The White Road to Verdun by Kathleen Burke
K >>
Kathleen Burke >> The White Road to Verdun
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 11679-h.htm or 11679-h.zip:
(http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/1/1/6/7/11679/11679-h/11679-h.htm)
or
(http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/1/1/6/7/11679/11679-h.zip)
THE WHITE ROAD TO VERDUN
By
Kathleen Burke
Knight of St. Sava, Serbia
Officier de l'Instruction Publique, France
This Little Book Is
Respectfully And Affectionately Dedicated To
Madame Jusserand,
Ambassadrice de France in Washington,
and to
Monsieur Gaston Liebert,
Consul General de France
Dr. C. O. Mailloux
And to all my good friends in the United States and Canada,
whose sympathy and encouragement have helped me so much in
my work.
VIVE LA FRANCE
Contents
Chapter
I The True Philosophers
II The Bridge At Meaux
III Recruiting Rat-Catchers
IV A Gun Carriage An Altar
V Life Behind The Lines
VI Devotion To Animals
VII Hunting For Generals
VIII An Instance Of Quick Wit
IX At The Headquarters Of General Petain
X A Meeting With "Forain"
XI Value Of Women's Work
XII The "Movies" Under Fire
XIII A Subterranean Cut
XIV Poilu And Tommy
XV Abbreviated French
XVI The Brown And Black Sons Of France
XVII At General Nivelle's Headquarters
XVIII Rheims
XIX At The Headquarters Of The Generalissimo
XX To The Glory Of The Women Of France
The True Philosophers
We left Paris determined to undertake the journey to the Front in
the true spirit of the French Poilu, and, no matter what happened,
"de ne pas s'en faire." This famous "motto" of the French Army is
probably derived from one of two slang sentences, de ne pas se
faire des cheveux ("to keep one's hair on,") or de ne pas se faire
de la bile, or, in other words, not to upset one's digestion by
unnecessary worrying. The phrase is typical of the mentality of the
Poilu, who accepts anything and everything that may happen,
whether it be merely slight physical discomfort, or intense
suffering, as part of the willing sacrifice which he made on the day
that, leaving his homestead and his daily occupation, he took up
arms "offering his body as a shield to defend the heart of France."
Everything might be worse than it is, says the Poilu, and so he has
composed a Litany. Every regiment has a different version, but
always with the same basis.
"Of two things one is certain: Either you're mobilised or you're not
mobilised. If you're not mobilised, there is no need to worry; if you
are mobilised, of two things one is certain: Either you're behind the
lines or you're on the Front. If you're behind the lines there is no
need to worry; if you're on the Front, of two things one is certain:
Either you're resting in a safe place or you're exposed to danger. If
you're resting in a safe place there is no need to worry; if you're
exposed to danger, of two things one is certain: Either you're
wounded or you're not wounded. If you're not wounded, there is no
need to worry; if you are wounded, of two things one is certain:
Either you're wounded seriously or you're wounded slightly. If
you're wounded slightly there is no need to worry; if you're
wounded seriously, of two things one is certain: Either you recover
or you die. If you recover there is no need to worry; if you die you
can't worry."
When once past the "Wall of China," as the French authorities call
the difficult approaches to the war zone, Meaux was the first town
of importance at which we stopped. We had an opportunity to
sample the army bread, as the driver of a passing bread wagon
flung a large round loaf into our motor.
According to all accounts received from the French soldiers who
are in the prison camps of Germany, one of the greatest hardships
is the lack of white bread, and they have employed various
subterfuges in the endeavour to let their relatives know that they
wish to have bread sent to them.
Some of the Bretons writing home nickname bread "Monsieur
Barras," and when there was a very great shortage they would
write to their families: "Ce pauvre Monsieur Barras ne se porte pas
tres bien a present." (M. Barras is not very well at present.) Finally
the Germans discovered the real significance of M. Barras and
they added to one of the letters: "Si M. Barras ne se porte pas tres
bien a present c'est bien la faute de vos amis les Anglais." (If M.
Barras is not well at present, it is the fault of your friends the
English.) And from then all the letters referring to M. Barras
were strictly suppressed.
While the German Press may not be above admitting a shortage
of food in Germany, it seriously annoys the Army that the French
prisoners or the French in the invaded regions should hear of it. I
heard one story of the wife of a French officer in Lille, who was
obliged to offer unwilling hospitality to a German Captain, who, in a
somewhat clumsy endeavour to be amiable, offered to try to get
news of her husband and to convey it to her. Appreciating the
seeming friendliness, of the Captain, she confided to him that she
had means of communicating with her husband who was on the
French Front. The Captain informed against her and the next day
she was sent for by the Kommandantur, who imposed a fine of fifty
francs upon her for having received a letter from the enemy lines.
Taking a one hundred franc note from her bag she placed it on the
desk, saying, "M. le Kommandantur, here is the fifty francs fine,
and also another fifty francs which I am glad to subscribe for the
starving women and children in Berlin." "No one starves in Berlin,"
replied the Kommandantur. "Oh, yes, they do," replied Madame X.,
"I know because the Captain who so kindly informed you that I had
received a letter from my husband showed me a letter the other
day from his wife in which she spoke of the sad condition of the
women and children of Germany, who, whilst not starving, were far
from happy." Thus she not only had the pleasure of seriously
annoying the Kommandantur, but also had a chance to get even
with the Captain who had informed against her, and who is no
longer in soft quarters in Lille, but paying the penalty of his
indiscretion by a sojourn on the Yser.
The Bridge At Meaux
The Bridge at Meaux, destroyed in the course of the German
retreat, has not yet been entirely repaired. Beneath it rushes the
Marne and the river sings in triumph, as it passes, that it is carrying
away the soil that has been desecrated by the steps of the
invader, and that day by day it is washing clean the land of France.
In the fields where the corn is standing, the tiny crosses marking
the last resting places of the men are entirely hidden, but where
the grain has been gathered the graves, stand out distinctly
marked not only by a cross, but also by the tall bunches of corn
which have been left growing on these small patches of holy
ground. It has always been said that France has two harvests
each year. Certainly in the fields of the Marne there is not only the
harvest of bread; there is also springing up the harvest of security
and peace.
The peasants as they point out the graves always add: "We of the
people know that those men sacrificed their lives that our children
might live. Those who have died in vain for an unjust cause may
well envy the men of France who have poured out their blood for
the benefit of humanity."
Looking on the crosses on the battlefield of the Marne, I realised to
the fullest extent the sacrifices, borne with such bravery, of the
women of France. I thought of the picture I had seen in Paris of a
group of mothers standing at the foot of Calvary, looking out over
the fields of small black crosses, lifting their hands to Heaven, with
the words: "We also, God, have given our sons for the peace of
the world."
At Montmirail the real activity of the war zone first became
apparent. We drew the car to the side of the road and waited
whilst a long procession of empty munition wagons passed on the
way back from the munition parks near the fighting line. There was
a smile on the face of every one of the drivers. Each of them had
the satisfaction of knowing that there was no chance of his
returning with an empty wagon, as there is no lack of provisions to
feed the hungriest of the "75's" or any of her larger sisters.
The fact that it is known that there is an ample supply of munitions
plays an important part in the "morale" of the troops. The average
Poilu has no sympathy with the man who grumbles at the number
of hours he may have to spend in the factory. We heard the tale of
a munition worker who was complaining in a cafe at having to work
so hard. A Poilu who was en permission, and who was sitting at
the next table, turned to him saying: "You have no right to grumble.
You receive ten to twelve francs a day for making shells and we
poor devils get five sous a day for stopping them!"
Recruiting Rat-Catchers
We lunched in the small but hospitable village of Sezannes in
company with a most charming invalided officer, who informed us
that he was the principal in that district of the S.D.R. R.D. (Service
de Recherche des Rattiers) (the Principal Recruiting Officer for
Rat-Catchers). In other words, he is spending his time endeavouring
to persuade suitable bow-wows to enlist in the service of their
country. Likely dogs are trained until they do not bark, and become
entirely accustomed to the sound of firing; they are then pronounced
"aptes a faire campagne" or "fit for service," receive their livret
militaire, or certificates--for not every chance dog is allowed in
the trenches--and are despatched to the trenches on a rat-hunting
campaign.
At the commencement of the .War, dogs were not utilized to the
extent they are at present. A large number are now with the
French Army and the wonderful training they have received, aided
by their natural sagacity, renders them a holy terror to prowling
bodies and spies. Those employed in carrying messages or
tobacco to the soldiers in dangerous trenches now wear gas
masks, as many of these high trained animals have been lost in
consequence of too closely investigating the strange odour
caused by this Hun war method.
From Sezannes we proceeded direct to the new camp for German
prisoners at Connantre. The prisoners were mostly men who had
been taken in the recent fighting on the Somme or around Verdun.
The camp was already excellently installed and the prisoners were
busy in groups gardening, making bread, or sitting before great
heaps of potatoes preparing them for the evening meal. In one
corner the inevitable German Band was preparing for an evening
concert. The German sense of order was everywhere in evidence.
In the long barracks where the men slept the beds were tidy, and
above each bed was a small shelf, each shelf arranged in exactly
the same order, the principal ornaments being a mug, fork and
spoon; and just as each bed resembled each other bed, so the
fork and spoon were placed in their respective mugs at exactly the
same angle. There were small partitioned apartments for the non-
commissioned officers.
The French Commander of the camp told us that the German love
of holding some form of office was everywhere apparent. The
French made no attempt to command the prisoners themselves,
but always chose men from amongst the prisoners who were
placed in authority over their comrades. The prisoners rejoiced
exceedingly and promptly increased in self-importance and, alas,
decreased in manners, if they were given the smallest position
which raised them above the level of the rest of the men.
In the barrack where they were cutting up bread for the prisoners,
we asked the men if they deeply regretted their captivity. They
replied unanimously that they were "rather glad to be well fed,"
which seemed an answer in itself. They did not, however,
appreciate the white bread, and stated that they preferred their
own black bread. The French officers commanding the camp treat
the prisoners as naughty children who must be "kept in the corner"
and punished for their own good. In all my travels through France I
have never seen any bitterness shown towards the prisoners. I
remember once at Nevers we passed a group of German prisoners,
and amongst them was a wounded man who was lying in a small cart.
A hand bag had fallen across his leg, and none of his comrades
attempted to remove it. A French woman pushing her way between
the guards, lifted it off and gave it to one of the Germans to carry.
When the guards tried to remonstrate she replied simply: "J'ai un
fils prisonnier la bas, faut esperer qu'une allemande ferait autant
pour lui." ("I have a son who is a prisoner in their land; let us hope
that some German woman would do as much for him.")
On the battlefields the kindness of the French medical men to the
German wounded has always been conspicuous. One of my neutral
friends passing through Germany heard from one of the prominent
German surgeons that they were well aware of this fact, and knew that
their wounded received every attention. There is a story known throughout
France of a French doctor who was attending a wounded German
on the battlefield. The man, who was probably half delirious,
snatched at a revolver which was lying near by and attempted
to shoot the doctor. The doctor took the revolver from him, patted
him on the head, and said: "Voyons, voyons, ne faites pas l'enfant"
("Now then, now then, don't be childish") and went on dressing his wounds.
Everywhere you hear accounts of brotherly love and religious
tolerance. I remember kneeling once by the side of a dying French
soldier who was tenderly supported in the arms of a famous young
Mohammedan surgeon, an Egyptian who had taken his degree in
Edinburgh and was now attached to the French Red Cross. The
man's mind was wandering, and seeing a woman beside him he
commenced to talk to me as to his betrothed. "This war cannot last
always, little one, and when it is over we will buy a pig and a cow
and we will go to the cure, won't we, beloved?" Then in a lucid
moment he realised that he was dying, and he commenced to
pray, "Ave Maria, Ave Maria," but the poor tired brain could
remember nothing more. He turned to me to continue, but I could
no longer trust myself to speak, and it was the Mohammedan who
took up the prayer and continued it whilst the soldier followed with
his lips until his soul passed away into the valley of shadows. I
think this story is only equalled in its broad tolerance by that of the
Rabbi Bloch of Lyons, who was shot at the battle of the Aisne
whilst holding a crucifix to the lips of a dying Christian soldier. The
soldier priests of France have earned the love and respect of even
the most irreligious of the Poilus. They never hesitate to risk their
lives, and have displayed sublime courage and devotion to their
duty as priests and as soldiers. Behind the first line of trenches a
soldier priest called suddenly to attend a dying comrade, took a
small dog he was nursing and handing it to one of the men simply
remarked, "Take care of the little beast for me, I am going to a
dangerous corner and I do not want it killed."
A Gun Carriage An Altar
I have seen the Mass celebrated on a gun carriage. Vases made
of shell cases were filled with flowers that the men had risked their
lives to gather in order to deck the improvised altar. A Red Cross
ambulance drove up and stopped near by. The wounded begged
to be taken out on their stretchers and laid at the foot of the altar in
order that "they might receive the blessing of the good God"
before starting on the long journey to the hospital behind the lines.
Outside the prison camp of Cannantre stood a circle of French
soldiers learning the bugle calls for the French Army. I wondered
how the Germans cared to listen to the martial music of the men of
France, one and all so sure of the ultimate victory of their country.
Half a kilometre further on, a series of mock trenches had been
made where the men were practising the throwing of hand
grenades. Every available inch of space behind the French lines is
made to serve some useful purpose.
I never see a hand grenade without thinking how difficult it is just
now to be a hero in France. Every man is really a hero, and the
men who have medals are almost ashamed since they know that
nearly all their comrades merit them. It is especially difficult to be a
hero in one's own family. One of the men in our hospital at
Royaumont had been in the trenches during an attack. A grenade
thrown by one of the French soldiers struck the parapet and
rebounded amongst the men. With that rapidity of thought which is
part of the French character, Jules sat on the grenade and
extinguished it. For this act of bravery he was decorated by the
French Government and wrote home to tell his wife. I found him
sitting up in bed, gloomily reading her reply, and I enquired why he
looked so glum. "Well, Mademoiselle," he replied, "I wrote to my
wife to tell her of my new honour and see what she says: 'My dear
Jules, We are not surprised you got a medal for sitting on a hand
grenade; we have never known you to do anything else but sit
down at home!!!'"
It was at Fere Champenoise that we passed through the first
village which had been entirely destroyed by the retreating
Germans. Only half the church was standing, but services are still
held there every Sunday. Very little attempt has been made to
rebuild the ruined houses. Were I one of the villagers I would
prefer to raze to the ground all that remained of the desecrated
homesteads and build afresh new dwellings; happy in the
knowledge that with the victory of the Allies would start a period of
absolute security, prosperity and peace.
Life Behind The Lines
Soon after leaving Mailly we had the privilege of beholding some of
the four hundred centimetre guns of France, all prepared and
ready to travel at a minute's notice along the railway lines to the
section where they might be needed. Some idea of their size may
be obtained from the fact that there were ten axles to the base on
which they travel. They were all disguised by the system of
camouflage employed by the French Army, and at a very short
distance they blend with the landscape and become almost
invisible. Each gun bears a different name, "Alsace," "Lorraine,"
etc., and with that strange irony and cynical wit of the French
trooper, at the request of the men of one battery, one huge gun
has been christened "Mosquito," "Because it stings."
The French often use a bitter and biting humour in speaking of the
enemy. For instance, amongst the many pets of the men, the
strangest I saw was a small hawk sitting on the wrist of a soldier
who had trained him. The bird was the personification of evil. If any
one approached he snapped at them and endeavoured to bite
them. I asked the man why he kept him, and he replied that they
had quite good sport in the trenches when they allowed the hawk
to hunt small birds and field mice. Then his expression changing
from jovial good humour to grimness, he added, "You know, I call
him 'Zepp,' because he kills the little ones," (parcequ'il tue les tous
petits.)
Devotion To Animals
In one small cantonment where two hundred Poilus sang, shouted,
ate, drank and danced together to the strain of a wheezy
gramophone, or in one word were "resting," I started to investigate
the various kinds of pets owned by the troopers. Cats, dogs and
monkeys were common, whilst one Poilu was the proud possessor
of a parrot which he had purchased from a refugee obliged to fly
from his home. He hastened to assure us that the bird had learned
his "vocabulary" from his former proprietor. A study in black and
white was a group of three or four white mice, nestling against the
neck of a Senegalais.
The English Tommy is quite as devoted to animals as is his
French brother. I remember crossing one bitter February day from
Boulogne to Folkestone. Alongside the boat, on the quay at
Boulogne, were lined up the men who had been granted leave.
Arrayed in their shaggy fur coats they resembled little the smart
British soldier of peace times. It was really wonderful how much
the men managed to conceal under those fur coats, or else the
eye of the officer inspecting them was intentionally not too keen.
Up the gangway trooped the men, and I noticed that two of them
walked slowly and cautiously. The boat safely out of harbour, one
of them produced from his chest a large tabby cat, whilst the other
placed a fine cock on the deck. It was a cock with the true Gallic
spirit, before the cat had time to consider the situation it had
sprung on its back. The cat beat a hasty retreat into the arms of its
protector who replaced it under his coat. Once in safety it stuck out
its head and swore at the cock, which, perched on a coil of rope,
crowed victoriously. Both had been the companions of the men in
the trenches, and they were bringing them home.
A soldier standing near me began to grumble because he had not
been able to bring his pet with him. I enquired why he had left it
behind since the others had brought theirs away with them, and
elicited the information that his pet was "a cow, and therefore
somewhat difficult to transport." He seemed rather hurt that I
should laugh, and assured me it was "a noble animal, brown with
white spots, and had given himself and his comrades two quarts of
milk a day." He looked disdainfully at the cock and cat. "They could
have left them behind and no one would have pinched them,
whereas I know I'll never see 'Sarah' again, she was far too
useful."
Entering Vitry-le-Francois we had a splendid example of the typical
"motto" of the French trooper, "II ne faut pas s'en faire" One of the
motor cars had broken down, and the officer-occupants, who were
evidently not on an urgent mission, had gone to sleep on the
banks by the side of the road whilst the chauffeur was making the
necessary repairs. We offered him assistance, but he was
progressing quite well alone. Later on another officer related to me
his experience when his car broke down at midnight some twelve
miles from a village. The chauffeur was making slow headway with
the repairs. The officer enquired whether he really understood the
job, and received the reply, "Yes, mon Lieutenant, I think I do, but I
am rather a novice, as before the war I was a lion-tamer!"
Apparently the gallant son of Gaul found it easier to tame lions
than to repair motors.
Hunting For Generals
We left Vitry-le-Francois at six o'clock next morning, and started
"the hunt for Generals." It is by no means easy to discover where
the actual Headquarters of the General of any particular sector is
situated.
We were not yet really on the "White Road" to Verdun, and there
was still much to be seen that delighted the eyes. In one yellow
cornfield there appeared to be enormous poppies. On approaching
we discovered a detachment of Tirailleurs from Algiers, sitting in
groups, and the "poppies" were the red fezes of the men--a gorgeous
blending of crimson and gold. We threw a large box of cigarettes
to them and were greeted with shouts of joy and thanks. The Tirailleurs
are the enfants terribles of the French Army. One noble son of
Africa who was being treated in one of the hospitals once presented
me with an aluminium ring made from a piece of German shell.
I asked him to make one for one of my comrades who was working
at home, and he informed me that nothing would have given
greater pleasure, but unfortunately he had no more aluminium.
Later in the day, passing through the ward, I saw him surrounded
by five or six Parisian ladies who were showering sweets, cigarettes
and flowers on him, whilst he was responding by presenting
each of them with an aluminium ring. When they had left I went
to him and told him "Mahmud, that was not kind. I asked you for
a ring and you said you had not got any more aluminium." He
smiled and his nurse, who was passing, added, "No, he had
not got any more aluminium, but when he is better he will get
forty-eight hours' punishment; he has been into the kitchen,
stolen one of our best aluminium saucepans, and has been
making souvenirs for the ladies." He made no attempt to justify
his action beyond stating: "Moi, pas si mauvais, toi pas faux souvenir"
("I am not so bad, I did not try to give you a fake souvenir").
Another of our chocolate coloured patients found in the grounds of
the hospital an old umbrella. Its ribs stuck out and it was full of
holes, but it gave him the idea of royalty and daily he sat up in bed
in the ward with the umbrella unfurled whilst he laid down the law
to his comrades. The nurses endeavoured to persuade him to
hand it over at night. He obstinately refused, insisting that "he
knew his comrades," and he feared that one of them would
certainly steal the treasure, so he preferred to keep it in the bed
with him.
At Villers-le-Sec we came upon the headquarters of the cooks for
that section of the Front. The cook is one of the most important
men in a French regiment; he serves many ends. When carrying
the food through the communicating trenches to the front line
trenches he is always supposed to bring to the men the latest
news, the latest tale which is going the round of the camp, and
anything that may happen to interest them. If he has not got any
news he must manufacture and produce some kind of story. It is
really necessary for him to be not only a cook but also an author.