Chapter 10

FOOTNOTES:[13]Soldiers belonging to the African Battalion.

FOOTNOTES:

[13]Soldiers belonging to the African Battalion.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Death of Sergeant Count Charles d'Ansembourg

By Dr. Duwez, Army Surgeon to the Regiment of Grenadiers

Between the walls of sacks, by the breach hollowed out in the dyke, we could see the Yser, its banks of mud, and its grey, tranquil stream. The green bank on the other side was reflected in it, surmounted by spikes lifting their sharp points towards the sky.

The raft glided along noiselessly. The man who was drawing the rope was crouching down at the water's edge and his khaki coat made him look like a big rat curled up. In the breach opposite, one or two anxious faces could be seen. The raft bunted against the edge. We were almost in the enemy's territory.

Along the little dyke was a shallow trench hollowed out in the thick grasses. One had to bend almost double in order to be protected by the top of the trench. The Yser, at our feet, made a bend and curved inwards towards Dixmude. The pink and white ruins of this town could be seen in the background. The trench then continued higher up and very soon we were in the little post.

It was there that Sergeant d'Ansembourg was lying. A soldier was endeavouring to staunch the blood which, flowing in long drops over the face and from the back of the wounded man's head, formed a little pool. The ball had struck him just above the right eye, near the temple. It had made a hole in the cap lying near the grenade. The wound was a mortal one; there was nothing to be done. All that remained of life was gently ebbing away.

As yet, the paralysis was not complete. Some faculties still remained. When the wound was dressed, the poor man remained for a few seconds, holding his head with his hands, leaning on his elbow, as though wrapt in thought. He did not recover consciousness, though, for a single minute, nor did he utter a word.

He had on his waterproof coat, of a greenish colour, and his brown uniform with a leather belt. The refined outline of his sympathetic face could be seen. In the little excavation, with its steep approach, everything was the colour of the ground. The blood stains alone were a cruel contrast to the rest of the colouring.

Presently a head appeared at the edge of our burrow. It was a soldier bringing with him a stretcher. He gave a leap and then came in on all fours. Gently we laid the wounded man on the stretcher. Bullets grazed the top of the earthen parapet, flinging rubbish and dust over us. The Germans were there, quite near, only fifty yards away probably.

The wounded man lay there unconscious, his legs already paralysed, his arm clenched on his breast. We pushed the stretcher a little further forward, where the digging had been deeper. We were in atrench that had belonged to the enemy and had been won by our men. There were niches in the walls, which had served as refuge during bombardments. By crouching down, we could get right into these niches with our knees up to our chins. At the end of the passage were some sacks, used for protecting the sentinel. The sky was blue above us, but we could not look at it, as our attention was given to the man lying there before us.

"He was too daring," said a Corporal. "Yesterday, he came boldly in without stooping in the least. To-day I was here and, as I watched him coming in, I was just beginning to cry out: 'Sergeant, what are you doing?' when I saw him sink down. He fell there, against the side first, and then he rolled down."

The man who spoke had the thin, stern-looking face peculiar to those who have suffered much during the war.

"I have seen plenty wounded," he continued, "but never anyone like that whilst I was speaking to him. You cannot imagine the impression it makes."

A man who was crouching down making the trench deeper, threw some earth over the parapet. Some bullets dashed against it. The face of the wounded man grew gradually more and more lifeless and his breathing became more difficult. In order to take him away, we were obliged to wait until the blue of the sky grew fainter and the darkness came on. To attempt anything else meant certain death. Everyone tried to say something, by way of helping to kill time.

"He was not even on duty. He volunteered to give a hand in taking the post. 'I am better qualified than the others, Commandant,' he said, 'for riskingmy life. I am not married and I am not an only son. If I happen to disappear, I shall leave no one depending on me.'"

Leaning against the parapet, we waited there. It began to get gradually colder and colder, and our heads and limbs were feeling more and more the fatigue of three days' consecutive bombardment. Our eyes were fixed all the time on the motionless features of the man whom we had known so gay and so full of life.

In the distance a mine exploded, giving a sudden shock to the ground. A part of the trench had blown up, it was a piece of the "Death Trench" that had disappeared in the air. An aÃ«roplane then came and shooting followed it. The cannon now made its voice heard. The time seems long when one is waiting and watching and, as the wounded man's face changed, our hearts grew fuller and fuller, and we suffered acutely as we watched this life passing slowly away. Under the slight moustache, the white teeth could now be seen, the uninjured eye had lost its expression and brilliancy, and only one of the slender, sun-burnt hands moved.

The sky over our heads began to get paler and paler. The white clouds then turned grey and mauve. The hour was approaching for us to leave and, creeping along, we went to see how the land lay, in order to decide which way to go.

The green ground was all pierced with shell holes newly made in the dark earth. Spikes were to be seen everywhere, ours made of wood, and the others of iron, protected by barbed wire. Rubbish of all kinds strewed the soil. On the other side of the winding Yser, the green and brown dyke looked like a cliffrising above the water, that wonderful dyke against which the barbarous wave of invaders had lashed in fury and then died away.

It was just the moment when the blazing light fades and every different colour stands out clearly.

The piles of the two landing stages, made of planks, were plunged in the water.

One of us pushing and the other pulling, we brought the stretcher to the little trench. The man who had been crouching like a rat at the riverside was to be seen again. He gave a low whistle and the raft came gliding along the water. On returning, weighed down by us, it dipped in front, thus breaking the wavelets.

The entrance was very narrow. We had to carry the wounded man through labyrinths of passages with their walls of sacks of earth. This dyke, which, from the other side, looks so beautiful in all its greenery under the blue sky, showed up its ugliness and misery on our side. The whole trench had been devastated by the bombardment and behind it was nothing but a chaos of torn-up earth amidst pools of water.

In the distance could be seen the plain, finishing in the horizon by a thin band of trees and houses, outlined in black against the sunset. The bushes nearer to us were of a dense, green colour and the sky gradually became livid and heavy, with a few streaks of bluish green.

Darkness was coming over us and had already swooped down on the passages, with their medley of rubbish. The wounded man was now lying quite motionless, unconscious, with his eye swollen and his face rigid. He was wrapped round in a blanket.

Caps in hand, officers and soldiers watched him pass away. With their earth-coloured coats, theylooked like so many shadows. They listened in silence to the last prayers.

In the growing darkness, he was carried away along the path under the willow-trees. A mist was stretching over the plain and a fog was rising from among the reeds. For another moment we could see the dark outline of the stretcher-bearers.

How many we had known who had come amongst us young and joyous! And how many of them had we seen carried away in the darkness, along the path under the willow-trees!...

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A Guard on the Yser:â€”The Death Trench

(June 2, 1915)

By Corporal J. Libois, of the 12th Line Regiment

This day's work was more terrible than the Dixmude battles. I certify that Corporal Libois has given an exact account of the critical situation in the Death Trench of Milestone 16 on the Yser. Sub-Lieutenant Vueghs of the 12th Line Regiment.Extract from a letter, 12.9.15.

Extract from a letter, 12.9.15.

The French offensive of Arras led to unusual activity on our front. Our Regiment, which had just come back from the thankless Oostkerke Sector, had some very painful experiences during that week, and some of our Battalions were severely tried.

On the night in question, our Company had to relieve guard. Certain sections were ordered to the outposts.

"To-morrow," said Lieutenant Vueghs, "we shall occupy a position on the Yser dyke. Our various posts will be ranged along a communication trench that has been made by the Engineers, but in this trench, a result of recent attacks, there are still about thirty dead men. As we come across them, we are to pick them up and place them on the parapet. The stretcher-bearers will then take them away. Onemore word, this trench leads into the German lines on the other side of the Yser, and comes, therefore, under the enemy's firing. You will have to stoop down, and even creep along, when the passage is too low. There must be great caution as you go along. That is all I have to say. As for the rest, I trust to you."

The Lieutenant was to command the sap head, Trench No. 1. This was the most advanced of all the posts, only thirty yards away from the Boches. I was to be there too, and Sergeant Deltenre with about ten men. What would be the outcome, we wondered? At any rate, it would be something fresh, and we were delighted at this.

The summer twilight came very gradually. The soldiers lined up, with their heavy knapsacks on their backs, and their wallets containing provisions for two days.

"Right! Four in a line! March!" and quite tranquilly, the Company filed by in a long column, crossing the meadows and the fields of sweet-scented horse-beans. We went along humming and singing. Half-way, we had the usual halt and rest. The soldiers lying in the fields, in the dusk, gave a picturesque note to the scene. The purple-tinted clouds of the beautiful sunset of Flanders gradually took a pinky shade. In front of us, towards the east, was the horribly mutilated steeple of the Oostkerke Church, standing out, with extraordinary clearness, against the great red disc of the moon, which was just rising. And in the background could already be seen mysterious stars flashing forth from the earth. These were the brilliant and ephemeral enemy fuses. Everything else was absolutely calm. From time to time, acricket replied to another cricket. A cool wind swept over us and, from the various groups, here and there, melancholy refrains lulled us and made us dreamy.

Our officers appeared to be enjoying the poetry of it all, for they gave us a rather longer halt than the time fixed.

"Laugh and sing," they perhaps thought, "be gay and joyful, a little later on, we shall, perhaps, bring back with us, the glorious remains of one or other of your comrades, now singing there!"

On the Yser plains, there are probably places destined for many of us. Heaven knows that we all value life, and yet these thoughts do not make us sad and, thanks to a force of character which we never suspected, there is more liveliness and sincere gaiety to be found among the simple soldiers than anywhere else.

Presently the order came to shoulder arms, and we set off once more. The calm that we had enjoyed was only a truce. It was now broken by the deafening volleys of our guns. The enemy's lines were being bombarded and it was a great joy to us to see the flashes over there, to the right, produced by the explosions of our shells. We had now entered the danger zone and the darkness was intense. We advanced in Indian file, one platoon at a time. In the background, lighted up almost all the time by the luminous fuses of the Germans, we could see outlines of figures bending down, stooping low, and then standing up again. It was like a scene out of some enchanted land.

Finally, we reached our trenches. The relieving of the guard took place very quickly with no waiting about. The enemy was bombarding us, but the aimwas not good. We began to fit up and remake our shelters. I made a reconnaissance in the direction of the communication trench. The entrance was obstructed by the evacuation of the dead bodies. We had a most awful task. The stretcher-bearers, moving along on their backs, dragged the bodies with them by ropes. These bodies were already in a state of decomposition and, when they came into the light, it could be seen that their clothes were torn off and that their skin was grazed. Shrapnels kept exploding near us, so that we had to keep close to the parapet. The night passed without any other incident than the visit of the General of the Division. In the morning our watch was over and, when the lookouts were placed, we had permission to sleep. All day long we remained walled up in our trenches of sacks. From the Dixmude posts, which dominated us, the enemy kept an eye on us and, each time that we showed any sign of life, proved to us that we were very carefully watched. From time to time, by way of entertainment, our outposts were bombarded. At night, our time came for relieving guard again. We restored ourselves with coffee, for we were in a very thirsty place. We took a good provision of cartridges, of sacks of earth, and, with heavy shields, leaving our knapsacks in safety, we started, at 11 o'clock, on our march through the Yser communication trench.

It was a march that appeared to us to last a century, and certainly Dante's imagination, in his visions of hell, never surpassed the horrors of it. The passage was narrow and skirted the parapet of the Yser. Its access was so difficult and trying, that it was no use thinking of removing the dead which obstructed it.We had to imitate the serpent, the toad, and the mole. In order to pass the guard we were relieving, the men had to lie down flat and we had to crawl over them. No one spoke a word. Shrapnels kept exploding and bullets whizzed along continually, flattening themselves against the parapet. I saw some of them ploughing up the earth scarcely twenty centimetres above the heads of my comrades, and I was afraid each time that, in rebounding, they would wound one or another of them. We were all wedged in as though in a vice. At times, we had to advance quickly, bent nearly double, our backs almost broken, at times we had to crawl along, pushing ourselves onward with our elbows and knees, letting go our shields which encumbered us and which, knocking against the sides, made a sonorous noise. When we came to embattlements, watched as we were by the marksmen posted on the other side of the Yser, we had to rush for our lives. Our faces were bathed in perspiration. Suddenly, we came across a dark, motionless mass on the ground. We thought it might be one of the engineers at work.

"Hi there, what are you doing? Answer!" ordered the Lieutenant. Shaking his arm, we found that it dropped lifeless.

"Forward! over the dead man!" was our order. Shuddering, and gasping for breath, we obeyed. Feeling for him with our feet and slipping over his head, we went on our way. Presently we had reached the spot known as "the house in ruins." The parapet had been torn away by a shell, and this might expose us to view. We had to climb and jump at the same time. Horrors! I fell with my hand on the icy face of a dead man. The German Artillery now came intoplay. The devilish Schoorbakke battery took the dyke by enfilade and bombarded us. The shells arrived whizzing along and bursting with a frightful noise, making the dyke crumble, and sprinkling us with all kinds of rubbish. There was a second's calm. By the livid light of the fuses, a horrible sight was to be seen, living men swarming along the passage among human fragments in a state of decomposition, the most appalling and terrifying wrecks of humanity imaginable. Horror, repulsion, and disgust were what we felt, but we were compelled to master our feelings. We had to be superhuman. The perspiration ran from our faces on to the dead men, as we climbed over them. And over our heads the bullets never ceased pouring down, whilst the shells whizzed along and the fuses kept lighting us up.

Panting and breathless, with our tongues hanging out and our backs aching so painfully that some of our men were just going to stand upright for a moment's relief when they were stopped by the whizzing of bullets overhead. We pushed on again and it seemed as though we should never be at the end of the passage. At one moment, we lost sight of the file and feared that we had passed the post. My brother headed the little group that had become separated from the others, and I closed the march. Fortunately we were able to join our comrades again. Just at this moment, we came to a number of corpses in a worse state than the others. We had to pass over them, our faces almost touching theirs, our knees on their legs. A terrible putrid odour emanated from them, an odour that will always be an infernal memory. Again we found ourselves knocking against some human bodies. But this time we were crawling over livingmen. Finally, we arrived at our post. What a relief it was to us! Our end had been accomplished. We had relieved the guard and not one of us had been hit. Our instructions were simple. We had to keep a lookout and defend ourselves in case of attack. We thought we should have nothing to fear from the German Artillery, as their own post was so near. The one thing was to escape bombs and grenades. When the service was organised, we hollowed out some shallow burrows to serve as shelters. The Lieutenant passed me a bottle and told me to disinfect a dead man buried in the trench, whose shoulder was visible.

In order to prevent the Boches from approaching, we fired over the parapet all night without showing ourselves. Towards 4.30, when the dawn was breaking, I started off in search of the body I was to disinfect. A few yards away, just at the entrance of the next trench, I found a shapeless mass covered with linen. Was this the one? After a moment's hesitation, I raised the garment which covered a figure and saw a face. The features had not changed and the man looked as though he were asleep. I sprinkled the body with the liquid which the Lieutenant had given me and covered it again gently. The second corpse, of which the Lieutenant had spoken, was a little farther on. The shoulder was rather above the parapet. We covered it with earth and, towards six o'clock, the stretcher-bearers arrived to take the two dead men away. This was such a dangerous task, however, that the Lieutenant would not allow them to carry it out. They took away the other dead bodies and that made it less difficult to get out of the trench. By means of the periscope, I now looked atthe German trenches, and thereupon that instrument became a target for their bullets. Projectiles now began to arrive from behind us. We wondered what this meant, and the Lieutenant sent word to Sergeant Denis, who was at the last post but one. We were informed that Sergeant Denis had just been killed by a bullet in the head. On passing by an embattlement, someone had called out to him to stoop down, but it was too late, a bullet had killed him instantaneously. Poor Sergeant Denis. Yesterday evening, when I crawled over him, he said to me: "Good-bye, I shall see you again soon." I wondered, in spite of myself, whether the fate in store for me might make his words prove true. He had fallen against Corporal Gâ€”â€”, without uttering a word, but his eyes had been fixed earnestly on him. We can only hope that the Company will not have to deplore other losses.

I took notes, thanks to the periscope, and I fired from an embattlement through a German embattlement. The enemy was not long in replying with dumdums, destroying our embattlement over which were the upper sacks of the parapet. On the other side of the Yser in the German trench, I could distinguish a Boche periscope, and I was quite amazed to see a soldier's bust above the parapet. He did not stay there long. There was a long, soft, whizzing sound. This was something fresh:floo-oo-floo-ooâ€”. They were grenades, some of which burst over our shelters, and some beyond them. Only a few were thrown and, dismal though their noise was, it did not alarm us.

It was a beautiful, sunshiny day. Our aircraft could be seen against the blue of the sky. Ourmachines were pursued by the shrapnels of the Boches but these did them no harm. Our Artillery was firing quite near to us and we had to take shelter from the shell fragments. Some of our men had lost their blankets, and some their provisions, during yesterday's march. They were separated from us by an obstacle. We passed them some food and exchanged some amusing notes. The Lieutenant, by way of a souvenir, took the signature of each occupant of the post, in his note-book. Others followed his example. And the day passed by very, very slowly. Whilst keeping watch, we talked with the Lieutenant about the war, about peace and our respective occupations. We talked about our preferences and our tastes, whilst, only a few yards away, myriads of big flies danced a ghastly saraband around the body of our poor comrade. The heat began to be overpowering: whiffs of warm, nauseous air kept rising and took our appetites away. By way of rewarding us, the Lieutenant promised us each a good glass, if everyone of Post I. returned safe and sound. It certainly would not be our fault if we failed to accept this invitation.

At half-past twelve, the observer on the river bank signalled to us that an officer was on his round. We all smiled, thinking it was a joke. Colonel Rademakers[14]of the 3rd Chasseurs suddenly appeared in the corner of our trench. We were amazed and wondered how he had got there. Had he come up from underground or had he fallen from the skies? Considering his size, it is certain that he could not have come through the passage without having been massacred fifty times over. He was there, nevertheless, and very much alive, his fine face expressive ofhis natural gaiety and of his great courage. He looked through the periscope, wondering whether the Boches would honour him with a bullet. He certainly was an officer of the "right sort."

Night came on and the embattlement that had been discovered had its place changed, and was strengthened by a shield. We kept a still stricter watch. Towards 9.30, the firing became violent. A quantity of explosive shells burst on our parapet and gave us the impression that the Boches were on our trench and were firing point blank at us, so violent was the dry sound of the explosions. In our post, two of our guns would not fire any more. An attack seemed imminent. We prepared our bayonets and then fired without ceasing. One of our comrades who was completely worn out, and could not stand, was seated near us loading the guns for us to fire. It was midnight when the relief guard arrived. The orders were given while we continued firing. "Keep a watch on the bank. Attention at that battlement! On guard! Good luck!"

Our return was safely effected, but not without difficulty. It was easier than our coming had been, as most of the dead men had been evacuated. Finally, we were out of that hell once more. The whole post was safe and sound. Shrapnels were bursting quite near to us and here, in the first line trenches, where we had had to hide and press against the parapet yesterday, we felt that we were almost in security. We wanted to halt in the very midst of the danger zone, to get our breath, but the officers begged us to be prudent and we left the trenches. In the distance, we saw the stretcher-bearers carrying away the body of poor Sergeant Denis to the Lesenburg Cemetery.

We rested a little on the way, when we were in the rear, and each one gave his experiences, describing various incidents with picturesque details. Once more we set off, and at four in the morning we were back at our quarters. It was now light and the larks had been singing a long time. It seemed to me as though everything around us was quite new to us, and as though a century had passed since we had seen this familiar landscape. We felt intense satisfaction and deep joy at having accomplished a difficult task. Everyone was happy and longed to be able to write to his relatives and friends, to all those for whom he cared and whom he was now defending.

FOOTNOTES:[14]Killed a few days later by a shell fragment.

FOOTNOTES:

[14]Killed a few days later by a shell fragment.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Nieuport in Ruins

By Sub-Lieutenant L. Gilmont, Director of the Automobile Park, Ocean Ambulance, La Panne

When the battle of the Yser was over, and the Teuton hordes were stopped, Nieuport, the advance post of the immense front reaching from the North Sea to the Vosges, had to suffer pitiless destruction. It was the ransom we had to pay, because their ineffectual effort had been crushed by the steadfast defence of our heroes. I was present at the slow death of Nieuport and, as I had to go there frequently, I never passed by the heaped-up ruins without experiencing a sentiment of infinite sadness mingled with revolt. How many times its faithful admirers questioned me about its fate! How the old city had always charmed us by its exquisite archaism, with its little narrow, picturesque streets cut in straight angles, its quaint, yellow-ochre buildings with their green shutters, its church with the parvis planted with tall, protecting trees, its imposing Templars' Tower, its Archdukes' House teeming with memories, and above all its massive Cloth Hall, proudly situated on the Market Place. What pen can ever faithfully depict the havoc that seventeen months of war have made of the exquisite Flemish city we had all known andloved? As far away as Oostdunkerque, the vision of war begins. The population has been evacuated and here and there, along the streets, there are shattered houses. Then comes the winding road across deserted fields and the triangular wood, that ill-omened wood, where so many of our brave men fell, where the shells rained down with desperate persistency. At present, all is sad silence, disturbed only by detonations in the vicinity, by the sound of a cart passing, or by the measured tread of troops filing by along the edge of the road. On coming out of the wood, the horizon is suddenly in view and the sight is heart-rending. In the background is the town in ruins, and all along the road little houses that have fallen in. On each side a former arm of the sea cuts the dreary moor, which is skirted by uncultivated meadows, partially wooded. Most of the sublime old trees are lying there, all twisted by the machine-guns, silent for evermore. Some of those which are still standing seem to be lifting their bare branches heavenwards, in fruitless protest. We crossed the bridge and the level-crossing, with its little guard-house. The latter had fallen on to a cart, which now stood there unable to move under its unexpected burden. And there, with its Boulevard leading to the old station, all perforated now with enormous craters, are the first houses of the town. The deflagrations were all brittle, and we were in the very midst of the furnace. It was a vision of all that is horrible and, above everything else, there was that indescribable, persistent odour of rubbish, dust, and death....

Other martyred towns allow the spectator time enough to become accustomed to the frightful vision. The farther one goes, the more do the wounds appearhuge and cruel. But here, the chaos and ruin strike one immediately.

Nieuport, like Dixmude and Ypres, shared the sad privilege of an absolute and systematic destruction. There are rent walls everywhere and piled-up ruins, from which the most extraordinary fragments of rubbish emerge, showing all that remains of furniture, so often endeared to its owners by fond memories. Not a single house has been spared. The roofs and the floors, riddled by shells, are shapeless masses now lying on the ground. A few house fronts are still standing, showing the trace of streets all dismal and deserted, except when a few rare soldiers pass silently by, looking like so many wandering ghosts in the midst of fantastical scenery. The Market Place, adjoining the church, was specially aimed at. It is now unrecognisable, thanks to constant bombardment. In a corner, can be seen the massive outline of the Cloth Hall. It is disfigured by horrible wounds, but is still fascinating. It was one of the most interesting monuments of our Flemish art of the fifteenth century. The injuries of time, and those of men, had hitherto respected its primitive architecture. The roof, which was of a special technique, had escaped until now, but these last days it fell in, under a veritable avalanche of balls. Quite near to it stands the spectre of the ruined church. I could still see it, as it used to be, dominating the whole town with its imposing mass, interesting to contemplate and to study in every detail. It was original, too, on account of its various reconstructions, the traces of which could be seen in the different styles composing it, from primitive Gothic to the Renaissance and Louis XIV. And what is left now of all this? One night, it wasset on fire by shells, and the deluge of shrapnels, which immediately surrounded the building, prevented anyone from saving the least object. The vaulted roof fell in. Charred walls, riddled by shell fragments, now frame the columns which are still standing, supporting the graceful ogives that had been sullied by the odious aggression. Quantities of material lie in unequal piles; here and there a few decorative pieces, disfigured by their fall. It is an imposing looking skeleton, though, in its despair, and it seems as though it wants to remain there, as a witness, after its own death, to its past grandeur.

One tragic relic of its wreckage still remains, and that is the Tower. In spite of numberless projectiles, its massive construction, devastated, but not conquered, persists in dominating the horizon of Flanders. It had been constructed, primitively, to support three times its weight. It scorned the shells which wounded it without knocking it down, and its dark mass, proudly standing in the midst of the heaped-up ruins, seems to be defying the infernal inventions aimed at it.

The cemetery adjoining the church is a most touching sight. Loving hands have managed to keep the graves in order and they are covered with flowers. There are very many of these graves, and some are even on the paths. Not a single tomb is neglected. There are flowers, vases, statuettes, and ancient woodwork, side by side with figures of coloured plaster. All that could be rescued from the ruins has been used for honouring the memory of those who are no more. There is one grave which I shall never forget. It is surrounded by the ironwork of a child's bedstead and, with infinite care, climbing plants and flowers havebeen trained over this. In the centre, there are more plants, a crucifix and two statues forming a calvary.

One night we were crossing this resting-place, where so many heroes are sleeping their last sleep, when we witnessed a touching scene. We heard the tread of approaching footsteps and a murmur of voices. The chaplain, in his surplice, advanced, reciting the Prayers for the Dead. Behind him, on a stretcher, carried by two sailors, was a long form. They went on their way slowly to the other end of the cemetery, where a grave had been prepared. They had to wait a little, as in order to find the grave they needed the light of the fuses. The body was lowered, a few more prayers were said, and then the dull thud of the earth falling, and that was all.... There was the most impressive silence, in spite of the cannon which kept vomiting forth death, and the almost uninterrupted crackling of the bullets. A few hundred yards away, the horizon, forming a semi-circle was lighted up at quick intervals by the fuses which rose, throwing their reddish glow over the darkness, lighting up the dreary plain, on the screen of which the sombre mass of the tower, and the irregular lines of the dismantled pilasters and of the arches, stood out all the more distinctly. A terrified bat turned wildly about in the air, seeking a shelter that it could no longer find.

I remember that I spent that night at the relief station of the Fusiliers, where I found a shelter for my men and where I was most hospitably treated. In a cellar, adjoining the one in which their poor wounded comrades were lying, a bed was very quickly made for me. The walls of this improvised bedroom were papered with red, striped paper, comfortable furniture was arranged here and there, and I should certainlyhave slept, and not thought any more about the war, if it had not been for the sound of the cannon, the detonations of the grenades, and the clack of the bullets which, from time to time, came flattening themselves against the outside of the wall.

At 3 o'clock, I was called, and we went on to the Town Hall, to do some work there at daybreak. It was absolutely calm just then; not the faintest sound, not even the slightest detonation could be heard to disturb the great silence. We arrived at Rue Longue and I saw the beautiful Louis XIV. faÃ§ade once more. It was so characteristic, with its double flight of stone steps. It stood there almost intact, in one of the angles of the two streets that it ornaments. We went up one flight of stairs and entered the Museum through the bay window. We stopped short in front of a huge, gaping hole, obstructed by all kinds of material. Two shells of 420 calibre had fallen there, taking away with them the whole of the back of the building. When we had finished our work, before leaving what had been the Museum, I looked out at the horizon. There was a wider view from there now, thanks to the fall, one after another, of the crumbling gables. I could see the line of the Yser, and the canals, the destroyed houses of the lock-keepers, and, in the background, the great downs. I then glanced at the place where the huge, documentary picture of the Siege of Nieuport used to hang. I had fetched it away in 1910, and the Kaiser, on his visit to Brussels, had stopped a long time looking at it in a thoughtful, interested way....

On our return, we passed through the town again. It was just rousing to its military life. The firing had recommenced, and from time to time a bullet whizzed through the air.

As we passed by, we looked at what had been the relief station for the sailors. We had seen so much suffering there. Our colleague, Chopard, had been hit near by and had died there. On leaving the town, we passed along the country roads. The sun was shining brightly and it bid fair to be a glorious day. The most fragrant odours came to us from the woods, and the fields were all refreshed with the dew. The birds were singing.... We came to an inhabited farm. Children were playing outside, careless of all danger. The father was moving to and fro, attending to his usual daily work. In front of the half open door, the mother could be seen feeding her baby. The hours we had lived through seemed now like a horrible nightmare which we would fain forget. When we came to La Panne, the bell of the Convent of the "Pauvres Claires" of Nieuport, which rings in the little tower of the simple Ocean Chapel, reminded us that it, too, had witnessed tragic moments. Poor little bell! It seems to me that I can see it falling down from its graceful bell-tower, after the brutal and monstrous blow given by the murderous shell. I can still hear its rebounding fall above the noise of the tumbling walls, in the midst of the ghastly furnace. I could hear its last echoing groan, a last protest against the odious destruction. Go on ringing timidly, little bell, in the calm of this bright morning, a calm only disturbed by the noise of the work of death. Very soon, that song shall be followed by another one. You shall ring out then, to all the echoes, the song of joy, the song of victory, announcing to the crowd, thrilled with joy unspeakable, that the hour of the great deliverance has arrived, the hour when we shall find our heroic Belgium free once more and born anew!

CHAPTER XL

The St. Elisabeth Chapel

By Marcel Wyseur, Registrar to the Military Court. La Panne, August 26, 1915

(To the patriotic devotion of M. Louis Gilmont)

Everyone knows of the admirable institution founded by Dr. Depage at La Panne: "The Ocean Hospital." A few miles away from the firing line, he has entirely created an establishment which is the most perfect thing of its kind, an institution which, for the last year, has rendered immense service daily. Ever since it was opened at the end of 1914, this hospital has been continually enlarged. Various detached buildings and several fresh departments have been added to the house as it first stood. The latest improvements, as regards science and hygiene, have been introduced and it does not seem possible that a more complete organisation, answering so thoroughly to all needs, could be carried out at the front. In rendering homage here to those who are responsible for this work of public service, we are only anxious to bear testimony to its utility and to acknowledge the merit of the founders of the institution and of all their devoted collaborators. Doctors and nurses alike deserve more than the gratitude of theBelgian army and people. They deserve our admiration too.

The last Sunday in August, we were present at the Inauguration of one of the fresh additions to this immense "everything" which constitutes the Ocean Hospital. It was the Inauguration of the Chapel. At the limit of the downs, this simple church, which has sprung out of the earth, as though by magic, faces the sea and the country. It is a building on primitive architectural lines, surmounted by a little sturdy spire. Nothing more was necessary. It was certainly a most impressive scene when the little procession of believers wended their way to the service, called there by the bell of the Convent of the "Pauvres Claires" of Nieuport. The three naves were soon full. In the choir, Her Majesty the Queen, who had graciously deigned to be present at the ceremony, had taken her place, and behind her were a crowd of wounded soldiers. The altar reflected the light of all the burning tapers, the incense was smoking in the silver vessels, and, over yonder, between the nave and the choir, the organs were singing of joy and happiness. The good saints and the little chubby angels could neither believe their eyes nor their ears. The poor, who had expected to die in the general earthquake when their churches were bombarded and the infernal battle was raging around them, arrived here now from everywhere; from Nieuportâ€”the Dead; from Caeskerkeâ€”the Sorrowful; from Pervyseâ€”the Devastated; and from Ramscapelleâ€”the Solitary. One evening, they had all met in a room. A lamp was burning in front of a tabernacle, there was a kneeling bench for communion, a confessional-box, a pulpit, and some saints, too, as astonished as they were themselves.Were they really not dreaming now? Was their nightmare over? This was a church, a real church liketheir own! It was full of people, too, and the psalms were being chanted by the choristers. All this seemed more beautiful than the finest dream, and at this festival they forgot all their past anguish and the nightmares they had lived through. And in the midst of the general devotion, the Reverend Father HÃ©nusse, chaplain to the 84th Battery, pronounced the following eloquent words:

"Madame,"We are to-day inaugurating a Chapel, which, in our gratitude, we have spontaneously dedicated to St. Elisabeth. In the liturgical intention of this dedication, St. Elisabeth was that admirable woman, Elisabeth d'Anjou, a heroine of goodness, gentleness, and charity, whom the Catholic Church has placed on its altars and about whose touching glory everyone has heard. In our dedication, there is something else though, and no one, at any rate no Belgian, will make any mistake about this. In our eyes, the good saint of the twelfth century has been reincarnated in the twentieth century. A few rays from her halo have come to encircle another forehead. Her name is repeated once more, but with an accent of veneration and of tenderness, more keenly felt than would be the case for a foreign Queen who died long centuries ago. In short, according to us, the Ocean Chapel has two patron saints. The one is reigning in heaven above in glory, and only lives on earth in the memory of Christian generations. The other patron saint is She who reigns over the last sands of what was Belgium, but who lives in the hearts of us all."When the long ordeal of this war shall have cometo an end, this humble chapel of wood, which we hope may become historical, will be clothed afresh in a mantle of stone and adorned with the splendour of souvenirs in its coloured glass windows, and in its frescoes. We shall certainly see then the sweet face of the gentle Elisabeth d'Anjou, and the miracle of the roses and the miracle of the leper will be evoked for us. We shall see the leper whom St. Elisabeth tended with her royal hands, to whom she gave her husband's bed, and who suddenly rose, dazzlingly bright, uttering the one word: 'Elisabeth,' for the leper was Jesus Christ!"But by the side of those windows, Belgian mothers will ask for others and for other frescoes."They will want to see their Queen, who in time of peace, cared for their little children, their poor little children, some of whom were consumptive through poverty. They will want to see their Queen, who, when war broke out, cared for their big children, their poor big children, wounded and mutilated, their health shattered by battle. Belgian mothers will want to see her there, near to the other Saint, so that they may kneel to her and tell her, whilst on their knees, of the ardent gratitude of their hearts. They will want to see her there, because it is her place, beside Himâ€”who pronounced those superhuman words which created Charity: 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' They will want to see her there beside Christ, who spake the name of Saint Elisabeth so tenderly, and who, to-day, will surely call another saint by that sweet name, with that accent of infinite tenderness which we all utter, Madame, in the respectful and fervent silence of our hearts.

"Madame,

"We are to-day inaugurating a Chapel, which, in our gratitude, we have spontaneously dedicated to St. Elisabeth. In the liturgical intention of this dedication, St. Elisabeth was that admirable woman, Elisabeth d'Anjou, a heroine of goodness, gentleness, and charity, whom the Catholic Church has placed on its altars and about whose touching glory everyone has heard. In our dedication, there is something else though, and no one, at any rate no Belgian, will make any mistake about this. In our eyes, the good saint of the twelfth century has been reincarnated in the twentieth century. A few rays from her halo have come to encircle another forehead. Her name is repeated once more, but with an accent of veneration and of tenderness, more keenly felt than would be the case for a foreign Queen who died long centuries ago. In short, according to us, the Ocean Chapel has two patron saints. The one is reigning in heaven above in glory, and only lives on earth in the memory of Christian generations. The other patron saint is She who reigns over the last sands of what was Belgium, but who lives in the hearts of us all.

"When the long ordeal of this war shall have cometo an end, this humble chapel of wood, which we hope may become historical, will be clothed afresh in a mantle of stone and adorned with the splendour of souvenirs in its coloured glass windows, and in its frescoes. We shall certainly see then the sweet face of the gentle Elisabeth d'Anjou, and the miracle of the roses and the miracle of the leper will be evoked for us. We shall see the leper whom St. Elisabeth tended with her royal hands, to whom she gave her husband's bed, and who suddenly rose, dazzlingly bright, uttering the one word: 'Elisabeth,' for the leper was Jesus Christ!

"But by the side of those windows, Belgian mothers will ask for others and for other frescoes.

"They will want to see their Queen, who in time of peace, cared for their little children, their poor little children, some of whom were consumptive through poverty. They will want to see their Queen, who, when war broke out, cared for their big children, their poor big children, wounded and mutilated, their health shattered by battle. Belgian mothers will want to see her there, near to the other Saint, so that they may kneel to her and tell her, whilst on their knees, of the ardent gratitude of their hearts. They will want to see her there, because it is her place, beside Himâ€”who pronounced those superhuman words which created Charity: 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' They will want to see her there beside Christ, who spake the name of Saint Elisabeth so tenderly, and who, to-day, will surely call another saint by that sweet name, with that accent of infinite tenderness which we all utter, Madame, in the respectful and fervent silence of our hearts.

"Madame:"My dear friends:"The great royal heart which thought of establishing a military hospital on the coast, on the very edge of the battle-field, and the generous hearts which helped in the realisation of the project, wished to make this establishment as perfect as possible."They have succeeded, and our Ocean Ambulance excites universal admiration."By opening this St. Elisabeth Chapel, perfection in this humanitarian work has been attained. The chapel is an essential part of any hospital. A chapel is necessary everywhere where man suffers, as it is a place for prayer. Suffering possesses the mysterious privilege of striking a man hard, of making him think about life. It throws him back on himself, as it were, makes him weep, remember, and dream, and when a man gives himself up to this great inner work, he is not far from finding God. He is ready to pray."Suffering, too, possesses the precious gift of humiliating a man, of making him feel the nothing that he is, and of making him realise of what little value he is, and when man is humiliated, he is not far from feeling God bending down towards him. He is ready then to pray."Finally, the effect of suffering is often to plunge a man into deep distress, which makes him so unhappy that he utters the supreme cry: 'Help, oh, help me!'"And when a man cries for help from the bottom of his heart, he is not far from hearing within himself, as though in answer to his appeal, the echo of that infinitely sweet voice which has soothed the miseries of the world for twenty centuries:"'Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'"This is why the instinct of a man who is suffering is to enter the temple."Go to the darkest nave of a church, at a moment when the crowd is not bidden to the traditional exercises of worship, and what do you see? Women, men, and young people praying, and, on their faces, in their eyes, in their very gestures, one sees that they have experienced sorrow, anxiety, and sadness."Ask your mothers who are waiting for you, over yonder, in the deepest anguish, where they go in their sorrow and suffering? They will answer you, 'To Church.'"At the present moment, ask where the suffering country takes refuge, now that it is mourning for its lost liberty. The answer will be: 'In the Churches, where the presence of God still permits the people to have the comfort of seeing their tri-coloured flag, of hearing the national hymn, and of responding to it with the cry of love and hopefulness: "Long live the King! Long live Liberty!"' I tell you that everywhere where there is suffering, there should be a chapel, in which to shelter one's suffering, under the protecting wing of God!"But if there be one place of suffering in the world that needs this holy refuge specially, it is the war hospital. The reason of this is on account of the nature of the suffering that men endure there. What is the reason of all this suffering? Why are you here sick and wounded, with your arm or your leg amputated, scarred for ever in the beauty and prime of your early manhood? Why? For the sake of your brothers. The enemy arrived at the frontier, threatening that sacred property, the native land. In order to defend that land, occupied by seven millions of freemen, two hundred thousand of them rose and, seizing their guns, marched forward to meet the invaders. These two hundred thousand went forth to fight, struggle, fall, and die if necessary for the sake of all the others, for the sake of the women, the children, the agedâ€”and even for the sake of the cowardly shirkers who have not even yet grasped what is their duty. The suffering then of these men, our soldiers, is a suffering of immolation, of sacrifice, of devotion, a loving sacrifice."You see, then, why you need a chapel, where you can come to find Him who revealed to the world the beauty, the value, the fecondity of this suffering, a chapel to which you can come and contemplate the Crucified One, the Man of Nazareth, who left us, saying as He went: 'Love one another, give your lives for each other; the great proof of love is that we should be ready to give our lives for those we love.' He went about repeating this until that day when, still quite young, only thirty-three years of age, in the prime of His manhood, adding example to precept, freely and courageously, and, in the sight of His broken-hearted mother, He took up the cross and dragged it along through the city and across the country to Calvary. He was then stretched upon it and for three long, mortal hours, under the rays of the sun, He hung upon that cross, dying for those He had loved."You need a chapel for those evil hours when, suddenly, you fail to understand the meaning of your suffering and begin to pity yourself, wondering why the lot should have fallen on you, why you should have lost that arm, that hand, that fine workman'stool which was your glory, and with which you earned your living? 'Why should my life be cut in two by this mutilation?' you ask. 'Why should my youth come to an end half way? Why should I be doomed to drag out a miserable existence? Why is all this? And of what use is all that blood poured out obscurely in the trenches?'"When these gloomy thoughts come to you and your soul is filled with bitter agony, you need a chapel, to which you can come and hear the divine reply to your human complaint, the reply given by that very mouth which revealed to the world the benefits of suffering, the value and the virtue of blood that is shed for the sake of love. It is here, in this chapel, that He will repeat to you and explain to you the mysterious words He addressed to His disciples, three days before He went up to Calvary."'Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."'And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.'"His disciples did not understand this at first, but gradually their eyes were opened to this new light, and very soon the world knew the law of life, which was to be one of the most beautiful truths of Christianity: 'When a just man dies, out of his suffering and death shall spring wonderful fruits of light, of truth, and of justice, and life shall become better thereby.' The martyrs gave their blood courageously, and on their tombs their brothers repeat joyfully the great Christian words:"'Sanguis martyrum semen Christianorum!' (From the blood of martyrs have sprung Christians!)"You will come here, dear friends, to learn to understand the sublime utility of your wounds and of your suffering, to learn that the trench is not a trench, but a furrow, and that the blood you have shed there is as a seed which will soon give its beautiful fruit of happiness and liberty to those you love. Thanks to your blood, your country will live! Come often to this little chapel, where Christ is always awaiting you. He awaits you here as His brothers, as those whom He loves best, who resemble Him the most. Come here and pray and remember that your prayer is the most efficacious one of all those that are uttered on earth, because it is your blood crying to God. Come and pray for all those for whom your heart is filled with love, for your aged mother, for your little children and for those who are awaiting you in your saddened home. Pray that they may have hope and courage given them. Come and pray for your brothers-in-arms, those who are continuing the great struggle in which you fell whilst doing your part as brave men. Pray that God may keep them courageous and strong. Come and pray, too, for the men and women who are devoting themselves so admirably to you here, for those who are helping to relieve your suffering and to heal you. Pray that they may have strength given them to carry out their work of pure abnegation and charity. Come and pray for the great cause of the Allies, the cause of right and justice, which is the cause of God. Pray too, that He may soon make it triumph gloriously. Come and pray for our beloved country, the noble martyr to honour. Pray that our country may know, as Christ knew, the great reparation, the supreme rehabilitation, and that after having descended to death, to the death of the Cross, ourcountry may be raised by God, that she may obtain a name above all names, that every head may bow before her in the whole universe, and that every tongue shall confess that this little nation is truly great among all nations. Come and pray, come and pray often for Him and for Her who represent, so magnificently, our country and in whom it is incarnated for us. Come and pray for the King and for the Queen."

"Madame:

"My dear friends:

"The great royal heart which thought of establishing a military hospital on the coast, on the very edge of the battle-field, and the generous hearts which helped in the realisation of the project, wished to make this establishment as perfect as possible.

"They have succeeded, and our Ocean Ambulance excites universal admiration.

"By opening this St. Elisabeth Chapel, perfection in this humanitarian work has been attained. The chapel is an essential part of any hospital. A chapel is necessary everywhere where man suffers, as it is a place for prayer. Suffering possesses the mysterious privilege of striking a man hard, of making him think about life. It throws him back on himself, as it were, makes him weep, remember, and dream, and when a man gives himself up to this great inner work, he is not far from finding God. He is ready to pray.

"Suffering, too, possesses the precious gift of humiliating a man, of making him feel the nothing that he is, and of making him realise of what little value he is, and when man is humiliated, he is not far from feeling God bending down towards him. He is ready then to pray.

"Finally, the effect of suffering is often to plunge a man into deep distress, which makes him so unhappy that he utters the supreme cry: 'Help, oh, help me!'

"And when a man cries for help from the bottom of his heart, he is not far from hearing within himself, as though in answer to his appeal, the echo of that infinitely sweet voice which has soothed the miseries of the world for twenty centuries:

"'Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'

"This is why the instinct of a man who is suffering is to enter the temple.

"Go to the darkest nave of a church, at a moment when the crowd is not bidden to the traditional exercises of worship, and what do you see? Women, men, and young people praying, and, on their faces, in their eyes, in their very gestures, one sees that they have experienced sorrow, anxiety, and sadness.

"Ask your mothers who are waiting for you, over yonder, in the deepest anguish, where they go in their sorrow and suffering? They will answer you, 'To Church.'

"At the present moment, ask where the suffering country takes refuge, now that it is mourning for its lost liberty. The answer will be: 'In the Churches, where the presence of God still permits the people to have the comfort of seeing their tri-coloured flag, of hearing the national hymn, and of responding to it with the cry of love and hopefulness: "Long live the King! Long live Liberty!"' I tell you that everywhere where there is suffering, there should be a chapel, in which to shelter one's suffering, under the protecting wing of God!

"But if there be one place of suffering in the world that needs this holy refuge specially, it is the war hospital. The reason of this is on account of the nature of the suffering that men endure there. What is the reason of all this suffering? Why are you here sick and wounded, with your arm or your leg amputated, scarred for ever in the beauty and prime of your early manhood? Why? For the sake of your brothers. The enemy arrived at the frontier, threatening that sacred property, the native land. In order to defend that land, occupied by seven millions of freemen, two hundred thousand of them rose and, seizing their guns, marched forward to meet the invaders. These two hundred thousand went forth to fight, struggle, fall, and die if necessary for the sake of all the others, for the sake of the women, the children, the agedâ€”and even for the sake of the cowardly shirkers who have not even yet grasped what is their duty. The suffering then of these men, our soldiers, is a suffering of immolation, of sacrifice, of devotion, a loving sacrifice.

"You see, then, why you need a chapel, where you can come to find Him who revealed to the world the beauty, the value, the fecondity of this suffering, a chapel to which you can come and contemplate the Crucified One, the Man of Nazareth, who left us, saying as He went: 'Love one another, give your lives for each other; the great proof of love is that we should be ready to give our lives for those we love.' He went about repeating this until that day when, still quite young, only thirty-three years of age, in the prime of His manhood, adding example to precept, freely and courageously, and, in the sight of His broken-hearted mother, He took up the cross and dragged it along through the city and across the country to Calvary. He was then stretched upon it and for three long, mortal hours, under the rays of the sun, He hung upon that cross, dying for those He had loved.

"You need a chapel for those evil hours when, suddenly, you fail to understand the meaning of your suffering and begin to pity yourself, wondering why the lot should have fallen on you, why you should have lost that arm, that hand, that fine workman'stool which was your glory, and with which you earned your living? 'Why should my life be cut in two by this mutilation?' you ask. 'Why should my youth come to an end half way? Why should I be doomed to drag out a miserable existence? Why is all this? And of what use is all that blood poured out obscurely in the trenches?'

"When these gloomy thoughts come to you and your soul is filled with bitter agony, you need a chapel, to which you can come and hear the divine reply to your human complaint, the reply given by that very mouth which revealed to the world the benefits of suffering, the value and the virtue of blood that is shed for the sake of love. It is here, in this chapel, that He will repeat to you and explain to you the mysterious words He addressed to His disciples, three days before He went up to Calvary.

"'Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

"'And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.'

"His disciples did not understand this at first, but gradually their eyes were opened to this new light, and very soon the world knew the law of life, which was to be one of the most beautiful truths of Christianity: 'When a just man dies, out of his suffering and death shall spring wonderful fruits of light, of truth, and of justice, and life shall become better thereby.' The martyrs gave their blood courageously, and on their tombs their brothers repeat joyfully the great Christian words:

"'Sanguis martyrum semen Christianorum!' (From the blood of martyrs have sprung Christians!)

"You will come here, dear friends, to learn to understand the sublime utility of your wounds and of your suffering, to learn that the trench is not a trench, but a furrow, and that the blood you have shed there is as a seed which will soon give its beautiful fruit of happiness and liberty to those you love. Thanks to your blood, your country will live! Come often to this little chapel, where Christ is always awaiting you. He awaits you here as His brothers, as those whom He loves best, who resemble Him the most. Come here and pray and remember that your prayer is the most efficacious one of all those that are uttered on earth, because it is your blood crying to God. Come and pray for all those for whom your heart is filled with love, for your aged mother, for your little children and for those who are awaiting you in your saddened home. Pray that they may have hope and courage given them. Come and pray for your brothers-in-arms, those who are continuing the great struggle in which you fell whilst doing your part as brave men. Pray that God may keep them courageous and strong. Come and pray, too, for the men and women who are devoting themselves so admirably to you here, for those who are helping to relieve your suffering and to heal you. Pray that they may have strength given them to carry out their work of pure abnegation and charity. Come and pray for the great cause of the Allies, the cause of right and justice, which is the cause of God. Pray too, that He may soon make it triumph gloriously. Come and pray for our beloved country, the noble martyr to honour. Pray that our country may know, as Christ knew, the great reparation, the supreme rehabilitation, and that after having descended to death, to the death of the Cross, ourcountry may be raised by God, that she may obtain a name above all names, that every head may bow before her in the whole universe, and that every tongue shall confess that this little nation is truly great among all nations. Come and pray, come and pray often for Him and for Her who represent, so magnificently, our country and in whom it is incarnated for us. Come and pray for the King and for the Queen."

The End.