Various - The New York Times Current History of the European War, Vol 1, Issue 4, January 23, 1915

V >> Various >> The New York Times Current History of the European War, Vol 1, Issue 4, January 23, 1915

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I was in one of the ambulances, and Mr. Gleeson sat behind me in the
narrow space between the stretchers. Over his shoulder he talked in a
quiet voice of the job that lay before us. I was glad of that quiet
voice, so placid in its courage. We went forward at what seemed to me a
crawl, though I think it was a fair pace, shells bursting around us now
on all sides, while shrapnel bullets sprayed the earth about us. It
appeared to me an odd thing that we were still alive. Then we came into
Dixmude.

When I saw it for the first and last time it was a place of death and
horror. The streets through which we passed were utterly deserted and
wrecked from end to end, as though by an earthquake. Incessant
explosions of shell fire crashed down upon the walls which still stood.
Great gashes opened in the walls, which then toppled and fell. A roof
came tumbling down with an appalling clatter. Like a house of cards
blown by a puff of wind, a little shop suddenly collapsed into a mass of
ruins. Here and there, further into the town, we saw living figures.
They ran swiftly for a moment and then disappeared into dark caverns
under toppling porticos. They were Belgian soldiers.

We were now in a side street leading into the Town Hall square. It
seemed impossible to pass, owing to the wreckage strewn across the road.
"Try to take it," said Dr. Munro, who was sitting beside the chauffeur.
We took it, bumping over heaps of debris, and then swept around into the
square. It was a spacious place, with the Town Hall at one side of
it--or what was left of the Town Hall; there was only the splendid shell
of it left, sufficient for us to see the skeleton of a noble building
which had once been the pride of Flemish craftsmen. Even as we turned
toward it parts of it were falling upon the ruins already on the ground.
I saw a great pillar lean forward and then topple down. A mass of
masonry crashed from the portico. Some stiff, dark forms lay among the
fallen stones; they were dead soldiers. I hardly glanced at them, for we
were in search of the living.

Our cars were brought to a halt outside the building, and we all climbed
down. I lighted a cigarette, and I noticed two of the other men fumble
for matches for the same purpose. We wanted something to steady our
nerves. There was never a moment when shell fire was not bursting in
that square. Shrapnel bullets whipped the stones. The Germans were
making a target of the Town Hall and dropping their shells with dreadful
exactitude on either side of it.

I glanced toward the flaming furnace to the right of the building. There
was a wonderful glow at the heart of it, yet it did not give me any
warmth. At that moment Dr. Munro and Lieut. de Broqueville mounted the
steps of the Town Hall, followed by Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett and myself. Mr.
Gleeson was already taking down a stretcher; he had a little smile
about his lips.

A French officer and two men stood under the broken archway of the
entrance, between the fallen pillars and masonry. A yard away from them
lay a dead soldier, a handsome young man with clear-cut features turned
upward to the gaping roof. A stream of blood was coagulating around his
head, but did not touch the beauty of his face. Another dead man lay
huddled up quite close, and his face was hidden.

"Are there any wounded here, Sir?" asked our young Lieutenant. The other
officer spoke excitedly. He was a brave man, but he could not hide the
terror in his soul, because he had been standing so long waiting for
death, which stood beside him, but did not touch him. It appeared from
his words that there were several wounded men among the dead down in the
cellar, and that he would be obliged to us if we could rescue them.

We stood on some steps, looking down into that cellar. It was a dark
hole, illumined dimly by a lantern, I think. I caught sight of a little
heap of huddled bodies. Two soldiers, still unwounded, dragged three of
them out and handed them up to us. The work of getting those three men
into the first ambulance seemed to us interminable; it was really no
more than fifteen or twenty minutes. During that time Dr. Munro,
perfectly calm and quiet, was moving about the square, directing the
work. Lieut. de Broqueville was making inquiries about other wounded in
other houses. I lent a hand to one of the stretcher-bearers. What the
others were doing I do not know, except that Mr. Gleeson's calm face
made a clear-cut image on my brain.

I had lost consciousness of myself. Something outside myself, as it
seemed, was saying that there was no way of escape; that it was
monstrous to suppose that all these bursting shells would not smash the
ambulance to bits and finish the agony of the wounded, and that death
was very hideous. I remember thinking, also, how ridiculous it was for
men to kill one another like this and to make such hells on earth.

Then Lieut. de Broqueville spoke a word of command; the first ambulance
must now get back. I was with the first ambulance, in Mr. Gleeson's
company. We had a full load of wounded men, and we were loitering. I put
my head outside the cover and gave the word to the chauffeur. As I did
so a shrapnel bullet came past my head, and, striking a piece of
ironwork, flattened out and fell at my feet. I picked it up and put it
in my pocket, though God alone knows why, for I was not in search of
souvenirs.

So we started with the first ambulance through those frightful streets
again and out into the road to the country. "Very hot!" said one of the
men--I think it was the chauffeur. Somebody else asked if we should get
through with luck. Nobody answered the question. The wounded men with us
were very quiet; I thought they were dead. There was only an incessant
cannonade and the crashing of buildings. The mitrailleuses were at work
now, spitting out bullets. It was a worse sound than that of the shells;
it seemed more deadly in its rattle. I started back behind the car and
saw the other ambulance in our wake. I did not see the motor car.

Along the country roads the fields were still being plowed by shells
which burst over our heads. We came to a halt again in a place where
soldiers were crouched under cottage walls. There were few walls now,
and inside some of the remaining cottages were many wounded men. Their
comrades were giving them first aid and wiping the blood out of their
eyes. We managed to take some of these on board. They were less quiet
than the others we had, and groaned in a heartrending way.

A little later we made a painful discovery--Lieut. de Broqueville, our
gallant young leader, was missing. By some horrible mischance he had not
taken his place in either of the ambulances or the motor cars. None of
us had the least idea what had happened to him; we had all imagined that
he had scrambled up like the rest of us, after giving the order to get
away.

There was only one thing to do--to get back in search of him. Even in
the half hour since we had left the town Dixmude had burst into flames
and was a great blazing torch. If de Broqueville were left in that hell
he would not have a chance of life.

It was Mr. Gleeson and Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett who, with great gallantry,
volunteered to go back and search for our leader. They took the light
car and sped back toward the burning town. The ambulances went on with
their cargo of wounded, and Lady Dorothie Feilding and I were left alone
for a little time in one of the cars. We drove back along the road
toward Dixmude, and rescued another wounded man left in a wayside
cottage.

By this time there were five towns blazing in the darkness, and in spite
of the awful suspense which we were now suffering we could not help
staring at the fiendish splendor of that sight.

Dr. Munro joined us again, and after consultation we decided to get as
near to Dixmude as we could, in case our friends had to come out without
their car or had been wounded.

The German bombardment was now terrific. All the guns were concentrated
upon Dixmude and the surrounding trenches. In the darkness under a
stable wall I stood listening to the great crashes for an hour, when I
had not expected such a lease of life. Inside the stable soldiers were
sleeping in the straw, careless that at any moment a shell might burst
through upon them. The hour seemed a night; then we saw the gleam of
headlights, and an English voice called out.

Ashmead-Bartlett and Gleeson had come back. They had gone to the
entrance to Dixmude, but could get no further, owing to the flames and
shells. They, too, had waited for an hour, but had not found de
Broqueville. It seemed certain that he was dead; and, very sorrowfully,
as there was nothing to be done, we drove back to Furnes.

At the gate of the convent were some Belgian ambulances which had come
from another part of the front with their wounded. I helped to carry
one of them in, and strained my shoulders with the weight of the
stretcher. Another wounded man put his arm around my neck, and then,
with a dreadful cry, collapsed, so that I had to hold him in a strong
grip. A third man, horribly smashed about the head, walked almost
unaided into the operating room. Mr. Gleeson and I led him with just a
touch on his arm. This morning he lies dead on a little pile of straw in
a quiet corner of the courtyard.

I sat down to a supper, which I had not expected to eat. There was a
strange excitement in my body, which trembled a little after the day's
adventures. It seemed very strange to be sitting down to table with
cheerful faces about me, but some of the faces were not cheerful. Those
of us who knew of the disappearance of de Broqueville sat silently over
our soup.

Then suddenly Lady Dorothie Feilding gave a little cry of joy, and
Lieut. de Broqueville came walking briskly forward. It seemed a miracle;
it was hardly less than that. For several hours after our departure from
Dixmude he had remained in that inferno. He had missed us when he went
down into the cellar to haul out another wounded man, forgetting that he
had given us the order to start. There he had remained, with buildings
crashing all around him until the German fire had died down a little. He
succeeded in rescuing his wounded man, for whom he found room in a
Belgian ambulance outside the town and walked back along the road to
Furnes.

We clasped hands and were thankful for his escape. This morning he has
gone again to what is left of Dixmude with a flying column. Dr. Munro
and Mr. Gleeson, with Lady Dorothie Feilding and her friends, are in the
party, although in Dixmude German infantry have taken possession of the
outer ruins.

The courage of this English field ambulance under the Belgian Red Cross
is one of those splendid things which shine through this devil's work of
war.

*At the Kaiser's Headquarters*

By Cyril Brown of The New York Times.

GERMAN GREAT HEADQUARTERS IN FRANCE, Oct. 20.--The most vulnerable,
vital spot of the whole German Empire is, paradoxically, in France--the
small city on the Meuse where the Grosses Hauptquartier, the brains of
the whole German fighting organism, has been located for the last few
weeks. After a lucky dash through the forbidden zone of France held by
the Germans I managed to pay a surprise visit to the Great Headquarters,
where, among other interesting sights, I have already seen the Kaiser,
the King of Saxony, the Crown Prince, Major Langhorne, the American
Military Attache; Field Marshal von Moltke, and shoals of lesser
celebrities with which the town is overrun. My stay is of indeterminate
length, and only until the polite but insistent pressure which the
Kaiser's secret police and the General Staff are bringing to bear on
their unbidden guest to leave becomes irresistible.

It was a sometime TIMES reader, a German brakeman, who had worked in New
York and was proud of being able to speak "American," who helped me to
slip aboard the military postzug (post train) that left the important
military centre of L---- at 1:30 A.M. and started to crawl toward the
front with a mixed cargo of snoring field chaplains, soldiers rejoining
their units, officers with iron crosses pinned to their breasts,
ambulance men who talked gruesome shop, fresh meat, surgical supplies,
mail bags, &c. Sometimes the train would spurt up to twelve miles an
hour. There were long stops at every station, while unshaven Landsturm
men on guard scanned the car windows in search of spies by the light of
their electric flash lamps. After many hours somebody said we were now
in Belgium.

There are no longer any bothersome customs formalities at the Belgian
border, but the ghost of a house that had been knocked into a cocked hat
by a shell indicated that we were in the land of the enemy. Houses that
looked as if they had been struck by a Western cyclone now became more
numerous. A village church steeple had a jagged hole clean through it.
After more hours somebody else said we were in France. Every bridge,
culvert, and crossroad was guarded by heavily bearded Landsturm men, who
all looked alike in their funny, antiquated, high black leather
helmets--usually in twos--the countryside dotted with cheery little
watch fires.

In the little French villages all lights were out in the houses. The
streets were barred like railroad crossings except that the poles were
painted in red-white-black stripes, a lantern hanging from the middle of
the barrier to keep the many army automobiles that passed in the night
from running amuck.

Sedan, a beehive of activity, was reached at daybreak. Here most of the
military, plus the Field Chaplains, got out. From here on daylight
showed the picturesque ruin the French themselves had wrought--the
frequent tangled wreckage of dynamited steel railway bridges sticking
out of the waters of the river, piles of shattered masonry damming the
current, here and there half an arch still standing of a once beautiful
stone footbridge. I was told that over two hundred bridges had been
blown up by the retreating French in their hopeless attempt to delay the
German advance in this part of France alone.

Several hours more of creeping over improvised wooden bridges and
restored roadbeds brought the post train to the French city that had
20,000 inhabitants before the war which the Kaiser and the Great
Headquarters now occupy.

Wooden signs printed in black letters, "Verboten," (forbidden,) now
ornament the pretty little park, with its fountain still playing,
outside the railroad station. The paths are guarded by picked
grenadiers, not Landsturm men this time, while an officer of the guard
makes his ceaseless rounds. Opposite the railroad station, on the other
side of the little park, is an unpretentious villa of red brick and
terra cotta trimmings, but two guard houses painted with red-white-black
stripes flank the front door and give it a look of importance. The
street at either end is barred by red, white and black striped poles and
strapping grenadiers on guard are clustered thick about it. You don't
need to ask who lives there. The red brick house (it would not rent for
more than $100 a month in any New York suburb) is the present temporary
residence of the Over War Lord. Its great attraction for the Kaiser, I
am told, is the large, secluded garden in the rear where this other "man
of destiny" loves to walk and meditate or, more usually, talk--though
the few remaining French inhabitants could have a frequent opportunity
of seeing him walk in the little closed public park if they were
interested, but the natives seem outwardly utterly apathetic.

Several of the Kaiser's household, in green Jaeger uniforms, were
lounging around the door for an early morning airing, while secret
service men completed the picture by hovering in the immediate
neighborhood. You can tell that they are German secret service agents
because they all wear felt alpine hats, norfolk jackets, waterproof
cloth capes and a bored expression. They have been away from Berlin for
nearly three months now. About fifty of them constitute the "Secret
Field Police" and their station house is half a block away from the
Kaiser's residence.

Just around the corner from the Kaiser, within a stone's throw of his
back door, is another red-brick house with terra-cotta trimmings, rather
larger and more imposing. The names of its new residents, "Hahnke,"
"Caprivi," and "Graf von Moltke," are scrawled in white chalk on the
stone post of the gateway. Further up the same street another chalk
scrawl on a quite imposing mansion informed me that "The Imperial
Chancellor" and "The Foreign Office" had set up shop there. Near by were
Grand Admiral von Tirpitz's field quarters. A bank building on another
principal street bore the sign, "War Cabinet."

The Great General Staff occupies the quaint old Hotel de Ville. An
unmolested ramble showed that all the best residences and business
buildings in the heart of the town were required to house the members of
the Great Headquarters, who number, in addition to the Kaiser and his
personal entourage, thirty-six chiefs or department heads, including the
Imperial Chancellor, the War Minister, the Chief of the Great General
Staff, the Chief of the Naval General Staff, the Chief of the Ammunition
Supply, the Chief of the Field Railways, the Chief of the Field
Telephone and Telegraph Service, the Chief of the Sanitary Service, the
Chief of the Volunteer Automobile Corps, &c., making, with secretaries,
clerks, ordonnances, and necessary garrison, a community of 1,200 souls.

I could not help wondering why the Allies' aviators weren't "on the
job." A dozen, backed up by an intelligent Intelligence Department,
could so obviously settle the fortunes of the war by blowing out the
brains of their enemy. Perhaps that is why the whereabouts of the Great
Headquarters is guarded as a jealous secret. The soldiers at the front
don't know where it is, nor the man on the street at home, and, of
course, its location is not breathed in the German press. Theoretically,
only those immediately concerned are "in the know." Visitors are not
allowed, neutral foreign correspondents are told by the authorities in
Berlin that "it is impossible" to go to the Grosser Hauptquartier.

Two aeroplane guns are mounted on the hills across the river at a point
immediately opposite the Kaiser's residence, while near them a picked
squad of sharpshooters is on the watch night and day for hostile fliers.
To further safeguard not only the person of the Kaiser but the brains
of the fighting machine the spy hunt is kept up here with unrelenting
pertinacity.

"We went over the town with a fine-tooth comb and cleaned out all the
suspicious characters the very first day we arrived," said a friendly
detective.

"There are no cranks or anarchists left here. Today the order is going
out to arrest all men of military age--between 18 and 45--but there are
few, if any, left. We also made a house-to-house search for arms and
collected three wagonloads, mostly old.

"Our Kaiser is as safe here now as he would be anywhere in Germany. We
know every one who arrives and leaves town. It seems impossible for a
spy to slip in and still more to slip out again through the lines--but
we are always on the watch for the impossible. The fear of spies is not
a delusion or a form of madness, as you suggest. Here is one case of my
personal knowledge: A German Boy Scout of 16, who had learned to speak
French and English perfectly at school, volunteered his services and was
attached to the staff of an army corps. This young chap succeeded in
slipping into Rheims, where he was able to locate the positions of the
French batteries and machine guns, and make his way back to our lines
with this invaluable information. For this feat the boy received the
Iron Cross. After being in the field for six weeks he got home-sick,
however, and has been allowed to go home for a visit."

From a spectacular point of view the Great Headquarters is rather
disappointing. A few mixed patrols of Uhlans, dragoons, and hussars
occasionally ride through the principal streets to exercise their
horses. Occasionally, too, you see a small squad of strapping
grenadiers, who break into the goose step on the slightest provocation
as when they pass a General or other officer of the Great General Staff,
whom you recognize by the broad red stripes on their "field gray"
trousers.

There is no pomp or ceremony even when royalty is running around at
large. Thus when the King of Saxony arrived in town, a few hours after
I did, no fuss was made whatever. The Saxon King and his staff, three
touring car loads, all in field gray, drove straight to the villa
assigned them, and, after reciprocal informal visits between King and
Kaiser, the former left to visit some of the battlefields on which Saxon
troops had fought, and later paid a visit to his troops at the front.
For this exploit, the Kaiser promptly bestowed on him the Iron Cross,
first and second class, on his return to town.

Even the Kaiser's heart is not covered with medals, nor does he wear the
gorgeous white plume parade helmet nowadays, when going out for a
horse-back ride or a drive. I saw him come from a motor run late in the
afternoon--four touring cars full of staff officers and personal
entourage--and was struck by the complete absence of pomp and ceremony.
In the second car sat the Kaiser, wearing the dirty green-gray uniform
of his soldiers in the field. At a distance of fifteen feet, the Over
War Lord looked physically fit, but quite sober--an intense earnestness
of expression that seemed to mirror the sternness of the times.

The Kaiser goes for a daily drive or ride about the countryside usually
in the afternoon, but occasionally he is allowed to have a real outing
by his solicitous entourage--a day and more rarely a [Transcriber: text
missing in original]

"His Majesty is never so happy as when he is among his troops at the
front," another transplanted Berlin detective told me. "If his Majesty
had his way he would be among them all the time, preferably sleeping
under canvas and roughing it like the rest--eating the 'simple' food
prepared by his private field kitchen. But his life is too valuable to
be risked in that way, and his personal Adjutant, von Plessen, who
watches over his Majesty like a mother or a governess, won't let him go
to the front often. His Majesty loves his soldiers and would be among
them right up at the firing line if he were not constantly watched and
kept in check by his devoted von Plessen." However, the Kaiser sleeps
within earshot of the not very distant thunder of the German heavy
artillery pounding away at Rheims, plainly heard here at night when the
wind blows from the right direction.

Of barbarism or brutality the writer saw no signs, either here or at
other French villages occupied by the Germans. The behavior of the
common soldiers toward the natives is exemplary and in most cases
kindly. There are many touches of human interest. I saw about a hundred
of the most destitute hungry townsfolk, mostly women with little
children, hanging around one of the barracks at the outskirts of the
town until after supper the German soldiers came out and distributed the
remnants of their black bread rations to them. It is not an uncommon
sight to see staff officers as well as soldiers stopping on the streets
to hand out small alms to the begging women and children. Many of the
shops in town were closed and boarded up at the approach of the
Prussians, but small hotel keepers, cafe proprietors, and tradesmen who
had the nerve to remain and keep open are very well satisfied with the
German invasion in one way, for they never made so much money before in
their lives. Most of the German soldiers garrisoned here have picked up
a few useful words of French; all of them can, and do, call for wine,
white or red, in the vernacular. Moreover, they pay for all they
[Transcriber: original 'them'] consume. I was astonished to see even the
detectives paying real money for what they drank. Several tradesmen told
me they had suffered chiefly at the hands of the French soldiers
themselves, who had helped themselves freely to their stock before
retreating, without paying, saying it was no use to leave good wine, for
the Prussian swine.

I had not prowled around the Great Headquarters for many hours when the
Secret Field Police, patrolling all the streets, showed signs of
curiosity, and to forestall the orthodox arrest and march to
headquarters (already experienced [Transcriber: original 'experience']
once, in Cologne) waited upon Lieut. Col. von Hahnke, Military
Commandant of the city, and secured immunity in the form of the
Commandant's signature on a scrap of paper stamped in purple ink with
the Prussian eagle. Commandant Hahnke, after expressing the opinion that
it was good that American newspaper men were coming to Germany to see
for themselves, and hoping that "the truth" was beginning to become
known on the other side, courteously sent his Adjutant along to get me
past the guard at the Great General Staff and introduce me to Major
Nikolai, Chief of Division III. B., in charge of newspaper
correspondents and Military Attaches. Here, however, the freedom of the
American press came into hopeless, but humorous, collision with the
Prussian militarism.

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