MORNINGdawns at last; its pale rays dim the blinding brightness of the electric lights. It brings with it a breeze which raises the dust on the platforms and blows about the straw that litters the station.
The wounded wake up, stiff and cold. The dressings are hastily done by young unskilled German nurses, who have just arrived and are only at the beginning of their profession. Nervous, agitated and worn out by their journey, they look whiter than their new aprons. Their hands tremble as they hold the basin or apply the cotton wool to our bare wounds.
From a pail from which rise clouds of steam a priest ladles out coffee, which he distributes to all. He is followed by a sister whose duty it is to offer a “Butterbrot” to each of the wounded. This done and breakfast swallowed, we are entrained. It is seven o’clock, that is to say, five minutes past six in France, for the Germans—whose love for clocks is well known—change all the clocks of the towns that they have just taken to Berlin time. It is their way of setting up their standard!
On the platforms the authorities bustle about; their faces are purple from the excesses of the night before, their eyes are half open and their walk is unsteady. After an hour we start.
A few turns of the wheel and we shall have left France.
In the third-class carriage where I have been placed are two other Frenchmen. Many of our comrades have been crowded together on straw in waggons, and are under the guard of an armed German sentinel. We are lucky—we are alone and we have seats.
Scarcely have we left the station when one of my companions draws forth a bottle of champagne from under his cloak. He has taken it from the Germans, who the evening before were dead drunk in the hotel where they were being looked after. The cork pops! This bottle at least the Boches shall not have, and we drink to our speedy return to France. The wine takes effect; a few minutes later I go off into a sound sleep.
I wake up worn out, and, thanks to the help of my companions, am able to sit up on the seat.
Under the burning September sun Belgium flies quickly past me; it is a Belgium inert and dead, where the vast plains are deserted and where the tools lie abandoned in the midst of the fields, speaking of the fright of the people who have fled before invasion and murder.
Along the side of the railway a military bakehouse has been erected by the Germans; it is a veritable ant-hill, scores of chimneys are sending out smoke. Farther on rise up the three burntwalls of a deserted station; the fourth has fallen in, enabling us to see the interior, with the beams carbonised, the furniture broken and burnt. Will any one be alive after the war to relate the crimes committed in that house? A freshly dug mound of earth surmounted by a wooden cross and a helmet breaks the monotony of the Belgian plain! New houses will replace those that have been destroyed, the grass will grow again, children will take the place of those who are dead, time will heal our troubles, our grief will be less intense, but, facing the centuries, this grave will remain witness of the barbarity of the Teuton, who has deliberately spilt the blood of his own people and that of other nations to satisfy the indescribable passion of a single man, of a monster dazzled by the pride of his sceptre. This tomb, like so many others, will perpetuate the great lessons and solemn warnings of this war, and to the warrior eager for blood, to the pacifist obstinate and blind, to the ambitious who dream of conquest, to the easy-tempered inclined to forget, to those who for love of lucre or other passion might be persuaded to make overtures to the enemy, it will cry out “Remember!”
We pass villages burnt to the ground. Truly misfortune has fallen on this region.
The soldiers of the “landwehr” who are in possession of the stations, the look-outs, the guardhouses, already begin to be impatient; and the absence of news weighs heavily on them; they envy those who are marching yonder on the roads of wealthy “Frankreich” where good wine flows inabundance. They greet their comrades with friendly signs as they pass by in trains decorated with green branches and flowers on their way “nach Paris.” It is for those who come from their beloved fatherland that they have written in large letters, black, red and green, on the white walls near the points and on the approaches to the stations: “Nachrichten Bitte” (News, if you please). Let them not forget the old men, who stay behind to guard the railways and the people; let them not forget to throw out their old newspapers telling of the advance in giant strides of the vast armies of the conquering Kaiser.
Numerous trains rush onward towards France; at the windows men in uniform salute their wounded comrades as they pass, shake their fists at us and disappear, carried on to the combat by a throbbing engine. So they come in their thousands and by thousands invade our country. Trains carrying before their funnels the flag of the Red Cross, and on their coaches the distinctive marks of sanitary transports, are also caught up in this giddy whirlpool which hurries troops from east to west. They are crowded with armed men, helmeted, ready for the fight; the trucks carry heavy naval guns. That train has nothing to fear; it is protected by the Conventions of Geneva.
Namur! Here they take out the wounded who cannot stand a longer journey.
A young lieutenant, an effeminate dandy, who, apparently, has not yet heard the whistling of bullets, or the sound of a bursting shell, has our carriage pointed out to him. He approaches andorders a soldier to open the door. He has just been shaved, his moustache is cut in such a way as to show his sensual lips, his carefully manicured hands are loaded with rings, his tunic fits him like a glove, his collar is high and cramping. He takes pleasure in causing his new gaiters to creak; he stands as stiff as a poker in order to make the most of all his inches.
He mounts the step and in a high falsetto voice and mocking tone begins to speak to us. We growl out a reply; it does not seem to satisfy him. But one could not expect wounded Frenchmen to behave like trained dogs before a German officer, as the Boche soldiers do.
However, it is not curiosity only that has brought him; he has a mission to accomplish, so sharply, jerkily and with a pronounced German accent, he brings forth a sentence, which he must have been preparing a long time, even before our train was signalled: “You use explosive bullets!” I fire up then and answer: “It’s false.” But he thrusts in my face a packet of cartridges labelled: “Ammunition for practice” (“Get out, idiot,” I murmur), and peremptorily he continues: “You lie, you use explosive bullets; but we shall bring Paris to ruins!” I shrug my shoulders and he goes off stiff and haughty, and as proud of himself as if by his sole energy he had taken a whole transport of able-bodied soldiers prisoners. He has insulted the wounded and defenceless; he has thought it a fine thing to probe an open wound. He seems to be satisfied. Poor cad! have you succeeded yet in destroying Paris?
After a long wait the train starts again. The Belgian peasants, with bent shoulders and a frightened air, watch us pass, without making a movement, without speaking a word; you might think they were rooted to the ground. How different they are from those who, a month ago, welcomed us so heartily. Poor Belgium! The iron foot of Germany has passed there and terror reigns. Any demonstration must have been severely forbidden. The train goes ever onward. Night comes. We have had nothing to eat except a bit of bread and raw bacon that some German soldiers have thrown into our compartment by mistake, as they passed our convoy. We were lucky, for afterwards I met comrades who had had absolutely nothing between their lips during the fifty-five hours of our journey.
We are carried onwards. It seems as if a veil surrounds me, and even in my waking moments I am still in a dream. The train stops, starts again, jolts as terribly; it increases our sufferings, jerks off our bandages. On the platforms we hear raucous voices. We shudder at the noise of the piercing whistle of an engine, rushing full speed ahead, which cuts through space and shakes us on its passage. Then numbness seizes us, weariness of mind and body. Sleep overtakes us now and then and it is difficult to distinguish between our sleeping and waking moments. It is only after the sun’s rays have transformed our compartment into a veritable furnace, and the heat and the flies have made sleep impossible, that we shake off the torpor into which we were plunged.
We throw off our coats. It is now afternoon and there are signs of our approach to a large station. The train slows down, passes the points, makes a winding curve and stops.
Herbesthal! I grind my teeth with rage and powerlessness. It seems as if a great door had been shut on me, separating me for ever from those I love. Herbesthal! it is the threshold of our prison. This name grates on my ears like the grinding of heavy bolts on the doors of a dungeon. Herbesthal! it is the ruin of our dreams of a providential release. Brutal, positive, overpowering reality forces itself upon us, in spite of our hopes. Herbesthal! it is the ugly doctrine of facts, which comes to curb smiling fancies, dear to the hearts of the French. It is the boundary which separates the Republic of liberty of spirit, goodness and inspiration from the realm of brute force, of willing slavery, of servitude of intellects, of crimes ordered by an authority before whom all tremble. Herbesthal! The threshold is crossed, we are in Germany! Prisoners.
Only the end of the war will give us back our liberty, and we dare not wish that end near, for the triumph of the invader is still before our eyes.
Yonder on the left, under some trees at no great distance, is the terrace of a café decked with flags and filled with a crowd of most excited people. They are wild with joy, and make a deafening noise; then, suddenly, as with one movement, they spring up and stand motionless and silent, with heads bared. An orchestra hidden among the trees has sounded the first notes of the Germananthem. Corpulent men stand with a stiffness at attention which seems suited neither to their age nor their size; they hold their cigars in their hands and leave their beer to get flat without regret. Stout women in light dresses, which seem too tight for them, stand beside them; they are red with excitement; the children remain motionless in an attitude almost religious. It is a veritable uproar, where the shrill notes of the fifes and the low interrupted roll of the drum impress on these grey citizens the staggering successes of their arms. They experience a joy beyond all bounds in staining their starched white shirt fronts with beer and cigar-ash in an inn where everybody is crowded together. There they have come to comment on the news of the day, enforcing their remarks by blows which make the tables tremble. They are still visibly excited by the burning words of patriotism in the sermons preached by their ministers—men in the pay of the bloody Emperor. These words still ring in their ears telling them of the destiny of the all-powerful German race, a race elected, chosen by their god before all to be the salvation of the world. They are intoxicated by their own excitement, the music, the beer and the sun, and listen in a religious frenzy to the music which places them above other nations—“Deutschland über alles.” At the end of each stanza, tired with so long repressing the feelings that burn in their hearts, they break forth into uncontrolled cheering, and shout themselves hoarse bellowing out the admiration that they feel for themselves. They wave little flags, sticks, hats, handkerchiefs, beer-mugs;it is pandemonium. With purple faces, eyes starting out of their heads, swollen veins and wide-open mouths they shout, they vociferate, without any regard for those who are so near them. They see red, and in the sky at which they gaze, the apotheosis of the Teuton race appears to them, sublime, emerging from a river of blood. Unwearied the orchestra begins again, dominates the tumult of the crowd, that, after a bar or two, has recovered its calm, like a mechanical toy wound up anew and set in motion. In Germany there is order and respect for music; they do not have two concerts going on at a time. Strains, feverish, passionate, played with vigour, float on the air. Each musician blows, beats, scrapes, strikes with all the power of a Boche, as if he hoped that the sounds he gave forth, drowning the others, would go ever to the field of battle and inspire with a force of “superman” the unchained wild beasts whose mission it is to show to the astonished world the power of Germany and the Kaiser.
And down there the battle of the Marne was beginning. These men, who by their laws wish to purify and civilise the world, have not passed the stage of cannibals and Red Skins, who dance round the stake to which their captured enemy is bound.
This joy of delirious madness, this colossal display of all the passions suitable to savages, this deafening cacophony, these frenzied shrieks make me feel painfully the sadness of our state. The sight of this unbridled crowd, that has no human feeling and so insults our defeat, fills me with rage and despair, a feeling of powerlessness and an agony
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that chokes me; tears rise to my eyes, it is with difficulty that I stifle a sob. However, I make an effort to restrain my grief and stare through the window with an air of indifference to what is going on, braving the crowd. The German bourgeois shall not have the joy of witnessing the weakness of a Frenchman.
Alternately the music sounds and shouts burst forth. These people are tireless. Like automata they go on playing, blowing, striking, shouting at regular intervals; they begin and they leave off at the signal of the conductor’s baton. The Boche cannot rejoice on his own account; for his happiness to be complete these demonstrations must be carried out to order. His servile nature appears even in this manifestation of joy, which with us is always spontaneous. This great organisation of exultation reveals the Germans to me as they are—hearts of savages in automatic bodies.
The fête, however, is not yet over. The programme is not yet finished. The French prisoners have had their reception; it is now the turn of the Germans.
A train of soldiers of the Marine infantry has just come into the station. Every one’s attention is fixed on them. All applaud them. Attracted by a sort of fascination, these people invade the platforms; at the sight of the naval uniforms, which seem something new to them, there is an outburst of delight. A “Mädchen,” expressing by a gesture the general admiration, throws them a bunch of flowers she was wearing in her belt. It is the signal for a rain of flowers, which falls from theterrace on to the eager soldiers. On the rails, on the platforms, the men seize the presents offered by the German women. These women admire them, these big fellows whose ferocity and brutality are known to all. One can count on them to carry to Frenchwomen all the hatred these heavy, servile Teutons feel. May the German soldiers, far away in that detested France, treat the Frenchwomen as cruelly as they, the good, the placid, the gentle German women, with their pale complexions, wish!
Flowers, chocolates, sandwiches, cigars, cigarettes continue to be poured upon them. Impetuously the soldiers scramble up the banks, catching hold of the grass, pushing each other roughly, and uttering cries like wild animals when springing on their prey. Nothing holds them back any longer. It is a heart-breaking sight where the boldness and folly of the women rival the greed and brutality of the men. With an air of disdainful pride and mocking smiles on their lips the officers look at these men, whom to-morrow they will send to their death; at these women, whom they despise; at the crowd of civilians, good enough only to give them gold and their sons for the army of the Kaiser, who alone is worth the whole humanity of the German army.
At last the inn seems to have been cleared of all eatables, drinkables and tobacco. The soldiers begin to be tired of the game, they are surfeited, their pockets are crammed with cigars. The girls have almost broken their arms throwing gifts until, hot and untidy, they struggle back into their jackets.
Little by little the people grow quiet. Without variation the orchestra, a veritable instrument of torture, continues its everlasting grind, soulless, imperturbable.
Then on the platform young girls and women appear carrying baskets and escorted by well-dressed men. There sandwiches, fruits, chocolate, tobacco, cigarettes, bottles of lemonade are piled up. Other women follow with cups and enormous jugs of coffee, glasses and jugs of beer, and large juicy plum tarts. The distribution is renewed; it is chiefly intended for the wounded Germans who have stayed in the train. The guards will not let the women approach the wounded French, who have no right to kindly treatment. The women, moreover, cannot bear to hear the name “Franzosen” pronounced. They turn their backs on them, filled with disgust for their contemptible enemies.
In some places the soldiers give themselves up to shameful pillage, emptying the baskets, and the young girls emerge, panting and dishevelled, from a circle which has surrounded them. Disputes take place among the Marines.
Absent-mindedly a “Yungfrau” approaches our compartment, a smile on her lips, a pitying look in her eye, for she has not recognised in these unfortunate men in their shirt sleeves the enemies of her race. Suddenly, while one of us leans out of the window to seize the proffered sandwich, she sees the belt of his red trousers. Taking a step backwards, frightened, indignant, furious, with a voice full of hate, she cries: “Franzosen.” Angrilyshe turns away; but a German soldier standing on the platform with his arm in a sling has noticed the incident; he has recognised one of my companions as his neighbour in hospital. Passing by, he says in a friendly manner: “Guten Tag, Emile” (Good day). He goes up to the young girl and expresses his indignation in no unmeasured terms. She protests, turns red, becomes embarrassed, then, obediently retracing her steps, holds out her basket, avoiding our eyes. With his hands full, the German soldier distributes food and dainties to us, while the young lady in dulcet but artful tones lightly gives expression to feelings of humanity with a sincerity that makes us smile. “We are all men, after all.” (That was also the declaration of the German socialists before the war; we shall doubtless soon hear it again.)
From that time forth this soldier did not forget to recommend us to the care of the distributors, who dared not refuse for fear of hurting one of their own wounded men. He himself came from time to time to see that we wanted for nothing, and to leave us some of the food and cigarettes he had received and did not know what to do with.
We were doubtless the only French of all the convoy who did not suffer from hunger during the journey.
The day had been perfect for them. The Boches swam in a sea of happiness! They are “Satt”—satiated with beer, cakes, sweets, saturated with joy, excitement and the sounds of music; they are full of their Germany and their Kaiser; they have seen their forces-of-war pass by, and the weaknessof their enemy has been established in a manner evident to their eyes!
What a splendid day! “Gott sei Dank.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Officers shout orders on the platform. The German soldiers take their seats.En routefor Aix-la-Chapelle, Cologne, etc.... We are prisoners in earnest!
ITwas right at the beginning of hostilities. The prisoners had been sent to an instruction camp, the buildings of which were still occupied by German recruits.
The men, guarded by sentinels, were at that time herded together on some waste land surrounded by barbed wire; shelter there was none. We dug ourselves holes in the sand as best we could. Some green branches formed a roof; and there, exposed to the rain, we remained night and day, even without straw to lie on or coverings to protect us from the severity of the nights, which were already very cold. The wounded were visited from time to time by a German army doctor; there being no hospital, they suffered still more from the exposure than their comrades did.
Twice a day, at a fixed hour, officers and men filed before the doors of the kitchens. For some time even a French General was to be seen, joining this long line of starving people. He had come to receive with his own handsthe bowl that the German cooks refused to give to any but himself. However, a room had been prepared for him in some neighbouring barracks.
The men slept in the open. The tents were not put up till much later; but at the end of a fortnight or three weeks, after an American official had visited the camp, they consented to house the prisoners in stables, considered too unhealthy for horses! Our soldiers were frequently twelve in a box. The Germans, who seem able to foresee everything, did not attach sufficient importance to the question of prisoners, or perhaps imagined these arrangements would do well enough for the two months the war was to last.
Now there came a day when the German General, who commanded the camp, arrived to visit the first prisoners. Of a height above the average, broad-shouldered and upright, he must have been in his time a fine man, one to command the respect of his men. His head was bent with age and he kept it sunk between his shoulders like a wrestler. His light blue eyes, which must have been piercing when he was younger, had become dulled, but they were still penetrating enough and showed that the years had not weakened his will when occasionally they shone suspicious and hard from under his bushy brows. A thick grey moustache hid his lips. On his left cheek was a deep scar, made, I was told, by a French bullet in 1870. His bearing was noble, his step slow and dignified. He went about, whip in hand,followed by two bloodhounds that kept close to his heels.
The General had for the French a fierce hatred, which he showed whenever an occasion arose. Perhaps he had suffered in the campaign of ’70, and his wound had soured him; perhaps also his education, directed by those above him, had taught him to detest our race. As he was too old for active service he was given the organisation and direction of a concentration camp.
Our soldiers, a few from all classes, but mostly from the territorials, were drawn up in two lines by German non-commissioned officers. An interpreter translated to them the orders and commands of a fierce German officer. The clinking together of a sentinel’s heels getting into position announced the arrival of the superior officer. A thundered “Achtung!” pealed forth and the General reviewed our soldiers, who were standing at attention. “Frenchmen,” he said, fiercely pulling his moustache, “forty years ago your fathers came here; you are here now, and your sons will come in another forty years! It is good for the French nation to come from time to time and spend a period in Germany. But, after all, you won’t be here for many months: our armies are at Paris, and the war is coming to an end. It was you who declared war; you will repent it. That’s all!” And as the simple wave of his hand was not sufficient to make the assembled prisoners disappear from his sight, he turned round and rode away.
Could one possibly speak more wickedly? What pleasure could this officer find in making
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our prisoners sadder? Was not their state already bad enough to make it necessary for this old man, with his irony and lies, to come and sow discouragement in the hearts of the fighters of yesterday?
But he was carrying out an order—instructions from headquarters—to demoralise those in Germany for whom the fight was over; they must destroy their vitality, their constancy in trial, their living hope, the confidence in victory which is the glory of the French. And our jailers would have been happy if they could have demoralised us, if they could have made us apathetic blocks without moral pluck; so they tried by every means to make our captivity as painful as possible. But those pinpricks, those numberless petty vexations, the false reports put up each day in the camp, could not attain the success on which our jailers counted. The being forbidden to smoke, the punishment of being bound to posts, the long waits standing motionless in the rain, the privations of all sorts, the propagation of news of disaster to our side, and our miserable condition: none of these could touch our spirit. The Frenchman has this to the good, that he keeps a certain youthfulness of character. A trifle may amuse him, because he knows that a comic element, that a grain of folly and gaiety is found in every human creature and in every situation. He is constantly on the watch for this comic element, and is past-master in the art of discovering it. It is, so it seems to him, when he is the most wretched, the most exposed to emergencies, that his eye becomes more acute,so that he seizes still more willingly on the gay and light note which keeps him atune with laughter.
So it was that the General who understood us not at all was offended by the mood that he judged provocative, and, unwilling to be worsted, he decided to put an end to it.
The prisoners were reassembled. An hour’s waiting in the rain did not succeed in making them look sullen. Already jokes and speculation ran riot: “The war is finished”; “We are going to be sent back to France”; “There is to be an exchange of prisoners”; “Germany is dying of hunger, and Switzerland has consented to feed us.” Some, less respectful, suggested that the General was going to hold a foot review.
At last that important personage appeared, and his entrance on the scene cut short our speeches. He addressed the men who were drawn up in a circle round his white horse. “Messieurs,” he said, “going through the camp I noticed that you amuse yourselves, that you laugh, that you are gay. You ought to remember that you are prisoners. You ought to be sad. ’Tention! Be sad!” Having spoken, he wheeled his horse about.
The success of such a speech was instantaneous. A few of our prisoners were thunderstruck; others with difficulty hid their smiles, through fear of what might happen, while the rest could not contain themselves, but frankly burst out laughing.
A new German defeat was thus registered. From that day the mention of the simple expression: “Be sad!” was sufficient to dissipate the “blues” and transform a face of sadness into one of mirth.
HEhad been wounded at the beginning of the campaign, at the time when nothing could stop the invading hordes, and much too soon for his liking. Powerless to escape from the field of battle, he soon saw himself a prisoner in the hands of the enemy. He was a sergeant, still young, and on active service when the war broke out. He was taken to a hospital in Westphalia, where he remained too short a time, considering the gravity of his wound. But as the German wounded from Ypres were coming in, in great numbers, he had been turned out and sent to a concentration camp. He arrived there worn out and still suffering from his wounds, but happy to be able at last to hear news of the war—news he had eagerly longed to hear, but which had been jealously kept from him. There he learnt of the battle of the Marne and its happy result for our armies, and his heart rejoiced greatly. If he still remembered the cruel days of the retreat from Belgium, it was to recall pictures which permitted him to imagine the Boches a prey to the sufferings that their too precipitated retreat wouldbring upon them. Thus the rage he felt in his heart at being made prisoner was slightly calmed. As hope and confidence came back to him our sergeant regained assurance and raised his head. He reasoned in the following manner and found consolation therein: “I am a prisoner, it is certain; but I have done my duty, therefore I need not be ashamed of myself. My countrymen at the present time fight successfully against an enemy superior in numbers and one who has been preparing for a long time to invade; consequently I may be permitted to think of them with pride. I don’t belong to a nation debased by defeat. The French Army guards its rights and prerogatives. Since my soul can never be imprisoned, my thoughts are with those who fight for the good cause, my body alone is captive. And yet, not completely so, since it will never consent to do what my conscience does not approve of.”
So from deduction to deduction he almost persuaded himself that he was free. He was exceedingly proud of being a Frenchman, and, what is more, a French soldier. From this time on, in spite of his wound, he forced himself to walk without limping, holding his head erect. And thus he marched with a noble, almost arrogant air, straight on, without anything being able to stop him, disdainful of the German uniform and its chiefs, for he had sworn to himself never to salute the officers of a nation at war with his country, and one that had permitted such crimes in Belgium.
Orders, however, were strict on this matter, and the heads of the barracks did not fail every day toinflict punishments in the pillory, which punishment certain of our soldiers had incurred for not having saluted a German officer. The punishments imposed for this neglect were announced in huge printed letters in four languages, and revealed to the prisoners the rigours of the German military law.
But our sergeant paid no attention to that. He kept his marks of respect for the French doctors, the only officers sometimes seen in the camp.
But one day it happened that he was walking painfully and slowly on the light sand, into which one sank ankle-deep. He was speaking of one thing and another, with a comrade of his regiment, whom he had had the good luck to find. They recalled the happy times they had spent together in the barracks—for, thanks to a happy forgetfulness, the memory has not kept account of the bad times. They talked of their captain, a brave fellow, who had died courageously, perhaps a little rashly, but nevertheless as a true-hearted man should do. They spoke of their lieutenants, of the different ranks of the company; nobody was overlooked. In imagination they saw gay French uniforms with their golden stripes, before which one stood proudly erect at “attention.” The sergeant confided to his companion the firm resolution he had made never to salute a German officer. For example, as soon as he saw the General, that old savage who detested the French, he turned about and showed him his back. “Till now you have been able to escape,” his friend said, “but take care, one day you will get into trouble.” “It is all the same to me,” replied the other, “and then
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I shall tell him that I had taken him for a French artilleryman, because of his dark blue trousers with red stripes. He will be flattered; don’t you think so?”
At this moment the two friends passed a German lieutenant, a big man, tall and broad in proportion. The monocle stuck in his right eye enlarged it to the disadvantage of the left one, which appeared small and almost lost in the folds of fat of his ruddy, shaven face. With riding-whip in his hand the officer advanced, proud, no doubt, of his new grey-green uniform, which laced him in tightly at the waist and emphasised the squareness of his massive shoulders. His heavy, creaking boots sank at every step into the powdery sand. Dominating the group of French soldiers he was passing, he looked at them straight, so that they were forced to salute him. At his passing, all put their hands to their caps; and he returned their salute, bending the whole of his body stiffly, as if he were laced in corsets.
While his comrade saluted properly, the sergeant with an air of indifference pursued his walk. He kept his head slightly turned towards his companion, with whom he seemed to be having a most exciting conversation, which absorbed him so that the presence of an officer could not distract his attention.
Did the German guess the Frenchman’s intention, or did he think his distraction culpable? I don’t know, but he approached and, looking vexed, planted himself in front of the two, who were obliged to stop. Fresh salute from the French soldier, this time unnoticed by the officer.
A pause.
With a scowling expression, the officer looks at the sergeant from head to foot; he, however, does not stir. Another pause, in which the German finds the word he was trying to think of: “Saloutez,” says he, in an imperative voice; “Saloutez!”
“I beg your pardon,” says the sergeant politely, with a most puzzled look.
The lieutenant, whose French was not faultless, but who hesitated to confess it, even to himself, seemed to be confused for a moment; his face flushed when, in a voice still more imperative and as if trying to persuade himself of the excellence of his accent, he repeated: “Saloutez, mossié.”
“I don’t understand at all; what does he mean?” said our Frenchman, turning, as if in question, towards his companion. “You understand German. Well, answer him. ‘Saloutemossié! Saloutemossié!’ I don’t understand.”
But the man in the pay of William began to get impatient. He lost his temper, his face grew purple. Nervously striking his boots with his whip, he reflected, calling up all his linguistic knowledge and repeating to himself: “Salou ... Salou: Saloutez ... Saloutez mossié,” after the manner of a careless pupil repeating the parts of a Latin irregular verb. It must be very disagreeable when one wishes to exercise one’s authority to give the impression of a scholar stammering over his lesson. The Boche began to look grotesque. But our sergeant still went on talking with his compatriot over the meaning of his questioner’s words. His eyebrows contracted, his forehead wrinkled,as in the effort of intense intellectual strain; he seemed to take as much trouble to understand as the German took to be understood. His face remained impassive and showed the distress of a man who cannot find what he seeks. With imperturbable coolness he went to extremes. In despair at not being able to understand, he shrugged his shoulders, struck his forehead, shook his head and repeated: “No, no, I don’t understand.” Then pointing with his finger to the German “Burô”[1]visible in the distance, he said, “Interpret that—Burô.” “Yes, ‘dolmetscher, burô’—they will understand.” As for him, he could not make it out, and regretted greatly not to be able to help the officer better.
The situation became impossible. The German dared not any longer insist, for fear of making himself ridiculous. He had the sense to understand this, and was angry with himself. He went away furious that his knowledge of Bossuet and Joffre did not enable him to tell the sergeant what he thought. Because of hisamour-proprehe still wished to believe in French stupidity.
Our friend stayed there, looking puzzled and stupid; he scratched his head and repeated in the most idiotic manner: “Saloutémossié,” and looked with a questioning, wondering glance at his comrade, who whispered to him: “You’ve got hold of a very young bird!” But with a fresh shrug of the shoulders he turned anew to the officer, who had gone some paces when, to make sure they were not laughing at him, heglanced back. With his finger he pointed in the direction of the Commandant.
Then the Boche, with that persistence which is the attribute of his race, returned to the charge, repeating, in order to make himself better understood, always the same words: “Saloutez, mossié.” Then suiting the action to the word, and to show by example, he raised his hand to his cap. Then the sergeant, with a gracious smile, as if he wished to cut short the transports of gratitude of the Boche: “Ah, I beg you, don’t mention it, my signpost,” said he, and, with a vague flourish in the direction of the Burô, dismissed the officer, but did not salute him.
All the same, he waited till he had got far enough from the enemy’s ears before giving vent to the laughter that shook him.
However, from that day he judged it better to yield to the desires of the Teuton officers, and he “salouta” them every time that he could not avoid doing otherwise.
EVENINGenfolds the camp in its gloomy mantle, and like a heavy tapestry dulls the sounds and renders uncertain the movements of human beings.
It is scarcely five o’clock, but the night has almost come. The camp is invisible in the darkness, the silence becomes absolute. In certain parts nothing reveals the existence there of an enclosure containing thousands of men.
A dim murmur, however, rises from the regions of the kitchen, where the lamps give scarcely any light. No one makes a noise, but the silence of every person, an individual muteness imposed by the sadness of the monotonous day just drawing to its close, the sound of steps which the sand deadens, all is transformed into a dull hum, like the murmur of a distant ocean.
In the almost total darkness the men, one by one, in their companies file past the kitchen doors, to take the basins of soup allotted to them. They are narrowly watched by their non-commissioned officers, who try to prevent one man coming twiceto the disadvantage of his comrades, for no basin is given beyond the number of men in the company. The soup, alas! is quickly swallowed; what takes the longest time is to form the lines in front of the kitchens. There you flounder about in deep mud, sometimes for an hour, and when your turn comes to be served the pot is perhaps empty and you are obliged to go and join another company in front of another door. Once in possession of their rations, the men, basins in hand, go a little way beyond the waiting lines and, standing, drink their soup, for there is no other place where they can go. Indeed, the sentinels, whose bayonets from time to time gleam, watch that no one goes to his tent taking a basin with him, for the number of these utensils is very limited. Some men, in order to receive a supplementary ration, pass their evening in picking up from under the feet of their comrades the basins thrown negligently down, when once they are emptied. These, collected together near the boilers, are again used after being summarily washed.
This evening meal is lugubrious. The men in the semi-darkness have the feeling that they are swallowing their pittance like beasts of burden. They experience cruelly the full force of their misery. There they are, eating from a basin of rough metal, with greasy, rusted brim, food which the dogs at home would turn from in disgust. Like animals, they must lap up their soup, for they have neither spoon nor fork. Light also is refused them; and as there are no benches, it is not possible for the prisoners to sit down to the meal.
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Poor fellows, they even envy the pig, who may without shame gobble up a mixture less objectionable than what is offered to them, the soldier-prisoners.
Their courage begins to fail! Every one is demoralised! Confinement weighs on their shoulders. The sky is black, hearts are heavy. There is not a star in the sky, not a gleam of hope in the soul!
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Suddenly, piercing the darkness, a dazzling light has flashed out, flooding the camp with its brilliance. This light, cast by a gigantic lamp hung at the top of a raised pole, flickers, flares, wavers, then is finally fixed.
At this signal, which all seem to wait for, the place round the kitchens is instantly deserted. Every one hurries to finish his meal and to hurry away; the life of the camp, fleeing from the darkness, is in a moment transported towards the part bathed in a warm brightness, under the incandescent globe, whose kindly light expels the shadows and, for the moment at least, drives sad thoughts away.
The open space which stretches away under the violet lamp is some two hundred metres long. It is bordered by thin, leafless trees, their gaunt branches standing out, the colour of dead wood.
It is shut in at both ends by the artificial means of protection which German ingenuity knows so well how to get together. To right and left aretents, their yellow canvas flapping in the wind; farther on stand out the more definite outlines of huts, now being built. At regular intervals there are drinking fountains with wooden shelters, at the present time used by prisoners to do their washing. Here is the Forum of the inhabitants of the camp; here is what they call their “Flea Market.”
The coal fires that are crackling in the neighbourhood of the pole, deserted a few seconds ago, are now crowded, as if by enchantment, by a dense and noisy throng. Men arrive, running at full speed. Their haste recalls the madness of moths that on a summer’s evening hurl themselves blindly against the glass of a lamp. Greedily they dispute every inch of the lighted ground. From the earth, suddenly flooded with the violet light, a pale-faced populace seems to have sprung. Tables are set up, bending under the weight of goods of all kinds, piled up in a moment by active hands; gaming-tables are prepared, and already hawkers go about offering their provisions or their knick-knacks to all comers. There reigns the animation of a fair in a crowded quarter of a town. One meets Frenchmen with red or blue caps, Belgians with bright-coloured ones, Englishmen in khaki, Zouaves and Algerians in their turbans.
In rivalry, one with another, the merchants, shouting in different languages, try by their own shrill cries to dominate the deafening noise of their competitors. It is the hour when the greater number of the Boches have gone to their barracks or home, leaving the prisoners to themselves. The camp,
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guarded on the outskirts by a few sentinels, who warm themselves at a glowing brazier, is now in the possession of the prisoners. They have no corvées to fear, the day of work is over, the enemy has disappeared. Reaction comes abruptly, suddenly, completely, even with passion the crowd goes like a whirlwind towards the light, with a noise like mad schoolboys invading the playground.
In the mud, in the puddles, all splash good-humouredly. In places, one has to accomplish marvellous feats to keep balance on the few bricks thrown over a deep puddle, where the awkward sometimes sink in, leaving their sabots behind them, to the loud joy of the spectators.
A passive item in this feverish movement, the prisoner goes on, pushed at the pleasure of a varied and cosmopolitan crowd, which moves along noiselessly, without definite direction. The pressure is so great that you cannot choose your way, you are just carried on.
Towards the centre of bustle and light, with its crowd going to and fro, everybody hastens, impelled by the desire of movement, of society and clamour. Penniless or not it is good to be at the Flea Market. There you are plunged back again into life, you get away from yourself, and the sight of this animation puts to flight the last inclination to sadness. When all day long your soul has been lonely, melancholy and wandering, it is sweet to mingle with the crowd, free from care, which, indifferent to trouble, gives itself to the experiences of the moment. The prisoner who wanders about in the marketseems mentally bewildered; he is deafened by the din of voices, dazzled and stunned by the ever-changing spectacle of bright colours that moves around him. He finds no opportunity for his own thoughts. He is caught, body and soul, in this tumultuous machine, is a part of this crowd, which finds its sole joy in the fact that it is a crowd. Here is the heart of the camp, pulsating with life till the hour of curfew.
The preparations have been rapid, and now the market is in full swing. They sell from stalls, they sell in the crowd. Buyers and venders mingle together.
Here is an Algerian sharpshooter with a swarthy face and splendid large brown eyes, shaded by long lashes, a merry fellow, but a bit of a knave. A broad smile shows his teeth, magnificent white teeth, glittering like pearls in his copper-coloured face. Under his short cloak—how is it that he has not yet sold it?—he holds carefully hidden a loaf made for civilians, that he has probably taken from a baker too busy to protect his goods. To likely customers he shows the best golden-brown corner, the crustiest part of his loaf. You are weak in face of the temptation; even if a few seconds ago, when making up your accounts, you made a vow not to be led into expense, you feel you are about to yield. “You want bread, Sidi?” “Me have bread good.” “How much your loaf?” “Eight penny, Sidi.” “Go on, it is too dear.” The smile fades, the eyes darken, the face of the Arab expresses indignation. Ah! if he could he would strangle this Sidi, he would tear this Frenchman’s face with his long sharp nails for insulting him by thinking his loaf too dear! But he cannot even dispute, knowing too little French. He passes on, or rather the pressure of the crowd separates the two. If, later, chance brings them together again, the Moor, recognising his man, refrains from offering his wares again, but gives a gracious smile and winks his eye at the man whom he admires, as if to say: “You more clever than me,” and also: “Me find buyer.”
The question of bread takes precedence of all others. From the opening of the market, we hasten to know the price for the day—a price which varies according to the demand and the supply of the stock.[2]
The bread costs fifty pfennigs the kilogramme outside the camp, and its price within varies from sixpence to eightpence, according to the quantity for sale or the success of certain speculators who, hiding their bread in the early hours, sell at the maximum price.
The entrance to the shops is congested. The buyers form a line, examine the goods, bargain, buy, pay and go away. The curious watch this strange commerce.
The wretchedly poor, those who since the first day of their captivity have not had a sou to spend, and who have had to be content with the repulsive and insufficient food meted out by the Germanadministration, look with envious eyes at these provisions that they will never taste: the golden-brown loaves, pots of artificial honey—better than the real honey—fancy jams made of glucose, cubes of margarine, butter made from plants, tins of condensed milk, chocolate and lumps of sugar that help to make the bitter morning coffee more palatable; packets of tobacco, cigarettes, cigars.... Cries of all sorts resound in your ears. It is an international emporium, where all moneys have currency—English or French copper, Belgian or German nickel. Prices are quoted in sous.
Between the close ranks men glide, a camp saucepan in one hand, a quarter-litre measure in the other. “Milk chocolate, all hot, all boiling, two sous the quarter litre.” Tempters! they take off the wooden lid. The steam rises hot, thick and fragrant in the sharp evening air. What a glorious smell! If you have only two sous in your pocket you must yield. It is the soup that has left a disagreeable taste in your mouth, it is hunger that torments you; it is the herring that has made you thirsty, or the freshness of the night that has dried your throat. In short, your two sous pass into the seller’s pocket, and, in the midst of the crowd that jostles along, you put your lips to the burning tin pot, where so many others have been before.
Farther on, a jolly Englishman, who, on a rustic table that can be taken to pieces, has traced different figures—a king, a queen, the Jack, a diamond, etc., for dice—is shouting: “Come on, come on, my lads!Where you like and where you fancy! The more you put down, the more you pick up! Who says the Jack? Who says the lucky diamond? Who says the King?”
He has rattled his dice in a wooden cup and turned them out. “Up she comes! No luck!” and, always smiling pays out or pockets his money according to the chances of the game. There is a crowd round his table. You might think you were at Monte Carlo. “You come here barefoot, you go away in a motor!” There are players of all nationalities. Here one meets Frenchmen from the North, Frenchmen from the South, Frenchmen from all our provinces. One sees Britons from all parts of the United Kingdom, Belgians—Flemish and Walloons; natives of Tunis, Morocco and Senegal, each one playing with the passion peculiar to his race. All try to forget in the excitement of play their cares and the sadness of their exile. “Up she comes!” The banker is getting rich and the poor fellows, stupefied, see their last sous vanishing. On some of them fortune smiles, and if they are sensible at once go away to exchange their gains for bread, chocolate or tobacco. Costers go round offering goods to all who pass—this one a cloak, another puttees, another knives cleverly made out of nails flattened between two stones, sharpened on a flint and finished with a bit of cord for a handle. Some go so far as to sell their rations of bread or the herring they have received, for they would sooner go without food than tobacco. An Englishman who is barefoot tries to sell his boots, a Moroccan his cloak, his belt and a shirt that he has filchedin the afternoon while it was drying in the sun. Some shopmen have only a single plank, on which are exhibited the knick-knacks made in the camp: knives, scarf-pins, post cards, shoes, and forage-caps cut out of the military blankets that come from Maubeuge; mandolines made from a cigar-box and strings bought in town by a kind-hearted sentinel.
Some thousands of men wander round or lounge about. The pickpockets have a good time and give themselves to their work with a will. You are pushed and jostled. You meet friends on the way and stop to chat. Some—always the same men—bring information of a sensational character, the truth of which they vouch for. Gatherings take place, talkers raise their voices, the crowd gather round to listen to a speech. When the orator has finished the movement begins again, and thus it goes on till bedtime.
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Nailed to a post stuck in the ground a huge wooden sign announces in artistic letters that there exists in the camp a “Café Biard. Coffee, chocolate, at 1d.” The finger of a hand painted black shows the way.
There, behind the tents, fires are lighted, which glow in the darkness. In their flickering light, human figures move to and fro. Approaching, one hears a voice crying, “Coffee, chocolate, all hot, all boiling; two sous the quarter litre at Café Biard!” The establishment has a good name. It is there that theélitein the camp meet, for thedrinks are of the finest quality and the installation is luxurious. The proprietor exhibits with pardonable pride the four cups of coarse china which he alone possesses. Cups in the camp! Imagine such a thing! Just think a little what that means! The table—made of a few planks, cleverly abstracted from those destined for the building of the sheds—is kept very clean, and the china is plunged into water and carefully wiped each time it has been used.
The opener of this “saloon” is making a fortune. Because of the prosperity of his establishment he has been obliged to engage assistants, whose duties are strictly defined. One has to keep up the fires, another to fetch water, a third prepares the drinks in the saucepans or cooks the food, a fourth serves the customers, while a fifth washes the cups. The boss, a genial man, receives you kindly, so that he has no lack of customers.
As under the Regency, it is at the coffee-house that one has rendezvous; here one discusses the war and politics, and the meetings are of the most animated character. It is a thoroughly French corner.
Of course there are imitators, but the “Café Biard” has not been touched by its rivals; it remains incontestably the first of its kind.
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Suddenly a shrill whistle is heard, more piercing than the noise of the assembly. Others answer, men come running in, and by their cries sow consternationand confusion in the market. “The Patrol!”
Armed German soldiers have been signalled, entering the bounds of the camp. They approach the ground. The news spreads like wildfire, and after a few moments of rushing, hustling and distracted flight, the market remains under the flickering light with its long, open space, bare, silent, clear of people. Tables, games, merchandise, sellers, buyers and loafers, all have disappeared, with the same fairy-like rapidity that brought them there. The prisoners find themselves huddled together in disorder inside the neighbouring tents, where they wait patiently till the danger is over. Some clever plunderers have turned this moment of panic to account, and found the means to enrich themselves at the cost of their comrades with pots of honey, jam, packets of tobacco, etc. It is necessary for every one to live!
In step the Teuton soldiers come out from the dark on to this empty space and are dazzled by the light of the swinging lamp. They arrive just in time to see the heels of the last fugitives. The attack has failed!
It is strictly forbidden to civilians to sell the least thing to the prisoners, and as a natural result the prisoners must not sell any food bought in Germany. All other commerce is equally forbidden. Therefore everything found at the market has no right to be there, and must be seized and considered as a lawful prize.
But they arrive too late, and for all the spoilthey can seize, they are obliged to content themselves with some planks left by the tradesmen in their flight. With these under their arms the Huns make the tour of the tents like conquerors.
Over there, however, the sellers of hot drinks have not been warned. Peacefully they continue their commerce. Their fires, still burning, attract the attention of the patrol. With shouts as if they were attacking, the soldiers rush towards the fires, on which some pots are steaming. They kick them over with their boots, seize them and burn their fingers with the handles.
Hampered by their rifles, the ponderous Germans cannot easily give chase, and the men run lightly away and escape. Certain merchants, the cleverest, succeed in saving their goods. The patrol continues its march, and the spoil is enriched by a few tins of condensed milk and some packets of sugar, chocolate and ground coffee and pieces of wood used for burning. Savagely obeying their destructive instincts, the soldiers stamp out the still smoking fires with their iron-shod boots. Groping in the darkness they have rendered more complete, they rapidly collect in a heap the spoil that has fallen to them.
Victorious, in single file, preceded by their corporal, they advance by a dark, narrow passage between two tents. In the darkness the sentinels stumble over the pegs, get entangled in the stretched cords, fall, and in their fall drop the dishes and saucepans with which they are encumbered.From this narrow way, where it is as dark as the grave, a tumult arises, the dull sound of falling bodies, the oaths of those who have been thrown down, and of those they have knocked against. They are cursed and hustled as “stupid geese,” who could not pay attention and who hurt the others with their weapons. It is a deafening noise, and causes indescribable joy to the prisoners huddled in the tents.
At last the little detachment has gained the lighted part. Once united, the Huns continue their progress in silence and good order to the guardhouse. They do not look like conquerors. Inconvenienced by the food they carry, encumbered by kitchen utensils, embarrassed by the wood under their arms, they walk with hanging heads and woeful faces. They have burnt their fingers, they have floundered through puddles, in their fall they have covered their uniforms and helmets with mud. The condensed milk flows from the open tins, making their hands sticky, staining their things; the saucepans leave traces of soot on their tunics and trousers, the half-burnt wood blackens their chests and sleeves.
Dirty, grotesque, their helmets on one side, made more ridiculous still by the rage they feel, furious at returning without a prisoner, ashamed and vexed like marauders caught in the act, they defile under the mocking eyes of the prisoners, who do not hide their amusement and begin to jest at these underlings who rob the poor.
The next day the market will drive as good atrade, the customers will be just as numerous; the Café Biard will peacefully continue its flourishing business.
The Huns will scarcely care to renew their escapade; they have only gained a Pyrrhic victory.