Part 2 (2/2)
The dusk was now falling, and, entering the car, we proceeded towards the lower part of the town at a snail's pace in order not to draw the German fire. We were told that at the present time approximately one hundred sh.e.l.ls a day still fall on Verdun, but at the time of the great attack the number was as high as eight hundred, whilst as many as two hundred thousand sh.e.l.ls fell daily in and around Verdun.
Just before we reached the entrance to the citadel, the enemy began to sh.e.l.l the city, and one of the sh.e.l.ls exploded within two hundred feet of the car. We knew that we were near the entrance to the vaults of the citadel and could take refuge, so we left the car and proceeded on foot.
Without thinking, we walked in the centre of the road, and the sentinel at the door of the citadel began in somewhat emphatic French to recommend us to ”longer les murs” (to hug the walls tightly). The Germans are well aware of the entrance to the citadel and daily sh.e.l.l the spot. If one meets a sh.e.l.l in the centre of the road it is obviously no use to argue, whilst in hugging the side of the wall there is a possibility of only receiving the fragments of the bursting sh.e.l.l.
The subterranean galleries of the citadel of Verdun were constructed by Vauban, and are now a hive of activity--barbers' shops, sweet shops, boot shops, hospitals, anything and everything which goes to make up a small city.
One of the young officers placed his ”cell” at our disposal. The long galleries are all equipped with central heating and electric light, and some of them have been divided off by wooden part.i.tions or curtains like the dormitories in a large school. In the ”cell” allocated to us we could see the loving touch of a woman's hand. Around the pillow on the small camp-bed was a beautiful edging of Irish lace, and on the dressing-table a large bottle of eau-de-Cologne. There is no reason to be too uncomfortable in Verdun when one has a good little wife to think of one and to send presents from time to time.
Emerging from the galleries we met General Dubois, a great soldier and a kindly man, one who shares the daily perils of his men. The General invited us to remain and dine with him. He had that day received from General Nivelle his _cravate_ as Commander of the Legion of Honour, and his officers were giving him a dinner-party to celebrate the event. ”See how kind fate is to me,” he added. ”Only one thing was missing from the feast--the presence of the ladies--and here you are.”
It would need the brush of Rembrandt to paint the dining-hall in the citadel of Verdun. At one long table in the dimly lighted vault sat between eighty and ninety officers, who all rose, saluted, and cheered as we entered. The General sat at the head of the table surrounded by his staff, and behind him the faces of the cooks were lit up by the fires of the stoves. Some short distance behind us was an air-shaft. It appears that about a week or a fortnight before our arrival a German sh.e.l.l, striking the top part of the citadel, dislodged some dust and gravel which fell down the air-shaft on to the General's head. He simply called the attendants to him and asked for his table to be moved forward a yard, as he did not feel inclined to sit at table with his helmet on.
An excellent dinner--soup, roast mutton, fresh beans, salade Russe, frangipane, dessert--and even champagne to celebrate the General's _cravate_--quite rea.s.sured us that people may die in Verdun of sh.e.l.ls but not of hunger. We drank toasts to France, the Allies, and, silently, to the men of France who had died that we might live. I was asked to propose the health of the General, and did it in English, knowing that he spoke English well. I told him that the defenders of Verdun would live in our hearts and memories, that on behalf of the whole British race I felt I might convey to him congratulations on the honour paid to him by France. I a.s.sured him that we had but one idea and one hope, the speedy victory of the Allied arms, and that personally my present desire was that every one of those present at table might live to see the flag of France waving over the whole of Alsace-Lorraine. They asked me to repeat a description of the flag of France which I gave first in Ottawa; so there, in the citadel of Verdun with a small French flag before me, I went back in spirit to Ottawa and remembered how I had spoken of the triumph of the flag of France: ”The red, white, and blue--the red of the flag of France a little deeper hue than in time of peace, since it was dyed with the blood of her sons, the blood in which a new history of France is being written, volume on volume, page on page, of deeds of heroism, some pages completed and signed, others where the pen has dropped from the faltering hands and which posterity must needs finish.
The white of the flag of France, not quite so white as in time of peace, since thousands of her sons had taken it in their hands and pressed it to their lips before they went forward to die for it, yet without stain, since in all the record of the war there is no blot on the escutcheon of France. And the blue of the flag of France, true blue, torn and tattered with the marks of the bullets and the shrapnel, yet unfurling proudly in the breeze whilst the very holes were patched by the blue of the sky, since surely Heaven stands behind the flag of France.”
The men of Verdun were full of admiration for the glorious Commander of the Fort de Vaux. They told me that the fort was held, or rather the ruins of the fort, until the Germans were actually on the top and firing on the French beneath.
I discussed with my neighbour the fact that the Germans had more hatred for us than for the French. He said the whole world would ridicule the Germans for the manner in which they had exploited the phrase ”Gott strafe England,” writing it even on the walls anywhere and everywhere.
He added laughingly that it should not worry the English comrades. ”When they read 'Gott strafe England,' all they needed to reply was 'Ypres, Ypres--Hurrah!'”
He told me that he had been stationed for some time with his regiment near the English troops, and there had been loud lamentations among the _poilus_ because they had been obliged to say good-bye to their English comrades. He added that the affection was not entirely disinterested.
The English comrades had excellent marmalade and jam and other good things which they shared with their French brothers, who, whilst excellently fed, do not indulge in these luxuries. He told me a delightful tale of a French cook who, seeing an English soldier standing by, began to question him as to his particular branch of the service, informing him that he himself had had an exceedingly busy morning peeling potatoes and cleaning up the pots and pans. After considerable conversation he inquired of the English comrade what he did for his living. ”Oh,” replied the Englishman, ”I get my living fairly easily--nothing half so strenuous as peeling potatoes. I am just a colonel.”
The clean-shaven Tommy is the beloved of all France. I remember seeing one gallant khaki knight carrying the market-basket of a French maiden and repaying himself out of her store of apples. I regret to say his pockets bulged suspiciously. Whilst at a level crossing near by, the old lady in charge of the gate had an escort of ”Tommies” who urged her to let the train ”rip.” This was somewhat ironical in view of the fact that the top speed in that part of the war zone was probably never more than ten miles an hour.
Tommy is never alone. The children have learned that he loves their company, and he is always surrounded by an escort of youthful admirers.
The children like to rummage in his pockets for souvenirs. He must spend quite a good deal of his pay purchasing sweets, so that they may not be disappointed and that there may be something for his little friends to find. I remember seeing one Tommy, sitting in the dusty road with a large pot of marmalade between his legs, dealing out spoonfuls with perfect justice and impartiality to a circle of youngsters. He speaks to them of his own little ”nippers” at home, and they in turn tell him of their father who is fighting, of their mother who now works in the fields, and of baby who is fearfully ignorant, does not know the difference between the French and the ”Engleesch,” and who insisted on calling the great English General who had stayed at their farm ”papa.”
It matters little that they cannot understand each other, and it does not in the least prevent them from holding lengthy conversations.
I told my companion at table that whilst visiting one of the hospitals in France I had heard how one Englishman had been sent into a far hospital in Provence by mistake. He was not seriously injured, and promptly const.i.tuted himself king of the ward. On arrival, he insisted on being shaved. As no shaving-brush was available, the _piou-piou_ in the next bed lathered him with his tooth-brush. The French cooking did not appeal to him, and he grumbled continuously. The directress of the hospital sent her own cook from her chateau to cater for Mr. Atkins. An elaborate menu was prepared. Tommy glanced through it, ordered everything to be removed, and commanded tea and toast. Toast-making is not a French art, and the chateau chef was obliged to remain at the hospital and spend his time carefully preparing the toast and seeing that it was served in good condition. When Mr. Atkins felt so disposed, he would summon a _piou-piou_ to give him a French lesson, or else request the various inmates of the ward to sing to him. He would in turn render that plaintive ditty ”Down by the Old Bull and Bush.” A nurse who spoke a little English translated his song to the French soldiers.
Whilst not desiring to criticise the _rendez-vous_ selected by their _camarade anglais_, they did not consider that ”pres d'un vieux taureau”
(near an old bull) was a safe or desirable meeting-place. When I explained to the nurse that ”The Bull and Bush” was a kind of _cabaret_, she hastened from ward to ward to tell the men that after all the Englishman might have selected a worse spot to entertain his girl. He was at once the joy and the despair of the whole hospital, and the nurse had much trouble in consoling the patients when ”our English” was removed.
When Tommy indulges in the use of the French language, he abbreviates it as much as possible.
One hot summer's day, driving from Boulogne to Fort Mahon, halfway down a steep hill we came upon two Tommies endeavouring to extract a motor-cycle and a side-car from a somewhat difficult position. They had side-slipped and run into a small tree. The cycle was on one side and the side-car on the other, and a steel rod between had been rammed right into the wood through the force of the collision.
My three companions and myself endeavoured to help the men to pull out the rod, but the united efforts of the six of us proved unavailing. We hailed a pa.s.sing cart and tied the reins around the motor-cycle, but immediately the horse commenced to pull the leather of the reins snapped. Behind the cart walked a peasant. Only one adjective can possibly describe him--he was decidedly ”beery.” He made no attempt to help, but pa.s.sed from one Tommy to the other, patting them on their backs, a.s.suring them ”that with a little goodwill all would be well.”
There was a dangerous glint in the younger Tommy's eye, but in the presence of ladies he refrained from putting his thoughts into words.
Finally, his patience evaporating, he suddenly turned on the peasant and shouted at him, ”Ong, ong.” It took me some time to grasp that this was Tommy's abbreviated version of ”Allez-vous en” (”Clear out”). In any event it proved quite useless, as he continued to pat the Tommies affectionately and to bombard them with impracticable suggestions.
We were joined later by three villagers, two gendarmes and a postman, and all pulling together we managed to extract the rod from the tree. A large lorry was pa.s.sing, and on to it we heaved the wreckage. Up clambered the Tommies followed by their unwelcome friend, who managed to sit on the only unbroken portion of the side-car. This was too much for Messrs. Atkins' equanimity. Limp with laughter, we watched them pa.s.s from sight amidst a chorus of ”Ong, ong,” followed by flights of oratory in the English tongue which do not bear repeating, but which were received by the peasant as expressions of deep esteem and to which he replied by endeavouring to kiss the Tommies and shouting, ”Vive l'Angleterre! Allright! Hoorah!”
Our guiding officer began to show some signs of anxiety to have us leave before ten o'clock, but the good-byes took some time. Presents were showered upon us--German _dragees_ (sh.e.l.l heads and pieces of shrapnel) and the real French _dragees_, the famous sweet of Verdun.
We crept out of the city, but unfortunately at one of the dangerous cross-roads our chauffeur mistook the route. A heavy bombardment was taking place, and the French were replying. We were lucky enough to get on to the route and into safety before any sh.e.l.l fell near us. It appears that the Germans systematically bombard the roads at night, hoping to destroy the _camions_ bringing up the food for the city, fresh munitions, and men.
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