observed the Lieutenant. "They are very good horses."
Later on I stopped to stroke the soft nose of a black horse as it stood trembling near a battery of heavy guns that was firing steadily.
It was American too. On its flank there was a Western brand. I gave it an additional caress, and talked a little American into one of its nervous, silky ears. We were both far from home, a trifle bewildered, a bit uneasy and frightened.
And now it was the battlefield--the flat, muddy plain of Ypres. On the right bodies of men, sheltered by intervening groves and hedges, moved about. Dispatch riders on motor cycles flew along the roads, and over the roof of a deserted farmhouse an observation balloon swung in the wind. Beyond the hedges and the grove lay the trenches, and beyond them again German batteries were growling. Their sh.e.l.ls, however, were not bursting anywhere near us.
The balloon was descending. I asked permission to go up in it, but when I saw it near at hand I withdrew the request. It had no basket, like the ones I had seen before, but instead the observers, two of them, sat astride a horizontal bar.
The English balloons have a basket beneath, I am told. One English airship man told me that to be sent up in a stationary balloon was the greatest penalty a man could be asked to pay. The balloon jerks at the end of its rope like a runaway calf, and "the resulting nausea makes sea-sickness seem like a trip to the Crystal Palace."
So I did not go up in that observation balloon on the field of Ypres.
We got out of the car, and trudged after the balloon as it was carried to its new position by many soldiers. We stood by as it rose again above the tree tops, the rope and the telephone wire hanging beneath it. But what the observers saw that afternoon from their horizontal bar I do not yet know--trenches, of course. But trenches are interesting in this war only when their occupants have left them and started forward. Batteries and ammunition trains, probably, the latter crawling along the enemy"s roads. But both of these can be better and more easily located by aeroplanes.
The usefulness of the captive balloon in this war is doubtful. It serves, at the best, to take the place of an elevation of land in this flat country, is a large and tempting target, and can serve only on very clear days, when there is no ground mist--a difficult thing to achieve in Flanders.
We were getting closer to the front all the time. As the automobile jolted on, drawing out for transports, for ambulances and ammunition wagons, the two French officers spoke of the heroism of their men.
They told me, one after the other, of brave deeds that had come under their own observation.
"The French common soldier is exceedingly brave--quite reckless," one of them said. "Take, for instance, the case, a day or so ago, of Philibert Musillat, of the 168th Infantry. We had captured a communication trench from the Germans and he was at the end of it, alone. There was a renewal of the German attack, and they came at him along the trench. He refused to retreat. His comrades behind handed him loaded rifles, and he killed every German that appeared until they lay in a heap. The Germans threw bombs at him, but he would not move.
He stood there for more than twelve hours!"
There were many such stories, such as that of the boys of the senior cla.s.s of the military school of St. Cyr, who took, the day of the beginning of the war, an oath to put on gala dress, white gloves and a red, white and blue plume, when they had the honour to receive the first order to charge.
They did it, too. Theatrical? Isn"t it just splendidly boyish? They did it, you see. The first of them to die, a young sub-lieutenant, was found afterward, his red, white and blue plume trampled in the mud, his brave white gloves stained with his own hot young blood. Another of these St. Cyr boys, shot in the face hideously and unable to speak, stood still under fire and wrote his orders to his men. It was his first day under fire.
A boy fell injured between the barbed wire in front of his trench and the enemy, in that No Man"s Land of so many tragedies. His comrades, afraid of hitting him, stopped firing.
"Go on!" he called to them. "No matter about me. Shoot at them!"
So they fired, and he writhed for a moment.
"I got one of yours that time!" he said.
The Germans retired, but the boy still lay on the ground, beyond reach. He ceased moving, and they thought he was dead. One may believe that they hoped he was dead. It was more merciful than the slow dying of No Man"s Land. But after a time he raised his head.
"Look out," he called. "They are coming again. They are almost up to me!"
That is all of that story.
CHAPTER XVIII
FRENCH GUNS IN ACTION
The car stopped. We were at the wireless and telephone headquarters for the French Army of the North. It was a low brick building, and outside, just off the roadway, was a high van full of telephone instruments. That it was moved from one place to another was shown when, later in the day, returning by that route, we found the van had disappeared.
It was two o"clock. The German wireless from Berlin had just come in.
At three the receiving station would hear from the Eiffel Tower in Paris. It was curious to stand there and watch the operator, receivers on his ears, picking up the German message. It was curious to think that, just a little way over there, across a field or two, the German operator was doing the same thing, and that in an hour he would be receiving the French message.
All the batteries of the army corps are--or were--controlled from that little station. The colonel in charge came out to greet us, and to him Captain Boisseau gave General Foch"s request to show me batteries in action.
The colonel was very willing. He would go with us himself. I conquered a strong desire to stand with the telephone building between me and the German lines, now so near, and looked about. A French aeroplane was overhead, but there was little bustle and activity along the road.
It is a curious fact in this war that the nearer one is to the front the quieter things become. Three or four miles behind there is bustle and movement. A mile behind, and only an occasional dispatch rider, a few men mending roads, an officer"s car, a few horses tethered in a wood, a broken gun carriage, a horse being shod behind a wall, a soldier on a lookout platform in a tree, thickets and hedges that on occasion spout fire and death--that is the country round Ypres and just behind the line, in daylight.
We were between Ypres and the Allied line, in that arc which the Germans are, as I write, trying so hard to break through. The papers say that they are sh.e.l.ling Ypres and that it is burning. They were sh.e.l.ling it that day also. But now, as then, I cannot believe it is burning. There was nothing left to burn.
While arrangements were being made to visit the batteries, Lieutenant Puaux explained to me a method they had established at that point for measuring the alt.i.tude of hostile aeroplanes for the guns.
"At some anti-aircfaft batteries," he explained, "they have the telemeter for that purpose. But here there is none. So they use the system of _visee laterale_, or side sight, literally."
He explained it all carefully to me. I understood it at the time, I think.
I remember saying it was perfectly clear, and a child could do it, and a number of other things. But the system of _visee laterale_ has gone into that part of my mind which contains the Latin irregular verbs, harmonies, the catechism and answers to riddles.
There is a curious feeling that comes with the firing of a large battery at an unseen enemy. One moment the air is still; there is a peaceful plain round. The sun shines, and heavy cart horses, drawing a wagon filled with stones for repairing a road, are moving forward steadily, their heads down, their feet sinking deep in the mud. The next moment h.e.l.l breaks loose. The great guns stand with smoking jaws.
The message of death has gone forth. Over beyond the field and that narrow line of trees, what has happened? A great noise, the furious recoiling of the guns, an upcurling of smoke--that is the firing of a battery. But over there, perhaps, one man, or twenty, or fifty men, lying still.
So I required a.s.surance that this battery was not being fired for me.
I had no morbid curiosity as to batteries. One of the officers a.s.sured me that I need have no concern. Though they were firing earlier than had been intended, a German battery had been located and it was their instructions to disable it.
The battery had been well concealed.
"No German aeroplane has as yet discovered it," explained the officer in charge.
To tell the truth, I had not yet discovered it myself. We had alighted from the machine in a sea of mud. There was mud everywhere.
A farmhouse to the left stood inaccessible in it. Down the road a few feet a tree with an observation platform rose out of it. A few chickens waded about in it. A crowd of soldiers stood at a respectful distance and watched us. But I saw no guns.
One of the officers stooped and picked up the cast shoe of a battery horse, and shaking the mud off, presented it to me.
"To bring you luck," he said, "and perhaps luck to the battery!"
We left the road, and turning to the right made a floundering progress across a field to a hedge. Only when we were almost there did I realise that the hedge was the battery.
"We built it," said the officer in charge. "We brought the trees and saplings and constructed it. Madame did not suspect?"
Madame had not suspected. There were other hedges in the neighbourhood, and the artificial one had been well contrived. Halfway through the field the party paused by a curious elevation, flat, perhaps twenty feet across and circular.
"The cyclone cellar!" some one said. "We will come here during the return fire."
But one look down the crude steps decided me to brave the return fire and die in the open. The cave below the flat roof, turf-covered against the keen eyes of aeroplanes, was full of water. The officers watched my expression and smiled.
And now we had reached the battery, and eager gunners were tearing away the trees and shrubbery that covered them. In an incredible s.p.a.ce of time the great grey guns, sinister, potential of death, lay open to the bright sky. The crews gathered round, each man to his place. The sh.e.l.l was pushed home, the gunners held the lanyards.
"Open your mouth wide," said the officer in charge, and gave the signal.