Chapter III: On the Way to the Fifth Army

I had hardly returned to the hotel when my excellent friend and travelling companion Captain von Krum came and knocked at my door to give me the bad news that he had received orders from the office of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps to proceed to the twelfth Army Corps on a special mission. He comforted me with the assurance that I should get another car and another officer for the trip to the German Crown Prince’s Army, probably one whose duties took him in that direction. There was nothing to be done in the matter--we took a hearty farewell of one another and arranged to meet again, if not before, then after the end of the war.

When I had lost von Krum, the cold, rainy, windy weather seemed worse than ever. It needed an hour in the friendly and delightful company of His Excellency and Countess von Moltke to dissipate the gloom. We talked about the German soldiers, their good-nature, their humane conduct and kindly camaraderie towards prisoners and wounded opponents. It is probably to lessen neutral countries’ sympathy towards Germany and to egg on their own troops that the newspapers of the Entente Powers have on repeated occasions accused the German soldiers of inhuman cruelty. Such tales are entirely without foundation and are in themselves highly improbable, for it is not and never has been part of the Teutonic character to show cruelty to vanquished, defenceless enemies. In this respect the Latins and the Slavs have much to learn from the Teutons. The wave of vandalism which passed over a part of Louvain was let loose by the inhabitants themselves. The anger felt by the German soldiers at the treachery of the civil population is justified. The treacherous firing of _franctireurs_ from behind bushes and windows, in the dusk and dark, is bound in the end to bring about reprisals, for the soldier reasons something like this: “The war must be conducted between _soldiers_, and when either party is defeated and the conqueror marches into the vanquished town, the civilians must not fire from windows on the troops entering. And if the nuisance cannot be checked in any other way, then the town must be punished.” Such was the case with Louvain, which is an unfortified town and where not a single window-pane would have been broken, had not the _franctireurs_ themselves brought about the destruction. Things actually went to such lengths that German soldiers who tried to extinguish the fire in the burning houses next to the Townhall, in order to save this valuable building, were shot down during their work by _franctireurs_. The German conduct of the war is severe, but it is not cruel.

During the first stage of the war, when the troops had entered a town and burnt or demolished those houses from which civilians had been shooting, solitary houses were often to be seen which remained untouched in the midst of the desolation. The doors of such remaining houses often bore, written in chalk and in a soldier’s hand, some such inscription as: “Here lives an aged couple,” or: “Here lives an invalid who must be spared,” or: “There has been no firing from this house”; or again: “The inhabitants of this house are friendly people.” Such houses are then spared by the troops who come after. In the course of my narrative I shall have frequent occasion to mention traits of kindliness on the part of the German soldiers towards the local population. On the other hand, I have never either seen or heard of a single act of cruelty.

After one more visit to the railway station and taking a look at troops from Lunéville on the way to Belgium, likewise several infantry trains from Metz, I returned to the _Hotel Staar_ just in time to meet the young lieutenant who had been instructed by General Moltke to take me to the Headquarters of the Crown Prince’s Army. His name was Hans von Gwinner and he is the son of the great banker and Bagdad Railway magnate in Berlin. He was a wide-awake and capable young fellow and drove his car himself. I sat down beside him, whilst the orderly accompanying us took his seat inside.

It poured with rain as we left the town. The road was slippery, but we had studded tyres and the lieutenant drove at terrific speed. We had started off rather late and we wanted to get in before dark. It is better thus, otherwise one is not entirely safe from the attentions of _franctireurs_. A whole lot of them had recently been caught by the Fifth Army and shot without hesitation.

Our road took us westward. In the south we left behind an area of rich ore deposits, and at Rodingen we passed the frontier of French Lorraine. “Load carbine!” came quickly from the lieutenant to the orderly, and I looked round involuntarily, but without noticing anything out of the common. It was just a precaution apparently, but the order sounded strange when heard for the first time. Longlaville is the first place we come to in France. Here we find numerous traces of German shells, but the factories and their lofty chimneys have been spared. In the middle of the road and at its sides are numerous pits where shells have burst, and here and there a tree has been cut clean off by a “bull’s-eye.” Of some houses there is hardly anything left but the walls, whilst others have only had the roof carried away, evidently by projectiles striking them at a tangent. The tramway laid at the edge of the road has been roughly dealt with. Here and there its rails have been twisted as if made of wire. High up in the church towers one notices that the slates have been removed to make room for machine guns and to provide posts of observation for the officers watching the German artillery positions and the effect of the French fire.

“_Où est la route pour Longwy?_” enquires von Gwinner, and the answer comes, “_Tout droit, monsieur._” The people always answer politely, whatever they may feel at heart. We leave one of Longwy’s two detached forts on the right and presently we enter the busy little manufacturing town, which is situated in a hollow, surrounded on all sides by hills. On one of them stands Longwy fortress, which was easily taken by the Germans right at the beginning of the war after an exceedingly violent bombardment. A couple of thousand prisoners then fell into the hands of the conquerors. In the previous war--January, 1871--Longwy also capitulated. We had no time to visit the fortress on this occasion, and drove straight through the town. It certainly looks anything but cheerful. But what can one expect of a town which has quite recently been ravaged by war and has been cut off from its country, its Government and administration? Nor did the rain and mud help to lessen the gloom. Nevertheless, the town looked by no means dead and deserted, for a large proportion of its inhabitants had returned after the heavy hand of war had moved further westward, and life had begun to settle down again in its old groove.

Outside the town stand the naked walls of a house ravaged by fire. The German troops had been fired upon from its windows and in accordance with the custom of war it had been set fire to. We are travelling a little too fast to gather more than a hasty impression, but wherever I look I see the devastating effects of battle. I think to myself as we go along that the sooner I get accustomed to such sights the better. On both sides of the roads, in fields and ditches, French knapsacks and tattered fragments of uniforms are lying about. An upturned motor-car lies by the roadside, evidently flung aside so as not to be in the way of the traffic, and a little further on is a motor-lorry in the same position. Here we see broken bits of rifles and ammunition wagons, or the crescent-shaped shield of a field-gun. A grave with a wooden cross strikes the eye, then another and yet another, a whole row of graves--here is the resting-place of soldiers who have fallen in the fighting. In the middle of the road are a couple of shell holes filled with rain-water--these are dangerous, for one is apt in the hurry to take them for shallow puddles. But von Gwinner has travelled this way several times and knows the road.

To the right and left of the road are deep, narrow trenches with shallow parapets; but the soldiers have gone away by now and the plain is silent--silent where not a month ago 300,000 soldiers were fighting for their lives. In many fields the harvest has been brought in by German troops to supply their own needs. By the side of ditches, in woods and copses, small, low huts are still standing, built of branches and boughs, in which the French soldiers had sought protection from rain and cold. The German infantry, on the other hand, is equipped with shelter-tents. Each man carries with his equipment a part of the brown tarpaulin, which, joined together, forms a temporary shelter for a certain number of soldiers.

We now pass through a stretch of wooded country. The French are very clever in maintaining their positions on wooded ground. They often succeed in contriving concealed positions for machine guns in the leafy tops of trees. Ravines with streams at the bottom or woods are considered by the Germans to present greater obstacles to attack than the more open ground met with in central and southern France.

Our road takes us through Longuyon and follows its main street. It has a desolate appearance. Over a long stretch there is not a single house standing. Everything is in ruins, the road is lined with piles of wreckage, swept aside so as not to impede the traffic, and naked walls with yawning window gaps meet the eye. The bridges are guarded by German sentries; otherwise no human beings are to be seen. How miserable the inhabitants must feel when they return and vainly look for their homes and belongings!

We emerge into the open country where armies have been marching through. Small blackened holes in the earth are all that is left of the bivouac fires and cooking-pits. Here the transport columns have rested for the night. The village of Noërs is burned and its church steeple has been shot away, the music of a maxim gun having been traced to the spot from which at other times the church bells call to evensong. No dead bodies are seen, no fallen soldiers, no carcases of horses. All remains of men and horses have for sanitary reasons been interred by the Germans. They would otherwise poison the air and give rise to epidemics. Still there is quite enough left to recall the ravages of war. Here we have a row of straw shelters backed on to a hedge, there some upturned carts with which the French had endeavoured to bar the way. This is the most magnificent high road imaginable, lined everywhere with avenues of trees. Along the roadside runs a telegraph line, which had been destroyed by the defenders but repaired by the German Telegraph Corps, not by the field telegraph troops, whose sphere of activity is nearer the front.

We have now reached Marville, and the road becomes livelier. At one side a supply column has turned off into a field and lined up its wagons, which with their canvas awnings give the impression of an open-air barrack-yard. The column is resting, and the men have commenced cooking. Round the encampment sentries are posted. Precautions must be taken. Yesterday in this very neighbourhood nineteen French civilians, who had fired on an ammunition column, were arrested. They were to be tried by court-martial and shot if the offence could be brought home to them. A little further on another supply column, consisting of more primitive wagons, had halted by the roadside, for it is the rule that a transport column must not pause for any length of time on the road itself, which for the sake of the traffic must always be kept as clear as possible. It is, moreover, considered easier to supervise, and, if necessary, protect a column of wagons drawn up several deep and thus shortened in length.

We now drive past a motor-lorry with field post for the 5th Army. It makes a terrific noise as it rattles past on the hard road surface. Presently the road is encumbered by another supply column, but unlike the others, this one is on the move. We must drive more slowly in order that the horses of the mounted escort may not take fright and come into collision with the car. In passing I catch sight of the words, “_Reserve Park Kolonn 15_” on one of these wagons, each of which is marked with a number.

We next drive through Montmédy, whose little fort surrendered without bombardment. But before the garrison withdrew, they blew up the railway tunnel through the mountain. Thereupon the Germans immediately began building a new railway round the rock on which the fort was built; as we drove past, French prisoners were still engaged on this work. It was a curious sight to see these toiling soldiers in blue and red uniforms supervised by grey-clad German privates with shouldered rifles. Chauvency is a little place on the River La Chiers, whose bridge had been destroyed by the French. One of the arches had been blown up. German engineers had forthwith built a wooden bridge below the old one.

The weather cleared up towards evening, and the sun went down like a big red ball. Its last rays fell upon a convoy of French prisoners, who, under German escort, bent and footsore, made their way to Montmédy. The Frenchmen had nothing to carry, but the Germans had their rifles with fixed bayonets. In front of us lies the valley of the Meuse and the little town of Stenay. The faint outlines of heights and hills disappear in the dim blue distance. On the left bank of the river the French had at this point occupied a fortified position, which, however, was taken by storm at the beginning of the campaign. So this is the Meuse, or in German Maas, on which are situated so many towns rendered famous by this and previous wars, such as Sedan, Givet, Dinant, Namur, and Liège! To the left is the great main road which on the right river bank runs via Dun to Verdun.

We descend gradually until the Meuse is reached, meeting fresh ammunition and food columns on the way. In the latter I notice huge motor-lorries loaded with flour, bread and other foodstuffs. Now and again we come across horsemen, always in pairs. They are mounted police and are out to maintain order on the roads.

We stop outside the house in which the General in Command of the 5th Army has taken up his quarters. I was able to speak there without difficulty to one of my friends from the Main Headquarters, Landrat Baron von Maltzahn, Member of the Reichstag and a personal friend of the Crown Prince. He was able to give me the welcome news that I was expected and that I must hurry in order to be in time for supper, which was served at eight o’clock. So we drove at once up to the little French château, where His I. & R. Highness had elected to stay. Here I said good-bye to my excellent friend Lieutenant von Gwinner and thanked him for his companionship. Thus he, too, disappears from my horizon, and I stand before a new association of acquaintances and friendships.

Footmen in military uniforms at once took charge of my baggage and conducted me to my room on the first floor, next door to the Crown Prince’s private apartments. A few minutes before eight the acting Lord-in-Waiting, Court-Marshal von Behr, knocked at my door. He was a pleasant young man of distinguished and attractive appearance, and he had come to bring me in to supper. We went out through the upper vestibule and down the stairs, from the landing of which we were fortunate enough to witness a pleasing ceremony. In the lower hall stood a number of officers in line, and opposite them some twenty soldiers formed up in the same way. Then came the Crown Prince William, tall, slim and royally straight, dressed in a dazzling white tunic and wearing the Iron Cross of the first and second class; he walked with a firm step between the lines of soldiers. An adjutant followed him, carrying in a casket a number of Iron Crosses. The Crown Prince took one and handed it to the nearest officer, whom he thanked for the services which he had rendered to his Emperor and country, and then with a hearty handshake he congratulated the hero whom he had thus honoured.

When all the officers had received their decorations, the reward for their bravery, the turn came of the soldiers, the ceremony being precisely the same as with the officers; but I found it hard to distinguish what the soldiers said in their loud, rough and nervous voices. At last I distinguished the words: _Danke untertänigst Kaiserliche Hoheit_ (I humbly thank your Imperial Highness).

When the knights of the Iron Cross had taken their departure, we went down into the hall, where the Crown Prince stepped up to me and bade me heartily welcome to his Headquarters and to the seat of war. The meal, which might as well have been called dinner as supper, was attended by the following gentlemen: Lieutenant-General Schmidt von Knobelsdorff, Chief of Staff of the 5th Army, Court-Marshal von Behr, Chief of the Medical Corps, Body-Physician Professor Widenmann, Majors von der Planitz, von Müller, personal Adjutant to H.I. & R.H., and Heymann, Lieutenant von Zobeltitz and a few members of the Staff, who arrived later after the day’s work in the field and took their seats at the lower end of the table.

Would you like to know what the German Crown Prince, the Crown Prince of Prussia, eats for supper? Here is the menu: cabbage soup, boiled beef with horse-radish and potatoes, wild duck with salad, fruit, wine, and coffee with cigars. And what would you say the conversation was about? It is hard to say exactly, but we travelled over almost the whole world with the ease bred by familiarity. The Crown Prince, like the Emperor, began with Tibet, and from there it was but a step across the Himalayas to the palms of the Hugli Delta, the pagodas of Benares, the silver moonlight over Taj Mahal, the tigers of the jungle and the music of the crystal waves of India beating against the rocks of Malabar point. We also spoke of old unforgettable memories and of common friends who now love us no longer--of the brave and famous Kitchener, the conqueror of Omdurman and South Africa, of the Mararajahs and their fairy-like splendour at Bikanir, Kutch Behar, Gwalior, Kashmir and Idar.

We also talked about the war and its horrors, and the terrible sacrifices it demands. “But it cannot be helped,” said the Crown Prince, “our Fatherland asks us to give all we have, and _we will, we must_ win, even if the whole world takes up arms against us.”

“Is not the calm here wonderful! We seem to be living to-night in the most absolute peace, and yet it is but a couple of hours’ drive to the firing line,” observes my Imperial host after listening to a short, concise and satisfactory report made in a ringing voice by an officer who has just entered. “Yes, your Imperial Highness, I had imagined the Staff Headquarters of an army to resemble a buzzing beehive, but now that I have the reality before me, I find no trace of anxiety or nervousness, nothing but calm and assurance everywhere. But what I should like to see most of all would be a battle, for I suspect that in common with most other civilians I have formed an erroneous opinion on this subject.”

The Crown Prince smiles and answers: “Yes, battle painters like Neuville and Détaille would have little use for their art in these days. Of the fighting men one sees practically nothing, for they are concealed by the ground and in the trenches, and it is rather dangerous to get too close to a bayonet charge--unless one’s duty takes one there. Generally speaking, the distance between the fighting forces increases with the improvement in fire-arms. Those who have the best artillery have the best prospects of winning. To us the field-grey uniform is a great advantage, as we merge into the colouring of the ground, whilst the brilliant uniforms of the French are visible from afar. _To see_ a battle is practically impossible--not even the Commander directing it sees much of it, his direction is effected by telephone and is dependent on information and reports received, which in turn are carefully sifted and weighed. For a spectator to post himself on a height in the neighbourhood is not advisable, for then he may be sure of being taken for an observer directing the artillery fire, and becomes at once the target of the enemy’s shells. You shall, however, during your visit here be allowed to witness all that it is possible to see.”

What life and spirit at the Crown Prince’s Headquarters! Everything was gay with the freshness of youth, and devoid of restraint. No trace of the stiffness of court ceremonial. Even General Schmidt, who usually maintained the strictest discipline, was infected by the prevailing spirit of camaraderie. But owing to the terrible burden of work which rested on the shoulders of the Chief of Staff, it was not unusual for him to come in for his meals after the others. The supper, or rather the talk after it, went on till about eleven--these were the only hours when one could meet in quiet, for during the day everyone was busy with his duties, and the Crown Prince then occupied his post as commanding officer at suitable points at the front.

The château where we were staying belonged to an aristocratic French lady--if I remember rightly her name was du Vernier. When the war broke out she moved to Bordeaux. On her return after the contest she will find her château, her estates and the beautiful park in the same condition as when she went away. There was a certain aristocratic grandeur about the château, though signs of decay were already making themselves apparent. On the mantelpiece in my room stood a pendulum clock of gilt bronze of an antique mythological design, and on each side stood a couple of gorgeous candelabra. The walls were decorated with a few unassuming pictures, amongst them a portrait of an old French warrior.

I open my window, it is pitch-dark outside, and the rain falls close and heavy upon the trees and lawns outside. Tired after a somewhat ambitious day’s work, I hurry to bed, the more so as I suspect the next day’s programme to be no less exacting.

September 21st. I was called early to be ready for breakfast at seven, when all his entourage gathers round the Crown Prince. After breakfast H.I. & R.H. asked me to accompany him to the Staff quarters, where a “plan of campaign” for my day was to be drawn up. General Schmidt quickly made up his mind. He thought it might be of interest to me to begin by watching the artillery fire at Septsarges, and instructed three officers to take charge of me. Major Matthiasz was the leader of the party, and a soldier came as chauffeur. The two other officers were Liebrecht of a battalion of Chasseurs, and Schmidt of the Volunteer Automobile Corps.

Whilst the car was got ready I was being coached on a large map in the grouping of the 5th Army and of the artillery positions which we were to visit. The General Staff of the Chief Command of the Army was housed in an _École de Garçons_, which still contained relics of its former state, such as natural history pictures and maps, and a couple of school benches with the master’s desk, above which could still be seen in black and white the golden rules: _Ne vous vantez pas_, and _Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité_. How hollow and foolish did they not seem before the brutal reality now presiding over the world!

The car is ready. We step in. I am dressed in furs and have a mackintosh. I also bring a pair of field-glasses and a sketch-book. It is no longer raining, but the sky is overcast and the weather chilly and autumnal after all the suffocating heat which the soldiers had to endure during the first phase of the campaign. We drive southward at break-neck speed. I cannot deny that I had to struggle against the feeling of growing excitement. It was not mere manœuvres; it was war itself, a part of the greatest struggle that had ever been fought on earth. It was, moreover, the struggle on the western front, the fight against the French, rightly considered to be the sturdiest and best soldiers among Germany’s opponents. When one approaches such a spot, and when for the first time in one’s life one enters the zone of fire, it is difficult not to feel, whether one admits it or not, a certain tension, even if one has been through some wild adventures in Asia. Every minute we get nearer the firing line, and as the car slows down at the corners we hear the cannonade more plainly. The booming of the guns sounds dull and heavy, the ground quivers.

But events move all too fast. Observations and impressions follow so quickly upon one another that it is difficult to assimilate them all. I make my notes as usual, even when the car is racing along at its fastest, and my writing is far from copper-plate. We still have 32 kilometres to Septsarges, a village 21 kilometres north-west of Verdun. How often did I not wish to stop--to impress more strongly on my mind some vivid and warlike picture, but as I am stopping for two days with the 5th Army, I shall, no doubt, have an opportunity of revisiting this section. The whole road is full of supply columns moving southward, and we meet innumerable empty transport lorries on the way north, to be reloaded at some railway station. Here we also see fresh young troops, all strapping fellows, who have come direct from Germany to go straight to victory or death. All are jolly and eager; truly, they look as if the whole affair were to them but an autumn manœuvre, and as if they felt no trace of excitement. They march along with easy bearing and sing merry soldiers’ ditties under the leaden skies now darkening this unhappy bleeding France. They light their pipes and their eternal cigarettes, laugh and chat--as if they were going to a picnic in the country. In reality they are going out to fill the gaps made by the French fire in the ranks of their comrades. They are _Ersatztruppen_, i.e. reinforcements, but I do not see a single face which betrays the slightest feeling that death is near. They hear the thunder of the guns better than we do, for the humming of the car drowns all other sounds. But they seem to delight in the dull music, and yet their place is far in advance of the artillery positions. _Ersatztruppen_! it means that their duty is to _replace_ the fallen, and that the same fate awaits themselves. Yet they are gay and happy. “_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori._”

The soldiers’ helmets are provided with covers of the same shade of grey as the uniforms. On their backs they carry knapsacks containing their most indispensable kit, their share of the tent, and a couple of bowls with spoon, knife and fork. At the side they carry the bayonet and the “portable tool,” spade or axe. To the waist-belt are fastened the filled cartridge pouches, the whole outfit weighing about 56 English lbs. It is a fairly substantial weight and, although figuratively speaking the soldiers march into battle with a light step, their steps are in reality pretty heavy, especially on country roads softened by rain. Anyhow, their marching capacity is nothing short of wonderful--I for my part should not get far with such a load. Practice makes perfect, as the whole German nation knows. That is why the Germans do not refuse to spend enormous sums on their defence. And that is why they conquer, even though attacked by four great powers whose soldiers have not received the same thorough scientific training in times of peace.

We fly through Dun. One can hardly speak of more than one street in this prettily situated little village on the banks of the Meuse. Yet this street has indeed been hardly dealt with. It is a melancholy comfort to know that its comely houses have been destroyed by the French Army’s own artillery, so as to make the stay at Dun as disagreeable as possible for the Germans. It is now a “line of communication” base depot with Depot _Kommandantur_, a “line of communication” hospital and store depot, and also has large supplies of arms and ammunition. The railway, now under Prussian management, is being worked up to this point, where the transfer takes place from the supply trains to the great columns of the Army Service Corps.

The population, which fled on the approach of the Germans, has already begun to return. The two bridges over the Meuse have been blown up, but one of them, the one of stone, over which the main road passes, has been repaired by the Engineers. The little village of Liny, on our right, has been more fortunate. Here the pretty little white houses with their red-tiled roofs are almost untouched.

We now begin to notice that we are approaching the firing line. The whole road is encumbered with troops. Here comes a detachment of wounded on foot, with bandages round heads and hands, or with the arm in a sling. We meet an empty ammunition column, an endless string of rattling wagons. We always keep to the right of course. Woe to him who breaks this rule and causes a stoppage on the road.[5] If it is not broad enough, it becomes rather awkward at times to get along. And how often does it not happen that two transport columns meet on the same bit of road, one empty going northward and the other fully laden travelling south! Suddenly we find ourselves in the narrow passage between two such moving walls. If into the bargain another car with field post comes along--every corps has its own post--a temporary congestion is not infrequently the result, but thanks to the smartness of the drivers and chauffeurs the trouble is soon overcome.

[5] In Sweden (as in England) one always keeps to the left.

The artillery ammunition column which we are just now passing is an impressive sight. The noise of these vehicles, dull and heavy, is quite different from that of the empty wagons on our left, but then they are loaded to the top with heavy ammunition, shells for 21-cm. mortars at Septsarges and neighbouring villages. Every ammunition wagon--consisting of limber and wagon body--with its team of six horses requires the services of six men. Three of them--drivers--ride on the off-side[6] horses, two are seated on the limber, and one facing the rear on the wagon body. They are armed with Mauser pistols fastened on the left side of the belt, but the swords of the drivers are securely strapped on to the left side of the saddle.

[6] i.e. the left-hand horse. As Germans drive to the right this is their “off” side.

The horses are fat and sleek, and pull without exerting themselves unduly. They move at a walking pace--anything else would be impossible on this road. It is a far finer sight to see one of these columns trundling along at full speed with the horses moving at a sharp trot or gallop. Even at the pace at which they are now travelling these endless columns are an impressive and attractive sight. What does it matter if the helmets, in order not to glitter and attract attention, are concealed by a cover which even hides the spike surmounting them; what does it matter if the men’s uniforms are of the same dirty grey as the clay and mud of the soil? The whole team looks picturesque enough with its massive, solid wagon, its pole, its leather fittings and its harness.

Tramp, tramp go the horses’ hoofs, and behind them comes the rattling of the heavy wagons. One rider sings, another whistles and a third is shouting at a refractory horse. Behind sit a couple of men rolling cigarettes, which by the way is more difficult than it sounds when a wagon is jolting up and down. This column also has a mounted escort. The train is wound up by a field kitchen with a couple of store wagons on which a few bundles of firewood are also lying. Without ceasing, this eternal tramp, tramp, keeps dinning into our ears as the columns slowly travel southward, a never-ending stream of warriors, horses, ammunition and provisions. “Germany must have inexhaustible supplies of everything,” I remark to Major Matthiasz.

He smiles and replies: “Here on the western front we must have quite fifty roads such as this, all equally crowded with men, horses and materials.”

“It must cost a tidy bit of money.”

“Yes, it is best not to think of it, but then it means everything to us.”

We have now reached the front of the great column. At its head ride a couple of officers, the commander and his adjutant. They salute us. We have hardly left them behind before we drive past the tail-end of an infantry ammunition column, the wagons of which are manned by three men and drawn by four horses with only one driver, mounted on the off leader.

By the side of the road are numberless great pits where shells have struck. Here the fire has been heavy with a vengeance. This fact is brought home to us still more as we redescend to the Meuse at the point where the village of Vilosnes received such a pounding, and where a permanent bridge was blown up, only to be replaced in a twinkling by a temporary structure by the German Engineers. The ground round the village reminds one almost of a cake of Swedish rye-bread pitted all over with holes. The blankness of desolation is most curiously contrasted by the busy military life around. Almost every inch of ground is occupied by the transport columns with their endless streams of wagons, drafts of reinforcements who had elected to halt here--the men resting on the wet ground round their piled rifles--military police in their green uniforms and crescent-shaped metal badges, and countless horses to replace those which have fallen, for Vilosnes has now been made into a horse depot.

The thunder of the guns has now become louder and we have not far to go to reach the German batteries. As yet there is no danger. The countless shell-pits have not been formed in the present fighting. Since these shells fell, the Germans have made an advance. But we are, nevertheless, immediately behind the firing line, and that is why all these supplies are required to feed men, horses, guns and rifles. A little way from the village an ammunition column has halted; its wheels look awful, coated with thick layers of mud and clay up to the axles. The men are like moving clay statues. In the midst of the mire, in fields and meadows, are ammunition parks and field hospitals, although it would be impossible to find a single dry patch on which to rest one’s tired body for the night. Presumably the men sleep in the wagons as far as space allows. They are hardy and brave, these men, always singing, never complaining.

We come a step nearer the fire when we drive up to the village of Dannevoux, which is crowded with _Ersatztruppen_. Here we can study the reinforcement organisation more closely still. Here fresh soldiers stand ready to move up into the firing line to replace the killed and wounded, whilst the work of provisioning and bringing up fresh ammunition is in full swing, so that no fatal break need occur in the firing. Dannevoux church has been turned into a field hospital, where Germans and Frenchmen are tended without discrimination.

In a modest little house in Dannevoux a Divisional Commander has taken up his quarters, and here we pay a short visit to General von Gossler, who is in the act of examining some fifty French prisoners drawn up in two files, who had just been captured. They reply calmly and politely to all questions and say that their regiment has been almost wiped out. They are from the south of France, most of them from Marseilles--that is to say they belong to the 15th Army Corps. Here we also meet Colonel von Rath, whose acquaintance I had made in Breslau.

Dannevoux had been horribly knocked about by shells, and was still far from safe. The next day we heard that General von Gossler had miraculously escaped being hit by a shell which had dropped hardly twenty metres from the spot where he was standing.

We mount the car once more to travel the six kilometres which separate us from the little village of Septsarges, in a south-westerly direction. On our left, hardly a kilometre distant, was a little coppice which had been bombarded that very morning. The day before yesterday the French had learnt from spies amongst the civil population or through one of their aviators that this was an important _Beobachtungsstand_, or observation station, and yesterday a thousand shells were rained upon it, but by that time the observers had already withdrawn and only left a picket behind, who found the necessary shelter in a bomb-proof cave.

The road we take is within the range of the French batteries, and now and again a shell drops by the roadside. The ground is pitted with the marks of shell fire, but we manage to steer clear. We are as yet concealed by a slight rise in the ground south of the road. It was lucky that a little accident that happened to the car compelled us to stop just at this point. A little further on we should have been in sight of the French observation posts, and should no doubt have drawn their fire. The French artillery is exceedingly vigilant and considers it can afford to waste ammunition even on single individuals.

I am worried by an inquisitive wasp buzzing round me and contrast it vaguely in my mind with the somewhat larger winged creatures issuing from the muzzles of the guns. Once more the car is ready to start. “Drive quickly over the high ground,” orders Major Matthiasz, but it is easier said than done; this by-road is narrow and has been converted into a perfect quagmire with enormous ruts by all the heavy traffic it has had to bear. We have to be content with such speed as we can manage, and trust that the French observers will not notice us or that their directions will not be obeyed until we are over the hill. On the left, towards the south, are two French captive balloons. It is a little unpleasant to know that they are in telephonic communication with the batteries beneath. Neither is it very encouraging to see a row of wooden crosses surmounting fresh graves by the roadside. In the ditch lies a dead horse which had not been able to struggle on any further. The shell craters are now so frequent that we do not pay them the slightest attention.

Here by the roadside stands a transport convoy which has brought oats for the horses of a mortar section. We have not far to go to the first batteries, each consisting of four of these gigantic “growlers.” We drive up between two battery positions whilst they are firing. “Load!” calls the head of the battery, a Captain. “_Fertig zum Feuer!_”[7]--and directly after, “_Feuer!_”[8] and all four guns are discharged simultaneously. Immediately a spout of fire issues from the gun-muzzle, accompanied by a report which rends the air and causes the ground to shake for some distance around. Then is heard that peculiar, horrible whistle through the air, as the projectile sweeps the space which separates us from the French positions. Each mortar has a shield, and by the side of the guns the gunners have dug a trench for “_Deckung_” or protection in case the French fire should press the battery too hard.

[7] Ready to fire!

[8] Fire!

Presently we reach Septsarges, where all alleys, yards and open spaces are filled with soldiers. The village is situated in a shallow hollow, and the men here are fairly safe from the French fire. But a flat-topped rise in the ground immediately south of the village is struck now and again by a shell.

Septsarges also accommodates a few field kitchens, which stand ready with their smoking chimneys. The food is prepared during the day, and as dusk sets in the vehicles are driven up in proximity to the infantry positions, hugging the dips in the ground as much as possible and sheltering behind any cover there may be. The men in the trenches know where the canteen is set up, and betake themselves thither under the shelter of the darkness to get their tin bowls filled with boiling hot broth.

We did not remain in the village longer than was necessary to get information from a couple of officers. Thereupon we continued on our way, leaving the car at a point beyond the range of artillery. Then we went up the hill towards the south, with the nearest mortar battery on the left and a field artillery position on the right. Even the field artillery gunners had dug trenches by the side of the guns, covered over with boughs, straw and leaves, thus carefully masking themselves from the French aviators.

From the car, which we left in line with the artillery positions, we walked some 800 metres in the direction of the French fire. One has to imagine the infantry positions in two approximately parallel lines, only a few hundred metres distant from one another. Behind them come the artillery positions, also generally speaking in parallel lines. Thus we were now moving within the space situated between the German artillery positions and the German infantry lines, that is to say, the zone bombarded by the French artillery. The risk was, therefore, fairly great, and we took such precautions as the ground allowed. Our objective was an observation post located on the crest of the rise, where a couple of non-commissioned artillery officers stood immovable as if nailed to the ground, by the side of their telescope mounted on a tripod. They were observing the fire of the mortar batteries and telephoned where the shells had struck and the position of the hit in relation to the object aimed at. It is from the reports of aviators and of advanced observation posts and patrols of officers that the range is obtained and the fire is directed.

On the lowest part of the slope we were fairly safe, as at this point we were not visible from the French side. “Look out for telephone wires,” warned Matthiasz, who was leading the way, as we passed the lines resting on the grass. When we had reached the middle of the slope, where we were exposed to view from several points on the French line, we descended into a long communication trench, which led to the vicinity of the post of observation. The trench was hardly more than a metre deep and we had to walk almost double in order not to be seen over its edge. The bottom was very unpleasant. Owing to the sloping ground nearly all the water had been drained off, but there was still enough to convert the trench into a greyish-blue bath of slime and mire, through which we laboriously made our way with our boots sticking in the mess, and now and again sinking down to the calves, and this was not made pleasanter by some delightful relics which the soldiers had left behind.

Dressed in their greatcoats, the observation officers stand on the crest of the hill, with a very low, short parapet in front of them. As a rule one is anything but welcome when successful in sneaking up to one of these points, for one may easily attract the enemy’s attention and thus place the observers in great danger. No wonder, therefore, that they saluted us rather curtly and continued, immovable as statues, to observe the French fire. We walked the last bit of the way in single file, so as to make it appear to the opposite batteries as if there were only one man, and not, by open order, to create more movement than necessary on the hill crest. Sitting on our heels, we observed the country southward in the direction of Malancourt, and took our bearings as best we could. The Major was just explaining what heights, copses, villages and roads were occupied by the Germans and where the French positions began, when a shrapnel shell exploded close by us, a little to our left. “_Deckung!_” cried Matthiasz, and threw himself down at full length behind the parapet. We had hardly time to follow his example when three other of these infernal machines spat out their contents, a little further away, however, than the first. It was now obvious that we had been seen by the French observers, and that the fire from a battery had been concentrated on us. We, therefore, thought it wise to move on to a safer place--when one has been discovered there is nothing else to do if one wishes to get away with a whole skin. To begin with we moved down to the nearest mortar battery, where we passed a few moments. Whilst they were loading for the next salvo I drew the accompanying very rough sketch. But one can hardly be expected to show the requisite presence of mind and coolness to accomplish a detailed drawing, when at any moment one may be smothered in shell fragments. In the picture the mortar barrel is lowered for loading; on the right is a projectile on a _Trage_, or little iron barrow.

By a more westerly road, and still passing endless transport columns, we next proceed northward, and ascend a height which seems to be outside the firing line, and from which with greater tranquillity we can observe the martial spectacle southward. There is really little to be seen. The only thing that we see and hear is the German batteries, and, if the weather is clear, the impact and bursting of the shells. The French batteries are, of course, equally well hidden behind mounds and masked by bushes and young trees, and one sees and hears nothing of their fire but the impact of their shells and the report. The French fire on this particular day consisted mainly of shrapnel, and it made itself known chiefly by a shrill whistling sound and by the little puffs of white smoke which denoted the bursting of the shells overhead.

The streets of the village of Cunel are full of Württemberg Landwehr and their steaming field kitchens and long trains of supply columns. The roads are swarming with infantry and Uhlans. Here also are large bodies of _Ersatztruppen_ or reinforcements, ready to move up and fill the gaps. We have brought with us a whole bundle of fresh newspapers to distribute amongst the men. Nothing gives them greater pleasure than this kind of news from home. Out here the soldiers get, of course, no particulars of the war but what they can see with their own eyes. Of course, they can draw certain conclusions from the orders given out day by day. But about the general situation on the various fronts they know nothing. Their hunger and thirst are stilled at field kitchens, which are run so smartly and so thoroughly that the question of hunger or thirst really never arises. Cigars and cigarettes are also heartily welcome, and are sent to the front as _Liebesgaben_ (love gifts) in entire wagon-loads, perhaps mainly to the 5th Army, thanks to the Crown Prince’s spirited appeals to the generosity of the public. But on the whole the longing for news is the greatest, and I think that the soldiers would often gladly go hungry and thirsty for a while and forfeit their beloved smokes, if they could only learn how Germany’s great war was going on and how their people were at home. _Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein_ they sing with tremendous gusto, when the news of fresh victories reaches them.

In the village of Romagne we were on the territory of a new Army Corps. The house at which we stopped is owned by a French Major who has retired from the Army and lives there with his wife in the midst of the confusion. As a consequence his house and he are quite unmolested. He is on the billet register, and sees to it that his German guests are properly looked after. At Romagne there is also a field hospital, occupying several houses. Every Army Corps has twelve such hospitals, each of which has six wagons, all flying the Red Cross flag.

The next village we pass is Bantheville, from which the population fired on the Germans from the windows when they entered. The guilty persons were seized and hanged, and a couple of houses which were fired from were burnt down. Now the village was full of troops and transport columns. Horrible-looking water-filled holes in the road and by the roadside betokened the effect of the German guns during the advance. In a field stands a whole row of wagons filled with sacks of oats. Near by is a flying station and a field-bakery detachment with its engines, which look like baking ovens, and its big yellow tents where the dough is kneaded and moulded in gigantic troughs.

At length we drive back to Dun, where the traffic is if possible still livelier than in the morning. It took some time to make our way between the trains of vehicles on the bridges and in the narrow village street. _Proviant Kolonn 1 Wagen 23_ with its team of four and drivers seemed to wish to bar our way, but the officer in charge got a terrific scolding from the Major. The noise--the shouting, the creaking of wagons, the cracking of whips, the jolting and the neighing--in this village road is indescribable. The 5th Army seems to be in need of nothing, least of all of soldiers. As we pass through, fresh regiments come marching along, singing and smoking. When at last we get clear of the village we find no diminution of traffic, but we are at least no longer helplessly blocked in the narrow streets.

A sharp shower patters down once more on the arched canvas roofs of the service wagons, and this poor land, so saturated with blood and water, receives another drenching. We ourselves come to no harm, but we cannot help thinking of the soldiers lying frozen in the firing line. The trenches are not a pleasant place to live in during these autumn rains. A German officer once told me that the water was a foot deep in many trenches, and that the men had no alternative but to stand up in it. Sometimes they were able to dig “dug-outs” above the water level so as at least to have somewhere to sit or lie, but any attempt at drying is futile. Even if it were possible to make up a fire, this is strictly forbidden, as the enemy’s gun-fire would be guided by the light.

Here comes a string of vehicles with long, rough tree trunks for some bridge construction, there lies an upturned motor-car which has come to grief. If a little stretch of road is moderately clear or only encumbered by a single file of wagons, the chauffeur immediately puts on a terrific speed to gain ground.

It was still daylight when we returned to our domicile, where the Crown Prince, just back from his day’s work, was resting in the doorway. A moment later I went out for a walk in the town. At the bridges over the Meuse I was stopped by the sentries, who in authoritative but invariably polite tones asked to see my _Ausweis_. That they found me suspicious-looking, ambling along as I did with a sketch-book under my arm, was not to be wondered at. Only one of them, an honest Landwehr man, declared categorically that my pass was not sufficient. “Oh,” I said. “The name of the Chief of the General Staff of the Field Army, General Moltke, does not impress you?” “No, the permit must be viséd by the 5th Army,” he replied. A couple of his comrades saved the situation after reading the permit, and declared that General Moltke was good enough for them.

After a short visit to a field base hospital, accommodated in a French artillery barracks, I turned my steps homeward and stopped, in an inquisitive mood, at the entrance to a shop which was open and where soldier customers came and went. As I overheard a couple of privates doing their level best to make themselves understood by the women in the shop, I stepped up to offer my services as interpreter. It turned out to be a modest sort of place for women’s clothing, linen, stays, lace, handkerchiefs, stockings, scent and soap and other useful toilet articles. The proprietress, Madame Desserrey, had been a widow for three years and now lived there with her three daughters and a sister and subsisted on the profits of her little business. The soldiers who were engaged in discussion inside, wanted to buy shirts and pants, and Mme. Desserrey was trying to explain that if they would come back with the material, she would sew the garments they wanted. With this information they seemed satisfied, bought a couple of boxes of soap and went away.

I asked Mme. Desserrey if she had not been ruined by the war, but she replied that she had not suffered any want so far. She hoped that she would get through the autumn and winter, and that the war would soon be at an end.

“Well, and what do you think of the German soldiers?” I asked.

“They haven’t done me or my family the slightest harm; they are always polite and take no liberties. They have bought everything in my shop that they can make use of and paid for it like men, and if I could only get fresh goods from Luxemburg I should do excellent business. I and three others are the only ones who keep our shops open. All the others closed and fled when the Germans came.”

In the shop were two knitting machines at which the eighteen-year-old Blanche Desserrey and her sister of fourteen were sitting; they were knitting socks for the Germans, whilst their brother, eleven years old, was sitting on the steps outside watching the soldiers. Mademoiselle Blanche was a sweet and pretty girl, but she did not seem very strong; she had a look of melancholy in her dark eyes and wore an anchor of hope in her brooch. I asked if she had many relations at the war. She answered yes, and she longed for her friends who had fled from the town. “How horrible this war is,” she cried, “how awful for everybody.” Then she enquired whether they had been fighting hard at the front that day--she had heard the booming of the guns in the early morning. Yes, I said, they were fighting hard. It was the Germans and the French who were fighting against one another, and many a brave and promising youth had died for his country. Mademoiselle Blanche, I soon found, was not merely a seamstress for the soldiers, she was also a dreamer of beautiful dreams, sensitive and high-minded, and her heart was pure and without guile. She was cheerful, amiable, and could even raise a laugh in the midst of the billeting bothers and the knitting, but it was clear that she considered gaiety one of the transient things of this earth. The German officers and soldiers who entered eyed her with interest and treated her with respect. She assured me that she had never yet had occasion to complain of their conduct. She did not quite understand how she managed to disarm even the strongest by a look from her eyes. _Soyez comme l’oiseau, penché pour un instant sur les rameaux trop frêles. Il sent plier la branche mais il chante pourtant, sachant qu’il a des ailes._ Blanche Desserrey would have made an ideal heroine of a touching romance.

But I for my part had no time for romances just then. When I came out into the street the clock in a church tower struck six in the solemn French way, and I hastened to my room to make a few notes. Then there was a knock at the door. “_Herein_” I called with the voice of a corporal. In steps the Crown Prince with a large volume under his arm. I ask my august guest to be seated on the sofa. There we sat and talked until it was time to prepare for the evening meal.

The book which the Crown Prince had brought with him, and which he asked me to accept as a memento of him, was entitled _Deutschland in Waffen_ (Germany under Arms), and contained, apart from reading matter by various authors, a series of excellently executed coloured plates of different German armies in being, in manœuvres and sham fights, as well as of German warships at sea. The work, produced by the Crown Prince with the assistance of eminent experts, was dedicated to his father the Emperor. The copy, which I treasure in memory of the giver, contained a dedication curiously historical in tone. The motto chosen by the editor of the book was the following: “The world does not rest more securely on Atlas’ shoulders than does Germany upon her army and navy.” The introduction is written by the Crown Prince himself and ends with the following impressive and prophetic words:

“Doubtless diplomatic skill can and will, for some time to come, defer conflicts and even dissolve them. Those called upon in the solemn hour of decision must and will surely be fully conscious of their terrible responsibility. They will feel it their duty to make it clear to themselves that once the match has been applied to the gigantic conflagration, it will be no easy and no speedy task to quench it. But, as the lightning equalises the tension between two air strata of different charge, so will the sword, until the world comes to an end, be and remain the deciding factor. And therefore everyone who loves his country and who believes in the great future of our people must gladly and readily do all in his power to guard the old soldierly spirit of our ancestors from decadence and from the sickly taint of thought. The sword itself is not enough, it needs the practised steel-clad arm to wield it. Every man amongst us must keep fit for service in our army and navy and must in heart and soul be ready for the great and solemn hour when our Emperor calls us to the colours, for the moment when we no longer belong to ourselves but to the country only with the whole of our bodily and spiritual strength--the time when all these qualities must be strained to the uttermost to attain the ‘will to conquer’ which in all history has never been known to fail. If thus the entire German people is resolved gladly to adventure its life blood and all that it holds dear, it matters little if the world is ‘filled with the legions of darkness’ armed against us, for we shall know how to stand up against it, however great be the distress of the moment. Thus we shall indeed obey the exhortation contained in the comforting verses of Emanuel Geibel, the herald of the new German Empire:

“Und wenn uns nichts mehr übrig blieb
So blieb uns doch ein Schwert,
Das zorngemut mit scharfem Hieb
Dem Trutz des Fremdlings wehrt.

“So blieb die Schlacht als letzt Gericht
Auf Leben und auf Tod.
Und wenn die Not nicht Eisen bricht,
Das Eisen bricht die Not.”[9]

The world conflagration which Crown Prince William foretold is now raging before our very eyes. Will he be justified in his steadfast faith in the people over which he is destined one day to reign? The writing on the wall from Ypres to the Wartha, from Tsingtau to the Cameroons, is telling its tale. Here is a nation which cannot go under and which never will be conquered.

[9] And if nought else to us be left,
There still remains the sword
Which boldly wielded with fierce cleft
Defies the foemen’s horde.
Thus combat unto death we make,
Last arbiter indeed,
For if need will not iron break
Then iron shall break the need.

The last line is a play on the German proverb, “Not bricht Eisen”: Necessity will (teach us to) break down (obstacles strong as) iron; and if it will not, our “iron” (sword) shall break the necessity itself.