses. Feeling sorry for his disappointment, I promised to say a word to the King’s aide-de-camp, and advised the old gentleman to intercept the King down the only path he could use on his way out, carrying the great leather book, and a pen and ink, so that there would be no escape. This little plot succeeded, to the huge delight of the abbot, and the monks who afterward gave me their united blessings.

On the King’s first visit to the army in France, a most unfortunate accident happened to him, which was very painful and serious. He was reviewing part of the Air Force on a road out of Béthune, mounted on a horse which ought to have been proof against all the noise of military maneuvers. But it was too much for the animal’s nerves when, at the conclusion of the review, the silent lines of men suddenly broke into deafening cheers. The horse reared three times, and the King kept his seat perfectly. But the third time, owing to the greasy mud, the horse slipped and fell sideways, rolling over the King. Generals dismounted, and ran to where he lay motionless and a little stunned. They picked him up and put him into his motor car, where he sat back feebly, and with a look of great pain. I happened to be standing on a bank immediately opposite, and one of the King’s A.D.C.’s, greatly excited, ran up to me and said: “Tell the men not to cheer!” It was impossible for me, as a war correspondent, to give any such order, and, indeed, it was too late, for when the King’s car moved down the road, the other men, who had not seen the accident, cheered with immense volleys of enthusiastic noise.

The King tried to raise his hand to the salute, but had not the strength. He had been badly strained, suffered acute pain, and that night was in a high fever. On the following day I saw him taken away in an ambulance, like an ordinary casualty, and no soldiers in the little old town of Béthune knew that it was the King of England who was passing by.

Before the end of his second visit, the King received the five war correspondents who had followed the fortunes of the British Armies in France through all their great battles, and he spoke kind words to us which we were glad to hear.