Chapter XVII: Two More Days on the Channel Coast

The night was calm and still, and when in the morning of the 24th October I was called by Dr. Schönfelder’s _Bursche_ (servant), he assured me that no shells had fallen on Ostend whilst I had been asleep. But the roar of the artillery duel over at Nieuport was nevertheless the first sound that greeted my ears--an incessant hammering at the last remaining little corner of the Kingdom of Belgium. At midday it was reported that a couple of British ships had been hit, whereupon the entire squadron vanished in the fog.

The day was spent in visiting the troops and transports bound for the Yser Canal front, the wounded in hospitals and the Belgian prisoners in the Kursaal. The latter were but a small contingent of some ten men. They, too, had been told that the Russians were only a hundred kilometres from Berlin. What they said _en passant_ about the British policy in Belgium and its result, I simply cannot repeat.

The proprietor of the _Littoral_, where I looked in for a moment in passing, gave the following details of recent happenings. When the Germans were pushing forward against Antwerp, numberless bands of fugitives kept swarming into Ostend. The hotels were crammed and there was a life and bustle in the town such as had never been equalled even in the season. One ship after the other carried the fleeing inhabitants to England and France. The great majority went to Folkestone, the better-off to Eastbourne, Brighton and Bournemouth. But at Dunkerque no one was allowed to land. The vessels arriving there had to continue to Havre. Any sort of craft was good enough, even sailing boats, launches and row-boats. The first person who fled to England was a gentleman from Brussels who had already withdrawn to Ostend with his family. When a German _Taube_ on September 24th dropped a couple of bombs over that town, he interpreted this as a message and a warning that the Germans were on the way. And so he fled precipitately across to London with his family.

From about that time the number of fugitives increased daily. They came in ever-increasing throngs from Antwerp, Ghent, Bruges, Termonde and elsewhere. On October 12th the last shipload of fugitives left the town, and after swarming with life like a beehive, it now became empty and deserted. A few members of the Belgian Cabinet remained, but on the 13th they, too, left by a Government steamer, the _Aventi_. They had been staying at the _Majestic_ and _Littoral_--the latter had also been the residence of His Excellency Vandervelde.

By the 14th and 15th of October there were no steamers left at Ostend for the fresh bands of fugitives who kept on arriving, and anything in the nature of fishing-smacks was eagerly snapped up. The reports of the advance of the German legions became louder and more insistent, and the civil population which remained was in a state of the tensest excitement, expecting to see them march in at any moment. Two hours before the first Germans appeared the last Belgian lancer, without helmet or sword, flung himself on his horse and galloped down the stone-paved road towards Middelkerke. The German “advance guard” was not formidable--it consisted of two cyclists and a horseman. It was then half-past ten in the morning, Belgian time. The last fishing-smack with sixty passengers had just cast off its moorings, but was compelled to return. The next few days saw the arrival of increasing bands of German troops, and then came the occurrences which I have just described.

Now, on the 24th of October, the situation at Ostend was, to say the least, interesting. Everybody expected with imperturbable calm that something remarkable would happen. The possibility of an attempted landing was not overlooked. The Germans were prepared for it, at any rate. Anyone who had attempted such a step would have met with a warm reception, for large quantities of troops had been massed along the coast. At our hotel they realised, it seems, fairly plainly what was on foot. The stairs were thronged at all hours of the day with officers and men, and outside my door I heard late at night hurried conversations about dressings and bandages, ambulances and stretchers, and fresh batches of wounded who had been brought into the town and lodged in deserted empty houses.

On Sunday the 25th of October the weather was brilliantly fine and as warm as a summer’s day, but a thin film of vapour lay over the sea like a delicate veil.

Captain Bess suggested a motor trip to Haak’s battery among the dunes beyond Mariakerke. So we started off down the _Rue de Tourout_, dodged about awhile in the open country and finally found our friend Haak amongst his guns. His battery, consisting of four _French_ 7.5-cm. guns, looked a very motley lot. The guns themselves had been taken at Maubeuge, the horses were Belgian, and the harness and saddlery English.

In order, without being seen from the sea, to reach the position--well concealed behind the crest of the dune--it had been necessary to pass through a communicating trench which led up to it. We were thus fairly safe and did not have to expose ourselves to any objectionable missiles which might be thrown ashore from the English destroyers. The guns with their grey-coloured shields were also practically invisible from outside, as there was nothing but a small embrasure in the dune wall to indicate where they stood.

Officers and men had dug out caves for themselves, some covered with boards, some, for the lack of something better, with sticks and twigs. It looked quite homelike in their abodes. The sand of the dunes was soft to lie upon, albeit a little damp on account of the advanced autumn.

In the ridge of the dune they had contrived a little niche with boarded floor, where an exceptionally powerful battery telescope had been adjusted on its stand in such a way that only the lenses showed above the crest. With the aid of this telescope we were able to scan the mist-enshrouded sea and the sandy, sunlit coast.

We had just settled down on the edge of the communicating trench, where we sat as close together as in a crowded tramcar, when suddenly an officer up at the battery shouted, “_Deckung, Flieger!_” (“Cover, aviator!”) We looked up, and right above us soared an aeroplane at a very great height. “An English biplane,” somebody said. “No, I think I can see the Iron Cross under the wings,” answered another. But a third, lying on his back, with glasses focussed right on the thing, said quietly: “I can see the red English streamer.” We were then told to keep absolutely still. Everyone had to remain where he stood and no one was allowed to move. Otherwise the airman might have noticed the movement and bombs might be dropped over the guns. Now and again he disappeared among the little white clouds; the rascal was evidently following the coast to see what the Germans were up to in the neighbourhood of Ostend. When he was at his nearest, we could hear the droning of his engine. As usual, it was with a certain feeling of satisfaction that I saw him diminish in size and gradually vanish.

Once more we took our seat on the edge of the trench and were just being threatened with coffee when Haak, sweeping the misty horizon with his telescope, reported that a destroyer was in sight. We went up to have a look. Quite right; the outline of the boat was quite distinct, though faint. The distance was gauged at three kilometres. Things suddenly became livelier. One could not tell exactly what might happen. The coast batteries had fired on British ships earlier in the day and it was thought that two of them had been hit, seeing that the squadron withdrew. Perhaps it was now returning at full strength. We had reason to think that the ships were receiving heliographic signals from the coast. Yesterday a couple of spies had been caught, who could not give a satisfactory account of themselves and who, if convicted, would land in the churchyard.

So the order rang out to man the guns. The men scuttled off to their posts like as many rats. “Ready to fire!” The first shot rang out, and the other three followed at short intervals. We could see where the shells struck from the cascade of spray that formed on striking the water, but could not tell whether any hits had been scored. In any case, the destroyer remained where she was. She seemed to take it very quietly but could not tell where the fire came from, and her crew had long been inured to the rough music.

On the way back we stopped a moment at Mariakerke and peered out from behind the cover of a house. A battery further west had also begun to fire and the little waterspouts were clearly discernible. But the destroyer’s guns had not seemed anxious to join in the tune and the boat soon disappeared in the mist.

This had, however, given me an opportunity of seeing how a coast battery is worked and what sort of a time the officers and men have of it. Constant watchfulness day and night! “Ever ready!” That is their motto. The discipline is of the very strictest and the officers expect the most absolute and immediate obedience to their orders. The result is that the understanding between officers and men is always the very best. Such things as sour faces, grudging steps or disinclination to obey an order are absolutely unknown. Anyone showing symptoms of this kind would be regarded with contempt by everybody, and his life would be made unbearable by his own comrades. The German language has a special word, _Drückeberger_, for individuals of that type, but the type itself is extraordinarily rare. It is no secret how disciplinary shortcomings are punished in war time. But it is not in order to avoid punishment that the German forces on land and sea do their duty. It is because they all have a common end in view, Germany’s salvation in this terrible crisis, Germany’s victory over her enemies in every part of the world, Germany’s future and honour.

On the way home we met an ammunition column clattering along at full speed. The drivers were riding at full “manœuvre trot” and the horses of some wagons had even broken into a gallop. The wagons with their murderous load rattled heavily and noisily over the stone-paved road. It was easy to tell that the men well knew there was no time to lose and that some coast battery was in urgent need of fresh ammunition. These columns, when really and seriously on the move, are a joy and a feast to the eye.

A little further on we passed a contingent of fifty French prisoners who were being taken into safe custody under a German guard. The fighting had shorn their red and blue uniforms of their lustre, and the men themselves looked pale and tired. What a contrast to the marines and gunners we had just seen! But then joyous faces are not to be expected from prisoners of war.

In the afternoon, accompanied by Bess and Schönfelder, I made another excursion along the ideal automobile road which skirts the coast north-eastward, just inside the long line of dunes.

In the magnificent pavilion of the Royal (Knocke) Golf Club we inspected a platoon of marine infantry, who seemed to be having the time of their lives. _Via_ Venduyne we went on to Blankenberghe, where the sea promenade resembled that of Ostend, except that the population had remained and in addition had been reinforced by numberless refugees from Brussels and elsewhere. The hotels had been taken possession of by well-to-do people, and the beach was filled with a motley crowd of men, women and young girls; they all seemed more or less to be enjoying themselves. We met a couple of naval officers, among them a cheery and amusing corvette commander named Mönch. He told us that no British warships had been seen in this direction. The sea had probably been mined in this part. Not far north-east of Blankenberghe lies Zeebrugge, the port of Bruges. The two towns are connected by a canal, which might have been laid out with a ruler.

In the gloaming we drove past the great Belgian hospital on the eastern outskirts of Ostend. A funeral was taking place in its little cemetery. Several officers and a number of men were standing round the grave. The naval chaplain had just finished speaking and the band was playing a funeral march. The funeral was that of Chief-Surgeon Dr. Lippe, whose career had been ended yesterday by the shell from the British destroyer.

In due course we got back once more to _La Couronne_ and assembled as usual for supper at eight o’clock. The restaurant is neither as large nor as fine as at the _Littoral_, and we missed above all the drowsy music of the swell breaking on the beach. Our former large company has now been split up into several little groups. Bess, Schönfelder, Kübler and I stick together as before. The clock strikes ten, we dawdle over our coffee and cigars discussing the war, reciting Kipling and exchanging anecdotes. We laugh till our sides ache over Schönfelder’s desperate efforts to repeat quickly the words: “_Didon dîna, dit-on, du dos d’un dodu dindon._” But he got his revenge by confronting me with the following awkward problem: What does the following sentence sound like when spelt backward: “_Ein Neger mit Gazelle zagt im Regen nie_”?[27]

[27] Spells the same backwards.

Such was the mood at our table, and such is the mood of the fighting men all along the front. Anxiety as to the result, nervousness, overwork, fear, are terms of which they do not know the meaning. Nothing made a deeper impression on me than this wonderful calm, this absolute certainty of victory everywhere, this incredible superabundance of physical energy and of matériel in men, horses and iron. It seemed to me that the German armies on the western front had not yet realised the irresistible strength which they had at their disposal. The apparent pause was a link in a strategic chain. When the moment for the great decision arrived, the army would still be in possession of its full collective strength. As yet everything was running smoothly and easily, as if it had been merely a matter of some well-prepared, gigantic autumn manœuvre.

As we were sitting there chatting, a petty officer from the Naval Brigade entered and announced to Dr. Schönfelder that fresh transports of wounded had just arrived from the vicinity of the Yser Canal. They had been accommodated temporarily in restaurants and public-houses and any other vacant houses that were available. The two doctors at once rose and said good night. To my question whether I might join them they said “by all means.” So we threw our rain-coats over us, for it was pouring in torrents, and marched out into the pitch-black night accompanied by the petty officer.

At first he took us to a moderately lighted low-class eating house. The doctors threw off their tunics and put on their white operating coats. A couple of assistants from the naval hospital section were there to help them and had brought dressings, instruments and drugs in bags and cases. A table was brought out into the middle of the floor under the lights with a cushion covered with a towel for a pillow. “Bring in the first man,” ordered Dr. Schönfelder. A little, fair-haired, sturdily built man was carried in and placed on the table. “Name?”--“Korte.” “Regiment?”--“Eighth company of 35th Infantry Reserve.” “Where is your wound?”--“In the left calf.” His breeches, fitting tight over his leg, were slit open. The first dressing, saturated with pus and clotted blood and stiffened into a solid lump, was removed with scissors and knife. The wound looked very unpleasant, the flesh hung in shreds, the skin had been torn away and a nasty smell issued from the open sore. “Please look away,” said the Doctor as the soldier tried to look at his wound, and I did my best to attract his attention. Powder of iodoform was sprinkled upon the wound, a few little plugs of gauze were pressed in with pincers in order to keep the wound open for the escape of the pus and to induce the growth of fresh skin. Shreds of dead tissue were removed and a fresh dressing was applied. The man had been wounded four days previously at a new bridge over the Yser Canal. It was a splinter from a shrapnel shell that had hit him.

“Next man!” He came in limping, supported by two ambulance men. His bullet had caught him in the head, his skull was cracked, but the brain was evidently uninjured. He was a wonderfully plucky chap. According to himself it was nothing to speak of, and he deferentially asked the doctor to be so kind as to see that he was put right as soon as possible as he wanted to get out again. He seemed a little peculiar, however, and seemed to have had a terrible shock. The hair was cut and shaved away, the wound was washed with sublimate and benzine. Tincture of iodine was painted on with a brush and a piece of gauze with iodoform applied. Thereupon he was bandaged so thoroughly that only mouth, nose and eyes were free.

“Next man!” He was a Fleming in Belgian uniform. He had been shot through the seat, and was treated with the same care as the German soldiers. An ashen paleness lay over his features and he looked tired and done-up, but seemed very grateful for the attention given him as he was carried away from the table.

And so it went on. Every time that “next man” was called, another wounded soldier was brought in for treatment, I had thought of making a note of the cases, but they were too many and were dealt with in double shifts by the two doctors.

When the whole lot had been seen to, we went out guided by a lantern. The rain had formed great puddles in the street. “_Wer da?_” cried a sentry, but let us pass when he saw we were doctors. We were now taken to a house of three stories where every room was occupied. The few beds there were, had been requisitioned, and when they were all gone the wounded men were laid on the floor. Most of them were in a deep and heavy sleep, dead-tired after all they had gone through. Some snored in different keys, it was rest, rest, rest that they wanted above everything. Now and then we heard a deep sigh, but no groaning, no complaining. The French and Belgians are as submissive and as patient as the Germans.

They are too many to be taken down to the emergency operating theatre. The doctors go from bed to bed, and now and then a light is projected to display the wound, which is treated in most cases in the way I have described. The broken victims of war show no fear of the doctor or of his intentions. On the contrary, they are glad that he is willing to help them. Clenched teeth and grimaces alone show what they are going through. Never a sound of complaint, never a word about the pain, never an entreaty to be left in peace. In the eye of some of the badly wounded who will be cripples for life I sometimes seem to read the reflection: shall I ever see father and mother and brothers and sisters again, shall I ever settle down again in our quiet home as of yore, shall I ever go back to the workshop, to the mine, to the dock, to the tram, to the field, or whatever may have been his former occupation. The torn, dirty, soiled and sooty grey uniforms bore eloquent witness to the hardships they had gone through.

We pass from house to house among the victims of war’s harvest. We were told it was the Belgians who had been attacking--a hopeless struggle for the last little strip which still remains to them of their country.

Finally we came into a room containing among other wounded a soldier who had been shot through the left hand. “How do you feel?” asks the doctor. “Oh, pretty well, though it hurts a bit.”--“Come with me down into the bar; it is lighter there and we shall see what can be done.” A chair is brought for the soldier, the dressing is taken off, his hand is blue and swollen. “Will he keep his hand?” I whisper into the doctor’s ear. “I hope so, it is not a very serious wound.” The bullet has struck him as he was lying down in his trench and only had the left hand exposed. Whilst the wound is being examined, I ask the soldier: “Where are you from?”--“I am a Hamburg man, but live in Berlin.” “What is your occupation?”--“Actor,” he answers with pathetic humour. “It is a long way from the stage to the trench,” I remark, and he nods as he smiles his approval. By the light of the lamp I discerned a handsome, refined, clean-shaven face with Roman nose and solemn blue eyes. One could see that he was thinking of life’s great tragedy. Probably he had never played a better part than that which he had just performed out on the battlefield with the lurid glare of the shells for footlights. “_Gute Besserung!_” we said and patted him on the shoulder. “_Danke vielmals_,” he replied, and went up to his bed again.

Now the round was over and we went out into the night. The rain was pelting down, but the sound of it was drowned by the thunder of the cannonade which after an hour’s cessation had now since 10 o’clock become more violent than ever. No human beings were to be seen, only here and there a sentry with the rain pouring off his greatcoat. As we passed St. Peter’s and St. Paul’s the clocks struck twelve slowly and deliberately. It was a terrible night for the soldiers in the open trenches, which must by now have been half-full of water. I could not take my thoughts off them as I entered the light and cosy warmth of _La Couronne_. But ask them if they would like to change with you, and the gruffness of the answer will surprise you: “No, thanks, warm beds there will be enough of at home when the fighting is over. Just now we are out on the country’s business, and in the trenches we stop even if we are up to the neck in water and if it rains brimstone from the heavens!” Such things as sentimentality and fuss are utterly unknown to the German soldiers. They _know_ what they are doing and they want to do nothing but their duty.

October 26th was my last day in Ostend. As nothing startling seemed about to happen in the immediate future, I thought I might as well return to Brussels, but now Bess came with the suggestion that we should take a little trip to the stores and depots in the inner harbour, to which I readily assented--Brussels, after all, was only a couple of hours away and could wait. The stores contained all sorts of spare parts for ships and their engines, plates, propellers, screws, cables, compasses, a surfeit of useful things which might be wanted at any moment. We likewise inspected a training-ship now used for accommodating troops.

Just as we were busy over our inspection, we heard four sharp reports from the sea. It was not the usual firing in the west, the sound came from the north and the source of it could not be far distant. Is it the English torpedo-boats? we wondered as we hurried into our car and drove down towards the beach past the lighthouse. On the way we met a naval officer who told us that the reports came from mines, which had detonated on their own account. Some ten such explosions had been heard during the night, and the waterspouts thrown up by the four we heard had been visible from the coast. If we cared and had patience enough to sit and wait among the dunes, the lieutenant had no doubt that we should see some more.

So we went down to the belt of dunes north-west of the lighthouse, where some men of the naval brigade were busy digging in a battery of guns mounted on a temporary plank emplacement. They were also digging trenches in the dunes for themselves and their ammunition boxes. Bess showed the soldiers how to mask the guns in the best possible way with grass and plants.

We had not been there very long before a dark column of water flung itself into the air on the horizon. We estimated its height at thirty metres and the distance, calculated from the interval between sight and sound, at 5.6 kilometres. The column was almost black, as if the water had been mixed with slime from the bottom and resembled a naphtha fountain in the Balakhani. We at once sent a man to fetch chart and compasses. I myself had my kodak ready, but was too late to snap this first explosion.

However, it was not many minutes before the next water column spurted up from the surface of the sea in the same north-north-westerly direction as the other and accompanied by the same deafening report. This time I was just quick enough to get a picture. A moment later two other mines exploded, this time to the north-north-east and only about 3.3 kilometres away. We waited for two more explosions at 3 and 4.3 kilometres respectively, and had then had enough.

The bearings of the six mines were pricked on the chart and in this way the officers obtained the necessary data for determining the position of the mine-field. Possibly it extended right across the Channel. The mines we had noticed exploded, curiously enough, in couples. They had clearly been laid in double or multiple lines and had been equipped with time fuses. What the time was, we could not tell, perhaps a week, perhaps longer. Mines of this type are employed for the temporary blockade of a harbour, which it is intended to attack on a more suitable occasion. But now, as it happened, the only creatures incommoded were the fishes in the sea. The Germans, on the other hand, were very glad to know where the mine-field lay and that the fairway was now clear.

After dinner I learnt that a motor-car had arrived from Ghent with one of Krupp’s engineers, and was to return immediately to that city. Captain Jakobson, one of my friends, arranged for me to avail myself of this opportunity, so I made ready to depart. Good-bye to Tägert, Bess, Jakobson and Kübler and greetings to all the others--these splendid and capable fellows who had been my companions during these never-to-be-forgotten days and with whom I shared the memory of dangers happily survived. Then off I went at the usual break-neck speed.

At Ghistelles I stopped for three-quarters of an hour to see Colonel-General von Beseler, one of my old friends from the _Gesellschaft für Erdkunde_ (Geographical Society) in Berlin. We had much to talk about, and he related many episodes from the last few days’ fighting on the Yser Canal. Of the result he had as little doubt as anyone else and reiterated time after time: “We _must_ win!” Von Beseler is one of the finest generals of the German army. It was he who took Antwerp and he was now commanding the extreme right flank nearest the sea. As a man he is congenial and fascinating.

I continue my journey. A convoy of French prisoners is being taken into the interior--marine infantry, my chauffeur tells me. The road hereabouts abounds in inns and public-houses, I wonder how many. It would have given me something to do to count the inn signs by the roadside. At Bruges we did not stop; at Ghent we drove up to the Base Commandant’s office, in a narrow street, flying the German flag. A couple of obliging officers immediately offered to assist me, but for the moment all I wanted was to get to Brussels; if possible, I added, I should be very grateful for the loan of a car to the capital. Yes, there would be no difficulty about that, they assured me. General Jung would be sure to arrange it for me. So my name was taken in to the General and a minute later he came dashing out and greeted me with the utmost warmth, for he remembered me well from a fête in Posen where I had lectured in February, 1910.

“But there cannot be any question of your starting off just yet,” said the General. “You must first sup with us at seven and a car will be ready for you at nine.”

I did not need much pressing and spent a couple of delightful hours with these officers. At nine to the minute the car stood ready. It was a covered car, which was thought safer at night, and had a couple of exceptionally powerful head-lamps. And, best of all, I had a delightful Austrian lieutenant to keep me company--one of those in charge of the Austrian 30.5-cm. mortars in use on the western front. It was surpassingly interesting to listen to all that he had gone through. The ninety minutes which separated us from Brussels were all too quickly over.