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On our left was the farm, to which this road led. We passed through
the devastated barn. Balls began to whistle and crash against the
walls. The windows had no panes and the rooms were full of rubbish
and rotten straw. A Grenadier dragged himself along towards us, his
face drawn and his forehead covered with cold perspiration. His
trousers were sticking to one of his legs with blood, and, on cutting
them away, a big wound was to be seen with a dark background,
formed by the muscles, and a long, red stream which was trickling
down. Next arrived a Zouave, short and broad-backed. He came
along merrily, supporting his arm which he showed us.
"I think they've broken it this time, the pigs!" he said, with a
Marseilles accent. "They had me, anyhow." He spoke with great
eloquence, gesticulating energetically. When his arm was dressed,
he turned suddenly pale and was silent, as he leaned for support
against the wall.
We looked out to see where we should cross the fiery barrier. Every
man gave his opinion on the matter. The Zouaves over yonder were
going along, in single file, near the hedges, in the direction of
Zuydschoote. We could see their yellow jackets and the blue veiling
covering their chéchias. Holding their guns in their hands, they were
advancing cautiously, hiding like Indians on the war-path.
As we approached Kemmelbeeck, the bullets whistled, snapped, and
whined more than ever. We saw the footbridges, the sentinel's niche,
all covered with grass, and the big, bare trees, with their out-
stretched arms. All along the coppice, in the ditches, the Grenadiers,
with dark coats and red badges on their collars, could be seen lying
down among the Zouaves in their light costumes. To our right, the
farm in ruins, with nothing but fragments of walls, level with the
ground, was hiding its bricks in the grasses. The zone here was fired
on to such a degree that it was wiser to hasten along. We had to
cross the road in order to reach the little guard-house. This was
sheltering a whole group of soldiers, who were in the garden taking
refuge near the walls and among the green plants and tufts of
jonquils. Their uniforms stood out in vivid colours, all the more vivid
as the sun was sinking in the horizon.
The little house was intact and this was a miracle. The men were
chattering like magpies. They were relating all kinds of exploits
amidst the din of the battle. Those near the walls were crouching
down close to each other. The others were lying flat down. The
wounded had taken refuge inside the house.
Two small rooms were full, and the wounded were lying down on
straw. One of these, a Grenadier, was near the wall. He was dying
from a bullet in his head. A Zouave, crouching in a corner, was
pressing his arm against his breast. He did not speak and was
gazing with a fixed stare in front of him. Others were tossing about
and moaning. The floor was strewn with bandages covered with
blood, with scraps of dirty uniforms, with knapsacks, guns, and
bayonets. A hand that was stretched out towards me had the fingers
almost torn off. A young Corporal, very plain-looking, with dark hair,
his moustache cut in brush fashion, and with twinkling eyes, was
joking at his own expense, as he pointed to his wound. "What am I
going to do," he asked, "for I cannot sit down again?" In the
adjoining room, there were more wounded men, all crowded
together. The army chaplain, in one corner, was giving the
absolution. Two officers were taking their supper at a table, whilst
reading their orders. Coming out from under this table, could be
seen the iron-tipped boots of a dying man.
"Doctor, Doctor, am I going to be left here?"
Moans could be heard on all sides and everyone was talking at the
same time. It was a mixture of languages, in which slang and
Flemish predominated.
"My bandage is torn, Doctor; I am losing all my blood!"
There was a poor fellow whose leg had been nearly blown off;
another one, bent double, was leaning his head against the wall.
Another man had his head bandaged and bleeding.
"I was advancing," he said, "the first of the section, when all at once
I felt a shock."
He gesticulated with his dry hand, trying to explain what had
happened. There were many others in a similar plight. It was getting
dark and the red wounds looked black in the darkness, and the
expression in the men's eyes seemed more profound. A candle was
lighted and the shadows on the wall now grew longer and looked
enormous. A wounded man, in a corner of the room, had just
ceased suffering. His eyes were wide open staring fixedly at the
room.
From the windows, the green light of the shrapnels and the red
flames of the shells lit up the darkness with sudden flashes. Tiles
kept falling and lumps of earth thudding against the roof. A strange
heaviness weighed on everyone, numbing the brain and drying the
eyes. Was it fatigue or torpor? No, it was something indescribable.
Outside, the human bunch was still there. To the right could be
heard the regular tac-tac of a machine-gun.
"Ah the animals!" cried a Zouave, shaking his fist. "We shall have
them, though, just now, with the bayonet!"
Shells went whizzing over the house, exploding in the coppices with
a whooping noise. Then came the heavier, jerky whizz of the big
"Fifteens," Ram ... ram ... ram! They exploded and kept coming in
threes, at regular intervals. From one minute to another the great
glow might appear, the final destruction which would send all our
human islet to its death.
Our first line trenches were over yonder. There was the Lizerne Mill.
The village was to the right. The ground looked black, the plain was
lighted by the moon, so that one could see a heap of bricks which
reminded one of the Mill. In October, we had seen it in all its glory,
with its sails in the form of a cross. Through the cloud of dust which
rose from the battle-field, lighted up by the shrapnels which kept
rending the darkness, and in the midst of the wan light, the scene
before us looked like a dream picture. We could see the spot we
wanted to reach. With our eyes fixed on it, we went along as though
hypnotised. Over there was the hill-top that had been laid waste, the
accursed spot where craters had been made in every direction.
Bullets were whizzing through the air and clods of earth kept falling
with heavy thuds. Fragments of shells kept burying themselves with
a whirring sound. Onward, onward, we must get there! As we
advanced, the outline of the spot we were aiming at grew bigger
and bigger. We kept stumbling, falling down and getting up again.
Now we saw the house all in ruins, the hill on which the mill had
stood before it fell in. A shelter had now been dug in the hill. I
pushed the door open, a whiff of hot air nearly choked me, the light
dazzled me and, in the heavy atmosphere, I could scarcely recognise
any faces. There were about twenty men there, some wounded, who
were waiting, and officers who were there at their posts. We had to
go still farther on than this. We could stay only long enough to
exchange a few words, and then, shaking hands, we said "Adieu!
Good luck!" How many of us would never return!
It was now the last stage of our journey. There was a
communication trench here. We glided along, sheltering near the
house, dark shadows in the night. The trench had been blocked and
was almost destroyed. We had to climb on heaps of sand, stride
over, jump and then let ourselves fall again into the holes. It was a
labyrinth of fragments of walls, and of moving earth, above which
tall, branchless trees stood up like black skeletons. Shells kept
coming regularly, every quarter of a minute. Between every
explosion we ran, hurrying forward. Our hearts were beating fast.
The bullets kept snapping. We did not think of death. Our one idea
was to arrive, to advance. It was a deadly race. And then the odour
that rose to our nostrils, at the same time as the odour of the
powder, became stronger and stronger.
At last we came to Yperlée, to the footbridge. Only a rush now and
we shall be on sheltered ground.
The tree that used to be there is split up. Its dark branches were all
intertwined as they fell, and we could see the white of its sap-wood,
with its enormous prickles. On the ground were four Zouaves. One
of them was crouching down, with his gun between his legs and his
head on his chest. The others were lying down, as though they were
asleep. And that terrible odour became persistent. Agreeable at first,
something like jasmine, it finally became sickening. It had been
pursuing us for a long time, and, at times, it was most violent. The
band seemed to be tightening round our temples. Our eyes were
burning and tears were running down our cheeks. There were little
drops of moisture in the air which settled on us.
Here was the trench, and the moon made the shadows seem
enormous. The sudden gleam from the shrapnels rent the darkness
overhead. The shells yelled as they passed heavily along. It was as
though they found it difficult to advance. Suddenly some "seventy-
fives" rushed along. They ceased and then began again wildly. The
horizon was brilliant with sudden flashes. In the distance we could
hear the stifled "Boom!" of the big cannons, the bell-like sound of
the 380 which went on and on. The cannonading became slower
and we thought it was stopping, but, after a moment's silence, one
cannon began again, then another, and then all of them together.
Our Grenadiers were there, lying on the parapets, crouching in the
trenches, big, dark shadows on their still greyer sacks. They fired.
Bullets smashed into the sacks, into the earth and the trees.
Shadows could be seen gliding about, men bending double, with
their guns in their hands. On the right, a great, red light was to be
seen, gradually covering all the sky. Ypres was burning. The ruins of
Ypres were in flames. The bullets sang and whined. Others plunged
into the bluish darkness with a reverberating noise. They went a
long way and then suddenly ended in the ground. They came from
the front, from the back, from everywhere. A fuse came down from
the sky, a green star lighting up the trench with an unnatural light,
like a diabolical smile. The whizzing began again. Shrapnels burst
with their greenish light, again and again, and all the time. It was a
wonderful and terrible hour. Flanders was bleeding from all her
veins. But no matter, the Germans did not pass!
 CHAPTER XXXIV
Shelter D.A.

By Dr. Duwez, Army Surgeon to the Regiment of Grenadiers

In the low room of the farm-house, with its dingy ceiling supported
by oak beams, everyone was listening in silence. The Germans had
lost Lizerne, but they were still holding out on this side of the water:
Het-sas and Steenstraete. This evening, the Battalion was to occupy
a transversal position, behind the telegraph pole opposite the bridge-
head. The officers, in their dark uniforms, were standing up. In the
dim light, their faces looked paler than usual. Their brass buttons
and their stars shone. Through the curtains of the windows we could
see the green landscape. Only those who had passed through the
Lizerne hell could imagine the impression caused by the idea of
returning to it.
All day long, the cannon had been roaring, making the window-
panes rattle. A few shells had come as far as our farm and killed a
Grenadier. I had seen him near the hedge. He was stretched on the
ground, his skull broken in, his white face framed by the blood from
his forehead. Not far from him the dry, ploughed ground had been
lacerated. A man, spade in hand, was looking for the head of the
shell.
Our departure took place in silence. In the dim light, our men's red
badges stood out vividly. They went along in Indian file by a path in
the wood. Their heavy tread could be heard as they crossed the
footbridge. They marched on. The black farms, in the darkness,
looked fantastic. There were hedges, rows of willow-trees, and
desolate houses. The framework of only a few of these was still
standing. Tiles cracked under our feet. Then there were paths on
which our dark shadows fell side by side with the poplar trees. From
time to time, we heard the clatter of a metal cup or a stealthy tread
on the grass, like that of an animal going to the river at night. The
moon shone very faintly and the stars looked like silver nails.
A few bullets sang round our ears. One of our fuses rushed into the
darkness with a long, whistling sound. The white star stood out
shining over the landscape and making it look elysian.
We now came to the trench, with its heaps of sacks and up-turned
earth. The traces of the struggle were still visible. Whole trees had
been felled down on the parapet and were now lying, split open,
their beams in the air. We penetrated into a new domain, gliding
along in the deep passages. From time to time a fuse came down
with a greenish light and a graceful, curving movement. It lighted up
the tops of the trees and then searched the coppices. The shadows
moved about again, stretched themselves out and then again all was
darkness, the darkness to which our eyes had once more to get
accustomed. We saw some soldiers wearing blue coats among our
men. They were the brave fellows of the 135th. We could scarcely
distinguish them from the others. They hollowed out niches for
themselves in the bank and crouched right down in these shelters,
with their heads almost buried in the bank. They were there pêle-
mêle, the dead and the living. Those who were sitting had their guns
between their legs and were dozing. We knocked against one of
them in passing.
"What's the matter?" he exclaimed. "Are we going to the assault?"
And he was up and ready at once.
The tall outlines of the trees now stood out against the sky. We had
reached the entrance of the communication trench. Just as we were
crossing the little bridge, something luminous burst over us and we
suddenly heard the fizzling of a storm of bullets. We had only just
time to lie down flat and wait till the hurricane was over. The
darkness then returned. One by one, we entered the labyrinth of
mud and of crumbling parapets. A prop had been made out of the
ruins of a farm-house, which had been razed to the ground. These
ruins did not look like any other ruins. Among the dark coppices, the
scattered stones looked like white patches.
Our shelter was composed of a number of small wooden boxes, half
covered with earth. In the bluish light of night, our outlines looked
enormous. The moon lighted up, with a vague gleam, this
devastated space, where the shattered, broken-branched trees
added their cataleptic attitudes to the general desolation. Around the
shelters, many of which were no more than tangled rubbish, about
fifteen dead bodies were lying crushed on the ground. In the
background was the Lizerne Mill. A jagged outline could be seen
standing out against the sky.
Our men were wandering about trying to find a place. At the bottom
of a hole, the yellowish light of a candle could be seen, but it was
soon extinguished. The ambulance men were burying the nearest of
the dead. The Chaplain, who looked like a dark shadow in the
moonlight, offered up a prayer. It was in this spot that we were to
live for the next three days.
Our men huddled together on planks of wood with a slight layer of
straw. Each one rolled himself up in his blanket and wedged himself
into his corner. Everyone was silent. Through the open door could be
seen the pale blue of the sky with two stars shining in it. In the
distance, the big cannons were booming all the time. We tried to go
on sleeping as long as possible, stiff though we were. The sun had
already risen. The square of the sky which could be seen through
the open door had gradually become a square of light. Death had
not come to us during the night.
The sun was warm and we lay down on the bare ground behind the
shelter, like so many lizards. The kindly golden light chased away all
bitterness and fatigue. Under our feet, the bodies which had only
just been buried gave a sensation of elasticity to the ground. The full
daylight took away the phantasmagorial appearance of everything,
and our shelters appeared in their true aspect, wretched boxes,
made of pinewood half covered with tufts of grass.
The ground all around us was hollowed out in enormous craters,
several of which were quite close to us. A field all yellow with turnips
in flower crowned the summit, the rest was nothing but brown
earth.
A few men at work passed along by the hedge. One by one they ran
along, bending nearly double. They passed near to us, making
straight for the top of the hill. Little clouds of dust, made by bullets,
kept rising at their feet. Their coats could be seen mingling with the
yellowish-green of the turnip field. They then disappeared among
the flowers.
Towards two o'clock the cannonading commenced. The seventy-fives
thundered without ceasing. Our seven-fives accompanied them. Very
soon the Germans began to do their part, and their tens exploded
with a noise that rent the air. Next came the wild-beast yelling of the
shrapnels rushing on to the batteries, the dull noise of the heavy
block-trains, the whizzing of our own shells, which passed quite near
to us and then went on rapidly to lacerate our enemies in their dens.
Then came the bell-like sound of the English howitzers, the
fantastical dance of the seventy-five shells, striking their wild chords
on the trenches, the yelling whistle of the heavy shells which soon
began to fall on the plateau. They exploded near to us, with a heavy
crashing din. The rubbish whirled round in the air with harmonious
songs. The bursting of certain German shrapnels was accompanied
by a hubbub like the cries of wounded men. And then once more
came the big shells. The sky was darkened by the clouds of black
dust which rose up in the air like waterspouts.
The planks of wood were riddled with fragments. The cannonading
then diminished and finally ceased. What was going to happen next?
We listened anxiously and then, suddenly, a machine-gun was to be
heard. This meant the assault, and our hearts were full of anguish.
We looked out into the distance, straight in front of us, sure,
however, that we should see nothing. Then, all at once, by the
communication trench, a whole mass of wounded men arrived. They
were pale and panting and many of them drenched to the bones.
"Oh the wretches, the wretches, they had us, Doctor! It was
horrible. We had scarcely left the trench, when they mowed us
down. Some of our men plunged into the water to save themselves,
into that water over yonder, the stream, I don't know what you call
it, and they have been drowned in that rot. Others who were
wounded and were trying to get back into our lines were finished off
by them, finished off, Doctor, by their machine-guns, men who were
dragging themselves along on the ground."
The machine-gun was silent now. More and more wounded arrived,
in little groups, pursued by the shooting. One of them had his face
red with blood. There was blood and mud everywhere, and on all
sides moans of pain. One poor fellow was sitting in a hole, with
bullets in both feet and his arm shattered. He was holding his arm as
one holds a baby, rocking it and uttering incomprehensible things, as
he shook his head. There were about forty lying either at the back of
the shelters or inside, pêle-mêle, amongst our men. They gradually
became more calm and were quiet. Those who could go on farther
started off one by one. The one who had been crying was now
shivering in a corner. The darkness came on again gradually. The
assault of the 135th had failed.
In the night, the dance began once more, and this time, through the
chinks, we could see the red light of the explosions. Suddenly a shell
made a breach over our heads.
"Is anyone hit?" we asked.
"No one," came the reply.
Another one came presently, and then others. We heard them fall
and the ground shook. We tried to go to sleep, but, with our hearts
beating fast and our limbs cramped, sleep would not come. More
shells arrived. We thought they were exploding farther away, but no,
that one was nearer. Then another farther away and, after this,
silence again. We were tired of hoping against hope and we all
pulled our blankets up and covered our faces.
The dawn was slow in coming. There were no more illusions possible
for us. As long as the Germans were on this side of the water, life
would be unbearable for us. And yet it was a beautiful day and a
bird was singing on the broken branch of a tree. It was so good to
be alive!
Thanks to the shells round here, the graves were ready made. We
put the Grenadiers and French who were in the neighborhood into
them. Our domain was very limited, and was skirted on every side
by death. Presently breakfast was served, bread and jam, cold
coffee in aluminium goblets. These were the usual rations, for we
had to live in spite of everything. We yawned as we looked out and
saw the thin brown lines of the German trenches in front of us.
In the afternoon, the aëroplanes were flying about over our heads in
the blue sky, and presently the azure road was riddled with white
spots. We were all watching them, but we soon had to go in and
take shelter, as the splinters fell about with a whirring sound. One of
our machines then appeared in pursuit of the others and this was
intensely exciting for us. It rushed along like a bird of prey, but
unfortunately its victim had time to escape ... and so the time
passed.
Once more the dance began, and the noise, this time, was
formidable and uninterrupted. Again the big shells tore up the
ground near us, flinging into the air enormous clouds which hid the
light from us. The rubbish fell down like rain, the ground trembled,
and our huts shook. The next one came along with a terrible, hissing
sound, and then another and another. We wondered whether the
cannon would never cease again. For days now, we had heard it like
this. At last there was silence once more. We could scarcely believe
it at first. The backs of our necks ached and our ears were on the
alert. What was the meaning of this wonderful silence? We could not
hear the machine-gun. Well, then ... our assault must have
succeeded.... We could not believe this. It was too good to be true.
In spite of everything, our breasts were swelling with joy and the
men burst out singing the Marseillaise.
Oh, if we could only know what had happened! Presently a soldier
came our way.
"What's the news?" cried out our men. He looked at us in a dazed
way, holding his metal cup in his hand.
"News of the assault?" he said. "It's been put off."

It was night and, on the Steenstraete side, there was a house in

flames, throwing huge red lights on the sky. The fuses, with their
ideal colouring, rose silently again in the air with their gentle curves.
Our long serpents, with their golden spangles, rushed out into the
darkness, letting a star of pale light fall in the air.
By gliding along, from shell hole to shell hole, it was possible to get
as far as the mill. In the communication trench, a dark, crushed,
charred body had sunk down. Farther on, there were paving stones
that had been torn up and rubbish, from all sides, that had
accumulated. The hillock was torn open and the opening led out to
the light night. The shadows here were motionless and the very
things looked dead. It was absolute solitude, a terrible picture of
war, the strange domain of fear.

Of the five shelters, only one was intact. Two of them were nothing
but heaps of planks. The ear was now accustomed to all the noises;
it had learnt to know when danger was near and every sound had its
own special significance in our minds. Every afternoon the action
began again, it was always the same thing. Weariness made our
heads and limbs seem heavy. Life was passing by in this way now.
From time to time, delegates went to the different companies,
bending down almost double, tricking danger.
In the shelters, a fool was telling extraordinary tales, tales of riotous
life and of quarrels. Everyone laughed. His face was all awry, but he
would not upon any account laugh himself. There was a red-haired
young man there, too, with long hair. He was pale and sickly. He was
listening anxiously to all the sounds outside. Why in the world did he
think so much of his life. He began arguing when it was his turn to
start and then rushed out into the danger, as though his fate were a
thing of great importance. We are all of us like that.
Some of the men were asleep, others were eating, and a fierce-
looking Grenadier was polishing the head of a shell.
As a matter of fact, we could really have lived there a long time, it
was only a question of habit and custom.
To our right, the big green shells kept bursting fairly regularly on a
group of houses. Farther on, shell-mines kept falling. No one paid
any attention to these now. They came at their own sweet will on
our side. Suddenly, a long, dark mass was to be seen rushing along
and turning round and round above a roof. Was it a man that had
been flung into the air? No, it was a shell that had not exploded and
which had bounded again on to the footpath. The darkness came
over us for the third time. It slowly changed the luminous tints of
the sky into pastel-like grey harmonies, which grew slowly fainter
and ended in darkness.
Suddenly, red fuses were flung into the air. An attack had begun. In
a few seconds, all the cannons were thundering together. The
German shrapnels exploded four at a time in a luminous mass of
absinthe green, in the centre of which were red balls. They rent the
air with a huge noise. The seventy-fives rushed out yelling. In the
distance, their sudden flames were like gigantic will-o'-the-wisps. A
machine-gun could now be heard, and then a second one, and a
third. Some soldiers of the 418th passed along in close file, dressed
in pale blue which mingled with the darkness. Their bayonets
glittered in the green light of the fuses, and then again, with mad
yells, the "big" shells appeared on the plateau, flinging into the air
opaque clouds which gathered round us. Gun firing could be heard
crackling all along the line. An immense brazier had been lighted at
Lizerne. It grew bigger and bigger. And among the piles of dark
night clouds, above Steenstraete in flames, a blood-red moon arose.
 CHAPTER XXXV
Steenstraete
(May 25, 1915)

By Dr. Duwez, Army Surgeon to the Regiment of Grenadiers

At Steenstraete, the upheaval, the absolute destruction of everything

is formidable. The very places where the houses stood are only
recognisable by the heaps of broken bricks of their foundations.
There was not much left when we arrived in the Sector, but, at
present, there is not even one stone upon another. Everywhere there
are craters hollowed out, and these are so close together that they
run into each other. In one of these, a German corpse could be
seen, standing up, buried up to his waist and headless. Pieces of
uniforms were visible in the beaten soil, and, as the ground gave
way, one saw a face under one's feet, the shape of which was
vaguely outlined and the mouth, with its white teeth, was open like
a rat hole.
We saw what had been the brewery with its huge cellars. It had
fallen completely in. We could only recognise the road by its torn-up
pavement and its twisted rails. Of all Steenstraete, there is nothing
left, it has been razed to the ground. The bridge is nothing but a
wretched heap of old iron.
The Steenstraete Bridge! Names and sites, like people, acquire their
titles of nobility. At present, the Algerian sharp-shooters are guarding
the bridge. In order to go forward, we had to disturb the sentinels
who were lost in thought near their battlements. We had to climb
over the sleeping soldiers, too. Some of them had hollowed out
alcoves in the earth and they were almost buried in them. Others
had stretched their tents out on the stakes and they were sleeping in
the square of shade which this afforded. They rather blocked the
way for the patrol's rounds. Their greenish yellow uniform was
almost the colour of the ground. Here and there, the red of a
chéchia cap gave relief to the colouring. Bayonets could be seen
everywhere, glittering in the sunshine. They had a crapouillot, a
bomb-thrower and a German machine-gun, all this among the
battery, together with sacks of earth, dry mud, and the ruins of walls
which formed the trenches. The crapouillot seemed to be crouching
down, whilst the machine-gun and the bomb-thrower stretched their
necks forward in the direction of the enemy. Here and there, the
green and yellow bags, which the Germans had left behind them,
reminded us of the recent occupation. It was a tranquil moment, for
the cannon was silent.
Under the ardent sun, with the dry mud colour which pervaded
everything, the outlines of the Algerian sharp-shooters, their bronzed
complexions and their eagle-like profiles reminded one of an Oriental
street.
One can have no idea of modern warfare without having seen the
ground all torn up by shells and hollowed out in all directions by
trenches, with the old communication passages of the Germans
cutting ours perpendicularly. Houses, the road, gardens, fields are all
mixed up in one mass of ruin and broken earth. It is no use
expecting to find here that comfort which embellishes calmer war
zones; it is useless to look for tombs all regularly arranged and
covered with grass, each one with a cross, on which the dead man's
name is written in white letters.
Here and there, in this region, a rusty bayonet emerges, and on it is
a tattered military cap. Two sticks joined together to form a cross
may also be seen now and then, but that is all. And yet, under this
ground, there are heaps and heaps of dead bodies buried
haphazard. The sharp-shooters have taken some of them for
consolidating their parapet. Cellars fell in burying their occupants.
On every side there are whiffs of strong odours. The ground moves
under our feet and whenever one treads in muddy puddles, this
odour is still stronger. The wind of Death has passed. Everything is
destroyed here, and even the grass does not grow again in such
spots.

CHAPTER XXXVI
Lizerne
(June, 1915)

By Dr. Duwez, Army Surgeon to the Regiment of Grenadiers

We were walking along the winding attack trench, skirting the

Yperlée. It is a trench that gradually gets more and more shallow.
Just where it ends, the dead bodies of two French soldiers were
lying, their faces black and unrecognisable. Water was running over
the injured thigh of one of them and his flesh was as red as his
trousers. The brook among the wild grasses was full of rubbish of all
sorts; and the tall trees sheltering it were either headless, or they
had been mown down, and were lying shattered on the ground.
Some of the branches had resprouted and the muddy brooklet, in
which mouldy bread and tins of provisions were floating, continued
to flow slowly on. Polluted, but glorious, it went on over crumbling
tree trunks and improvised bridges, past earth shelters and mud
banks towards archways that, in the distance, appear to be covered
with flowers. It was flowing on towards that old gay, laughing valley,
little known formerly, but which now bears the charming and terrible
name of the "covered road of the Yperlée."
We then went along the other trench, in which are the tombs of
many of our men. A foot could be seen emerging from the parapet,
and everywhere was that odour that one can never forget, the odour
that reveals the presence of dead bodies more distinctly than the
sight of them.
We then went along the parallel one. It curves inwards near Lizerne
and we crossed the road under the district-railway.
By dint of creeping, climbing, and running, we managed to reach the
German trench which forms an arched circle on the other side of the
village. It had been entirely overturned by the shells. We could see
grey coats that had been left behind, stiffened legs emerging from
the embankment, and cartridges. The houses, behind which the
trench had been constructed, had fallen down, whole pieces of the
walls together, but there was more character about them than those
of Steenstraete, as they showed that they had been houses. The
whole of the back of one house had fallen all in a piece. Under the
ruins could be seen three dead bodies of Joyeux,[13] their skulls
crushed and covered with long, dull brown hair. I crossed the road
and entered a little house, the general sitting-room of which was still
intact. A Boche was lying there with his limbs stretched out, his face
black, his nose flattened, and his eyes sunken. Flies had left their
traces on his chin and cheeks. He had evidently been searched, as
the buttons of his coat had been cut off, but he still had his boots
on.
The whole hamlet was nothing but a heap of ruins. Guns, bayonets,
beds of sacking, and belts were flung about everywhere. The dead
could scarcely be distinguished from the ground which partially
covered them. Shells had hollowed out holes everywhere and on
returning from the other side of the road, I walked over half-buried
corpses.
From where we were, we looked over the plain in the distance, the
beautiful plain with its gentle undulations and its groups of trees
here and there. It was quite green and looked so flourishing and
lovely. We could see the brown line of our trenches and those of the
Germans. Nearer to us, all the ground was furrowed with
communication trenches, with elements of defence, with sacks of
earth for fortification. It seemed as though enormous ants had
devastated the beautiful garden of Flanders.
The sky was wonderfully blue. We could see it between the broken-
up roofs, through the holes in the walls, between the branches of
the rent trees, between the fragments of exploded barrels, which
were spread out fan-shaped like palm leaves. The shrubs were
already sprouting again over the ruins. Birds were singing in the
midst of the silence, and the fields of turnips, which had gone to
seed and which were flowering, formed big yellow patches among
the corn.
And these were the places which had witnessed such hard fighting,
the places over which avalanches of fire had swept. They were now
given over to silence, and mankind there was nothing more than
flattened carrion, almost in a state of deliquescence, only to be
recognised by his colourless hair and by the blue or grey coat which
covered him. And Nature, as we saw, was ready to cover everything
up, Nature which never dies. In an instant, the products of so many
centuries of civilisation had been annihilated there. But the space
devastated, in spite of its extent, is remarkably limited, and only the
works of man and man himself had suffered. The enemy was there
and had seen us, for we were absolutely in the open. We were
comparatively safe though for, near though we were, we were too
small. Shells of 15 calibre began to be fired again at Lizerne. They
fell with a great noise, sending columns of rubbish and clouds of
black smoke into the air. We set off again, taking with us a German
bayonet, a chéchia, a shell fuse, and some yellow and purple pansies
of rich colouring, which had flowered in the deserted gardens. We
went back by the intricate trench passages. In a solitary shelter, by
the side of one of these, a man belonging to the 418th was lying.
We recognised him, thanks to his brown, ribbed velveteen trousers
and his pale blue coat, with its two squares of vivid yellow on the
collar. He was lying on his back and some open letters were on his
chest. Some of his friends had fastened some papers on the
entrance to the hole, giving his name. Standing there, bareheaded,
in the glaring sunshine, we remained for a moment looking at this
man, who, here alone, far away from his own people, had seen his
moment of happiness and glory escape him for ever.
 FOOTNOTES:
[13] Soldiers belonging to the African Battalion.

CHAPTER XXXVII
Death of Sergeant Count Charles d'Ansembourg

By Dr. Duwez, Army Surgeon to the Regiment of Grenadiers

Between the walls of sacks, by the breach hollowed out in the dyke,
we could see the Yser, its banks of mud, and its grey, tranquil
stream. The green bank on the other side was reflected in it,
surmounted by spikes lifting their sharp points towards the sky.
The raft glided along noiselessly. The man who was drawing the
rope was crouching down at the water's edge and his khaki coat
made him look like a big rat curled up. In the breach opposite, one
or two anxious faces could be seen. The raft bunted against the
edge. We were almost in the enemy's territory.
Along the little dyke was a shallow trench hollowed out in the thick
grasses. One had to bend almost double in order to be protected by
the top of the trench. The Yser, at our feet, made a bend and curved
inwards towards Dixmude. The pink and white ruins of this town
could be seen in the background. The trench then continued higher
up and very soon we were in the little post.
It was there that Sergeant d'Ansembourg was lying. A soldier was
endeavouring to staunch the blood which, flowing in long drops over
the face and from the back of the wounded man's head, formed a
little pool. The ball had struck him just above the right eye, near the
temple. It had made a hole in the cap lying near the grenade. The
wound was a mortal one; there was nothing to be done. All that
remained of life was gently ebbing away.
As yet, the paralysis was not complete. Some faculties still remained.
When the wound was dressed, the poor man remained for a few
seconds, holding his head with his hands, leaning on his elbow, as
though wrapt in thought. He did not recover consciousness, though,
for a single minute, nor did he utter a word.
He had on his waterproof coat, of a greenish colour, and his brown
uniform with a leather belt. The refined outline of his sympathetic
face could be seen. In the little excavation, with its steep approach,
everything was the colour of the ground. The blood stains alone
were a cruel contrast to the rest of the colouring.
Presently a head appeared at the edge of our burrow. It was a
soldier bringing with him a stretcher. He gave a leap and then came
in on all fours. Gently we laid the wounded man on the stretcher.
Bullets grazed the top of the earthen parapet, flinging rubbish and
dust over us. The Germans were there, quite near, only fifty yards
away probably.
The wounded man lay there unconscious, his legs already paralysed,
his arm clenched on his breast. We pushed the stretcher a little
further forward, where the digging had been deeper. We were in a
trench that had belonged to the enemy and had been won by our
men. There were niches in the walls, which had served as refuge
during bombardments. By crouching down, we could get right into
these niches with our knees up to our chins. At the end of the
passage were some sacks, used for protecting the sentinel. The sky
was blue above us, but we could not look at it, as our attention was
given to the man lying there before us.
"He was too daring," said a Corporal. "Yesterday, he came boldly in
without stooping in the least. To-day I was here and, as I watched
him coming in, I was just beginning to cry out: 'Sergeant, what are
you doing?' when I saw him sink down. He fell there, against the
side first, and then he rolled down."
The man who spoke had the thin, stern-looking face peculiar to
those who have suffered much during the war.
"I have seen plenty wounded," he continued, "but never anyone like
that whilst I was speaking to him. You cannot imagine the
impression it makes."
A man who was crouching down making the trench deeper, threw
some earth over the parapet. Some bullets dashed against it. The
face of the wounded man grew gradually more and more lifeless and
his breathing became more difficult. In order to take him away, we
were obliged to wait until the blue of the sky grew fainter and the
darkness came on. To attempt anything else meant certain death.
Everyone tried to say something, by way of helping to kill time.
"He was not even on duty. He volunteered to give a hand in taking
the post. 'I am better qualified than the others, Commandant,' he
said, 'for risking my life. I am not married and I am not an only son.
If I happen to disappear, I shall leave no one depending on me.'"
Leaning against the parapet, we waited there. It began to get
gradually colder and colder, and our heads and limbs were feeling
more and more the fatigue of three days' consecutive bombardment.
Our eyes were fixed all the time on the motionless features of the
man whom we had known so gay and so full of life.
In the distance a mine exploded, giving a sudden shock to the
ground. A part of the trench had blown up, it was a piece of the
"Death Trench" that had disappeared in the air. An aëroplane then
came and shooting followed it. The cannon now made its voice
heard. The time seems long when one is waiting and watching and,
as the wounded man's face changed, our hearts grew fuller and
fuller, and we suffered acutely as we watched this life passing slowly
away. Under the slight moustache, the white teeth could now be
seen, the uninjured eye had lost its expression and brilliancy, and
only one of the slender, sun-burnt hands moved.
The sky over our heads began to get paler and paler. The white
clouds then turned grey and mauve. The hour was approaching for
us to leave and, creeping along, we went to see how the land lay, in
order to decide which way to go.
The green ground was all pierced with shell holes newly made in the
dark earth. Spikes were to be seen everywhere, ours made of wood,
and the others of iron, protected by barbed wire. Rubbish of all kinds
strewed the soil. On the other side of the winding Yser, the green
and brown dyke looked like a cliff rising above the water, that
wonderful dyke against which the barbarous wave of invaders had
lashed in fury and then died away.
It was just the moment when the blazing light fades and every
different colour stands out clearly.
The piles of the two landing stages, made of planks, were plunged in
the water.
One of us pushing and the other pulling, we brought the stretcher to
the little trench. The man who had been crouching like a rat at the
riverside was to be seen again. He gave a low whistle and the raft
came gliding along the water. On returning, weighed down by us, it
dipped in front, thus breaking the wavelets.
The entrance was very narrow. We had to carry the wounded man
through labyrinths of passages with their walls of sacks of earth.
This dyke, which, from the other side, looks so beautiful in all its
greenery under the blue sky, showed up its ugliness and misery on
our side. The whole trench had been devastated by the
bombardment and behind it was nothing but a chaos of torn-up
earth amidst pools of water.
In the distance could be seen the plain, finishing in the horizon by a
thin band of trees and houses, outlined in black against the sunset.
The bushes nearer to us were of a dense, green colour and the sky
gradually became livid and heavy, with a few streaks of bluish green.
Darkness was coming over us and had already swooped down on
the passages, with their medley of rubbish. The wounded man was
now lying quite motionless, unconscious, with his eye swollen and
his face rigid. He was wrapped round in a blanket.
Caps in hand, officers and soldiers watched him pass away. With
their earth-coloured coats, they looked like so many shadows. They
listened in silence to the last prayers.
In the growing darkness, he was carried away along the path under
the willow-trees. A mist was stretching over the plain and a fog was
rising from among the reeds. For another moment we could see the
dark outline of the stretcher-bearers.
How many we had known who had come amongst us young and
joyous! And how many of them had we seen carried away in the
darkness, along the path under the willow-trees!...

CHAPTER XXXVIII
A Guard on the Yser:—The Death Trench
(June 2, 1915)
By Corporal J. Libois, of the 12th Line Regiment

This day's work was more terrible than the Dixmude battles. I
certify that Corporal Libois has given an exact account of the
critical situation in the Death Trench of Milestone 16 on the Yser.
Sub-Lieutenant Vueghs of the 12th Line Regiment.
Extract from a letter, 12.9.15.

The French offensive of Arras led to unusual activity on our front.

Our Regiment, which had just come back from the thankless
Oostkerke Sector, had some very painful experiences during that
week, and some of our Battalions were severely tried.
On the night in question, our Company had to relieve guard. Certain
sections were ordered to the outposts.
"To-morrow," said Lieutenant Vueghs, "we shall occupy a position on
the Yser dyke. Our various posts will be ranged along a
communication trench that has been made by the Engineers, but in
this trench, a result of recent attacks, there are still about thirty
dead men. As we come across them, we are to pick them up and
place them on the parapet. The stretcher-bearers will then take
them away. One more word, this trench leads into the German lines
on the other side of the Yser, and comes, therefore, under the
enemy's firing. You will have to stoop down, and even creep along,
when the passage is too low. There must be great caution as you go
along. That is all I have to say. As for the rest, I trust to you."
The Lieutenant was to command the sap head, Trench No. 1. This
was the most advanced of all the posts, only thirty yards away from
the Boches. I was to be there too, and Sergeant Deltenre with about
ten men. What would be the outcome, we wondered? At any rate, it
would be something fresh, and we were delighted at this.
The summer twilight came very gradually. The soldiers lined up, with
their heavy knapsacks on their backs, and their wallets containing
provisions for two days.
"Right! Four in a line! March!" and quite tranquilly, the Company filed
by in a long column, crossing the meadows and the fields of sweet-
scented horse-beans. We went along humming and singing. Half-
way, we had the usual halt and rest. The soldiers lying in the fields,
in the dusk, gave a picturesque note to the scene. The purple-tinted
clouds of the beautiful sunset of Flanders gradually took a pinky
shade. In front of us, towards the east, was the horribly mutilated
steeple of the Oostkerke Church, standing out, with extraordinary
clearness, against the great red disc of the moon, which was just
rising. And in the background could already be seen mysterious stars
flashing forth from the earth. These were the brilliant and ephemeral
enemy fuses. Everything else was absolutely calm. From time to
time, a cricket replied to another cricket. A cool wind swept over us
and, from the various groups, here and there, melancholy refrains
lulled us and made us dreamy.
Our officers appeared to be enjoying the poetry of it all, for they
gave us a rather longer halt than the time fixed.
"Laugh and sing," they perhaps thought, "be gay and joyful, a little
later on, we shall, perhaps, bring back with us, the glorious remains
of one or other of your comrades, now singing there!"
On the Yser plains, there are probably places destined for many of
us. Heaven knows that we all value life, and yet these thoughts do
not make us sad and, thanks to a force of character which we never
suspected, there is more liveliness and sincere gaiety to be found
among the simple soldiers than anywhere else.
Presently the order came to shoulder arms, and we set off once
more. The calm that we had enjoyed was only a truce. It was now
broken by the deafening volleys of our guns. The enemy's lines were
being bombarded and it was a great joy to us to see the flashes over
there, to the right, produced by the explosions of our shells. We had
now entered the danger zone and the darkness was intense. We
advanced in Indian file, one platoon at a time. In the background,
lighted up almost all the time by the luminous fuses of the Germans,
we could see outlines of figures bending down, stooping low, and
then standing up again. It was like a scene out of some enchanted
land.
Finally, we reached our trenches. The relieving of the guard took
place very quickly with no waiting about. The enemy was
bombarding us, but the aim was not good. We began to fit up and
remake our shelters. I made a reconnaissance in the direction of the
communication trench. The entrance was obstructed by the
evacuation of the dead bodies. We had a most awful task. The
stretcher-bearers, moving along on their backs, dragged the bodies
with them by ropes. These bodies were already in a state of
decomposition and, when they came into the light, it could be seen
that their clothes were torn off and that their skin was grazed.
Shrapnels kept exploding near us, so that we had to keep close to
the parapet. The night passed without any other incident than the
visit of the General of the Division. In the morning our watch was
over and, when the lookouts were placed, we had permission to
sleep. All day long we remained walled up in our trenches of sacks.
From the Dixmude posts, which dominated us, the enemy kept an
eye on us and, each time that we showed any sign of life, proved to
us that we were very carefully watched. From time to time, by way
of entertainment, our outposts were bombarded. At night, our time
came for relieving guard again. We restored ourselves with coffee,
for we were in a very thirsty place. We took a good provision of
cartridges, of sacks of earth, and, with heavy shields, leaving our
knapsacks in safety, we started, at 11 o'clock, on our march through
the Yser communication trench.
It was a march that appeared to us to last a century, and certainly
Dante's imagination, in his visions of hell, never surpassed the
horrors of it. The passage was narrow and skirted the parapet of the
Yser. Its access was so difficult and trying, that it was no use
thinking of removing the dead which obstructed it. We had to imitate
the serpent, the toad, and the mole. In order to pass the guard we
were relieving, the men had to lie down flat and we had to crawl
over them. No one spoke a word. Shrapnels kept exploding and
bullets whizzed along continually, flattening themselves against the
parapet. I saw some of them ploughing up the earth scarcely twenty
centimetres above the heads of my comrades, and I was afraid each
time that, in rebounding, they would wound one or another of them.
We were all wedged in as though in a vice. At times, we had to
advance quickly, bent nearly double, our backs almost broken, at
times we had to crawl along, pushing ourselves onward with our
elbows and knees, letting go our shields which encumbered us and
which, knocking against the sides, made a sonorous noise. When we
came to embattlements, watched as we were by the marksmen
posted on the other side of the Yser, we had to rush for our lives.
Our faces were bathed in perspiration. Suddenly, we came across a
dark, motionless mass on the ground. We thought it might be one of
the engineers at work.
"Hi there, what are you doing? Answer!" ordered the Lieutenant.
Shaking his arm, we found that it dropped lifeless.
"Forward! over the dead man!" was our order. Shuddering, and
gasping for breath, we obeyed. Feeling for him with our feet and
slipping over his head, we went on our way. Presently we had
reached the spot known as "the house in ruins." The parapet had
been torn away by a shell, and this might expose us to view. We had
to climb and jump at the same time. Horrors! I fell with my hand on
the icy face of a dead man. The German Artillery now came into
play. The devilish Schoorbakke battery took the dyke by enfilade and
bombarded us. The shells arrived whizzing along and bursting with a
frightful noise, making the dyke crumble, and sprinkling us with all
kinds of rubbish. There was a second's calm. By the livid light of the
fuses, a horrible sight was to be seen, living men swarming along
the passage among human fragments in a state of decomposition,
the most appalling and terrifying wrecks of humanity imaginable.
Horror, repulsion, and disgust were what we felt, but we were
compelled to master our feelings. We had to be superhuman. The
perspiration ran from our faces on to the dead men, as we climbed
over them. And over our heads the bullets never ceased pouring
down, whilst the shells whizzed along and the fuses kept lighting us
up.
Panting and breathless, with our tongues hanging out and our backs
aching so painfully that some of our men were just going to stand
upright for a moment's relief when they were stopped by the
whizzing of bullets overhead. We pushed on again and it seemed as
though we should never be at the end of the passage. At one
moment, we lost sight of the file and feared that we had passed the
post. My brother headed the little group that had become separated
from the others, and I closed the march. Fortunately we were able
to join our comrades again. Just at this moment, we came to a
number of corpses in a worse state than the others. We had to pass
over them, our faces almost touching theirs, our knees on their legs.
A terrible putrid odour emanated from them, an odour that will
always be an infernal memory. Again we found ourselves knocking
against some human bodies. But this time we were crawling over
living men. Finally, we arrived at our post. What a relief it was to us!
Our end had been accomplished. We had relieved the guard and not
one of us had been hit. Our instructions were simple. We had to
keep a lookout and defend ourselves in case of attack. We thought
we should have nothing to fear from the German Artillery, as their
own post was so near. The one thing was to escape bombs and
grenades. When the service was organised, we hollowed out some
shallow burrows to serve as shelters. The Lieutenant passed me a
bottle and told me to disinfect a dead man buried in the trench,
whose shoulder was visible.
In order to prevent the Boches from approaching, we fired over the
parapet all night without showing ourselves. Towards 4.30, when the
dawn was breaking, I started off in search of the body I was to
disinfect. A few yards away, just at the entrance of the next trench, I
found a shapeless mass covered with linen. Was this the one? After
a moment's hesitation, I raised the garment which covered a figure
and saw a face. The features had not changed and the man looked
as though he were asleep. I sprinkled the body with the liquid which
the Lieutenant had given me and covered it again gently. The
second corpse, of which the Lieutenant had spoken, was a little
farther on. The shoulder was rather above the parapet. We covered
it with earth and, towards six o'clock, the stretcher-bearers arrived
to take the two dead men away. This was such a dangerous task,
however, that the Lieutenant would not allow them to carry it out.
They took away the other dead bodies and that made it less difficult
to get out of the trench. By means of the periscope, I now looked at
the German trenches, and thereupon that instrument became a
target for their bullets. Projectiles now began to arrive from behind
us. We wondered what this meant, and the Lieutenant sent word to
Sergeant Denis, who was at the last post but one. We were informed
that Sergeant Denis had just been killed by a bullet in the head. On
passing by an embattlement, someone had called out to him to
stoop down, but it was too late, a bullet had killed him
instantaneously. Poor Sergeant Denis. Yesterday evening, when I
crawled over him, he said to me: "Good-bye, I shall see you again
soon." I wondered, in spite of myself, whether the fate in store for
me might make his words prove true. He had fallen against Corporal
G——, without uttering a word, but his eyes had been fixed
earnestly on him. We can only hope that the Company will not have
to deplore other losses.
I took notes, thanks to the periscope, and I fired from an
embattlement through a German embattlement. The enemy was not
long in replying with dumdums, destroying our embattlement over
which were the upper sacks of the parapet. On the other side of the
Yser in the German trench, I could distinguish a Boche periscope,
and I was quite amazed to see a soldier's bust above the parapet.
He did not stay there long. There was a long, soft, whizzing sound.
This was something fresh: floo-oo-floo-oo—. They were grenades,
some of which burst over our shelters, and some beyond them. Only
a few were thrown and, dismal though their noise was, it did not
alarm us.
It was a beautiful, sunshiny day. Our aircraft could be seen against
the blue of the sky. Our machines were pursued by the shrapnels of
the Boches but these did them no harm. Our Artillery was firing
quite near to us and we had to take shelter from the shell
fragments. Some of our men had lost their blankets, and some their
provisions, during yesterday's march. They were separated from us
by an obstacle. We passed them some food and exchanged some
amusing notes. The Lieutenant, by way of a souvenir, took the
signature of each occupant of the post, in his note-book. Others
followed his example. And the day passed by very, very slowly.
Whilst keeping watch, we talked with the Lieutenant about the war,
about peace and our respective occupations. We talked about our
preferences and our tastes, whilst, only a few yards away, myriads of
big flies danced a ghastly saraband around the body of our poor
comrade. The heat began to be overpowering: whiffs of warm,
nauseous air kept rising and took our appetites away. By way of
rewarding us, the Lieutenant promised us each a good glass, if
everyone of Post I. returned safe and sound. It certainly would not
be our fault if we failed to accept this invitation.
At half-past twelve, the observer on the river bank signalled to us
that an officer was on his round. We all smiled, thinking it was a
joke. Colonel Rademakers[14] of the 3rd Chasseurs suddenly
appeared in the corner of our trench. We were amazed and
wondered how he had got there. Had he come up from underground
or had he fallen from the skies? Considering his size, it is certain that
he could not have come through the passage without having been
massacred fifty times over. He was there, nevertheless, and very
much alive, his fine face expressive of his natural gaiety and of his
great courage. He looked through the periscope, wondering whether
the Boches would honour him with a bullet. He certainly was an
officer of the "right sort."
Night came on and the embattlement that had been discovered had
its place changed, and was strengthened by a shield. We kept a still
stricter watch. Towards 9.30, the firing became violent. A quantity of
explosive shells burst on our parapet and gave us the impression
that the Boches were on our trench and were firing point blank at
us, so violent was the dry sound of the explosions. In our post, two
of our guns would not fire any more. An attack seemed imminent.
We prepared our bayonets and then fired without ceasing. One of
our comrades who was completely worn out, and could not stand,
was seated near us loading the guns for us to fire. It was midnight
when the relief guard arrived. The orders were given while we
continued firing. "Keep a watch on the bank. Attention at that
battlement! On guard! Good luck!"
Our return was safely effected, but not without difficulty. It was
easier than our coming had been, as most of the dead men had
been evacuated. Finally, we were out of that hell once more. The
whole post was safe and sound. Shrapnels were bursting quite near
to us and here, in the first line trenches, where we had had to hide
and press against the parapet yesterday, we felt that we were
almost in security. We wanted to halt in the very midst of the danger
zone, to get our breath, but the officers begged us to be prudent
and we left the trenches. In the distance, we saw the stretcher-
bearers carrying away the body of poor Sergeant Denis to the
Lesenburg Cemetery.
We rested a little on the way, when we were in the rear, and each
one gave his experiences, describing various incidents with
picturesque details. Once more we set off, and at four in the
morning we were back at our quarters. It was now light and the
larks had been singing a long time. It seemed to me as though
everything around us was quite new to us, and as though a century
had passed since we had seen this familiar landscape. We felt
intense satisfaction and deep joy at having accomplished a difficult
task. Everyone was happy and longed to be able to write to his
relatives and friends, to all those for whom he cared and whom he
was now defending.

FOOTNOTES:
[14] Killed a few days later by a shell fragment.

CHAPTER XXXIX
Nieuport in Ruins

By Sub-Lieutenant L. Gilmont, Director of the Automobile Park,

Ocean Ambulance, La Panne

When the battle of the Yser was over, and the Teuton hordes were
stopped, Nieuport, the advance post of the immense front reaching
from the North Sea to the Vosges, had to suffer pitiless destruction.
It was the ransom we had to pay, because their ineffectual effort
had been crushed by the steadfast defence of our heroes. I was
present at the slow death of Nieuport and, as I had to go there
frequently, I never passed by the heaped-up ruins without
experiencing a sentiment of infinite sadness mingled with revolt.
How many times its faithful admirers questioned me about its fate!
How the old city had always charmed us by its exquisite archaism,
with its little narrow, picturesque streets cut in straight angles, its
quaint, yellow-ochre buildings with their green shutters, its church
with the parvis planted with tall, protecting trees, its imposing
Templars' Tower, its Archdukes' House teeming with memories, and
above all its massive Cloth Hall, proudly situated on the Market
Place. What pen can ever faithfully depict the havoc that seventeen
months of war have made of the exquisite Flemish city we had all
known and loved? As far away as Oostdunkerque, the vision of war
begins. The population has been evacuated and here and there,
along the streets, there are shattered houses. Then comes the
winding road across deserted fields and the triangular wood, that ill-
omened wood, where so many of our brave men fell, where the
shells rained down with desperate persistency. At present, all is sad
silence, disturbed only by detonations in the vicinity, by the sound of
a cart passing, or by the measured tread of troops filing by along the
edge of the road. On coming out of the wood, the horizon is
suddenly in view and the sight is heart-rending. In the background is
the town in ruins, and all along the road little houses that have fallen
in. On each side a former arm of the sea cuts the dreary moor,
which is skirted by uncultivated meadows, partially wooded. Most of
the sublime old trees are lying there, all twisted by the machine-
guns, silent for evermore. Some of those which are still standing
seem to be lifting their bare branches heavenwards, in fruitless
protest. We crossed the bridge and the level-crossing, with its little
guard-house. The latter had fallen on to a cart, which now stood
there unable to move under its unexpected burden. And there, with
its Boulevard leading to the old station, all perforated now with
enormous craters, are the first houses of the town. The deflagrations
were all brittle, and we were in the very midst of the furnace. It was
a vision of all that is horrible and, above everything else, there was
that indescribable, persistent odour of rubbish, dust, and death....
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