Read Ebook: An Englishwoman's adventures in the German lines by Lloyd Ann Gladys

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Ebook has 546 lines and 24355 words, and 11 pages

The day wears on. Already the end of the high road where it turns to Malempr? is piled high with trees. The Noah's-ark firs on the highway to Bomale have come toppling down like ninepins. My thoughts turn to weapons. I never dream for an instant but that the peasants will fight the common enemy from behind those bulwark barricades. It seems the only natural and proper thing to do. I know nothing of the duties of non-combatants.

A man from a neighbouring village drives up in his cart. He gets down and feeds his horse with hunks of black bread which he tears from the loaf. I feel ashamed not to be armed. He may help. I approach him.

"Have you a spare rifle?" I ask wistfully.

He stares at me stupidly. "A rifle? No," he says. "Why?"

"I could help to shoot the Germans," I suggest.

"It's a pity," he answers, and his mouth twists in a grin as he turns back to feed his horse.

I have never held a rifle in my hands. But I feel convinced that the mere sight of a loathsome Teuton would make the most difficult and antiquated weapon go off of its own accord.

Madame Job's little girl, Rosa, was sent back from Li?ge some days ago. The school is turned into a hospital, and the good nuns are acting as nurses for the wounded. Rosa's German fellow-pupils are left behind. They will presently enjoy the novel sensation of being shelled by their own countrymen.

Rosa runs about the house like an elf and sings. For a pupil of the Sisters at the Orphelinat de St. Joseph she is very lively. Youth has the happy knack of living in the present. She and Louisa take it in turns to act at "Prussien," the fashionable game. They submit with a good grace to be chased and well thumped on capture by Victor and Ren?, the aubergiste's son.

HOW THE UHLANS CAME

"It never rains but it pours," is as true of the Ardennes as of more distant lands. It has been pouring all night. It is pouring now. In the silence between the pitiless showers, we can hear the roar of the siege guns already bombarding Li?ge.

More trees have been cut down during the dark hours. A great wall of wood bars the road opposite the Gendarmerie leading to Vaux Chavannes. Numberless recumbent tree-trunks are making great dark tracks across the long and tortuous route towards the frontier. We have done our share. We can but wait events.

Madame Job comes out of the inn and leans one hand for a moment on the back of my chair. The other steals up to her eyes.

"I can't help thinking of Albert," she says apologetically, "my Albert in the forts there below." She gazes in the direction of Li?ge, which is hidden behind the distant wooded hills.

"Why fear for him?" I ask. "Is he not lucky to be in the forts, the forts-which-are-so-strong."

I know the comforting phrase by heart now.

"The forts-which-are-so-strong." She repeats the words after me like a child. A gleam of hope dawns for an instant on her kindly face, then fades away. "Supposing he is not fed!" she says with bitter emphasis. To the Walloon mind, hunger is almost worse than death.

Comforted by my fibs, she goes back to cook the dinner over the black oven. The oven and Madame are indivisible. I always think of them together.

I sew on. Suddenly steps are heard approaching from the direction of Vaux Chavannes. They cease. Something is worming its way with a curious brushing noise round that piled-up barrier of trees. "It" turns the corner into the Manhay Street. A peasant is running towards me full tilt. His face is scarlet, his mouth open with the tongue sagging over the lips. He rolls from side to side as if drunken; reaching me he throws up his hands.

"Les Prussiens, les Prussiens!" he shouts, and falls on his face as though possessed.

We bring him water, we fan him. He revives.

"Three hundred Prussians are at Vaux Chavannes," gasps the messenger.

The peasants disperse as though scattered by a shell. The village idiot takes cover in the pig-sty. Germaine is dropped by an agitated and diminutive nurse and immediately begins to scream. She is forcibly dragged to shelter. A scuttling and jabbering ensues. One hears the swish of skirts, the quick tramp-tramp of heavy boots, the sound of creaking stairs. I drag the fainting man into the hotel, quickly close and bolt the door, prop him against the wall, and go to the open dining-room window.

Manhay might stand as a model for "The Deserted Village." The inn is silent as the grave, the family of Job-Lepouse is doubtless in the fields. With me curiosity overrides fear. Even if it entails certain death I must see the Uhlans come. There is a sharp clitter-clatter of horses' hoofs along the Vaux Chavannes road. It stops abruptly at the barricade. I hear a volley of very German curses, the crash-crash of weapons and then a mutilated bicycle comes hurtling through the air. I hear the cry of a man in pain. Some poor devil has been caught....

The Uhlans are in our street. They mass by the Gendarmerie, glare fiercely round. They have learned the feeling of the countryside in those barred tree-trunks which have crossed their path. They suspect a plot and are keen to fight. Charging down the road they come, lance out, heads erect, the sun glinting a thousand sparks from the rim of their metal helmets where it is left unprotected by the light cloth shield. They are not quite so smart as when parading last before their adoring women-kind. Their horses' flanks are streaming, their uniforms dusty. "What splendid men they are!" is my first impression. "This is just like comic opera," is my second. But when, at closer range, my eyes meet those long, sharp lances and that Teuton glare, I confess my third is funk!

I shall never forget that first moment of invasion. The forest of lances, the grey steel of pointed revolvers, sobbing women and frightened children. The desertion of the little village street and the scuttling of agonised peasants into their houses. The banging and locking of doors, the sudden silence as they scatter in the stable ... cellar ... fields. I can see it now.... I shall see it always.

One peasant is not fortunate enough to escape. A Uhlan with an over-developed sense of humour, pricks him in the fleshy part of the shoulder with the point of the lance. Having secured a good hold, the German gallops up and down the village, driving the unlucky man before him at a furious speed.

The remainder of the troop form up and charge towards us down the road. They interrupt their dash at the post office. The officer points a revolver at M. le Pr?cepteur's head in the ingratiating German way and asks some question. I swear that M. le Pr?cepteur's hair is standing on end in the manner hair so frequently assumes in novels, so very seldom in real life.

Something grey and cold intercepts itself between me and the sun. Something cold and grey touches my forehead and a gleaming face comes on a level with my own. The first contact of that revolver makes my knees tremble and gives me a cold sensation down my spine. But I do not budge. My captor neither addresses me nor I him. We simply stare stupidly at one another. A wasp, attracted by the bright metal helmet rim, plays about his face. The hand that holds the revolver trembles. I am almost but not quite amused. Suddenly the weapon is withdrawn. The troop gather up their reins, canter on through the village and halt in consultation at the head of the street.

A curious intuition tells me that the Uhlans are afraid ... of our fear, that those tightly barricaded doors and closed windows suggest plots--perhaps armed resistance. It occurs to me that it would be wiser to show ourselves, to feign indifference. In times like these men are shot for showing the white feather.

The order has been given to charge. They are coming back, the gallant Uhlans! Will they shoot us down? We shall know soon enough. I lift my glass of bock with a rather shaky hand while the postman puffs at his pipe and the poacher half smiles. He is a feckless, fearless rascal. Here they come, lances and all. The foremost misses my head by half an inch. I wince. The soldiers look unutterably fierce as they clatter past. The last few cover us with their revolvers until they turn the corner of the road. Clitter-clatter--fainter--then silence. The postman, ever solemn, turns to me and reaches over an enormous hand.

"Vous ?tes--bon soldat, Mademoiselle," he says, as he rises abruptly and saunters away down the street, puffing at his everlasting pipe.

ANYTHING FOR BREAD

The Uhlans are no longer a novelty, they are a frightful bore. One cannot take two steps outside the village without a soldier in that grey-greeny-blue uniform popping up from behind a tree or appearing as if marionetted down from the cloudless sky. Whenever I see one I have to repress a devouring wish to run.

The war has already taught me one lesson. That there is nothing more dangerous than a frightened soldier. The funk of a scared German oozes into his rifle--not his boots....

All the roads from the frontier, in fact the entire Ardennes are being patrolled by these creatures. To-day we have had armoured cars passing to and fro at break-neck speed, manned by soldiers and positively bristling with rifles.

Boom--boom--boom! It has been going on all day and all night, for the last three days and nights--that horrible cannon at Li?ge. Madame Job can hardly drag herself down this morning. She feels that each sound may mean the annihilation of her dear Albert. Mlle Irma is crying gently too. My soup is decidedly watery and my omelette impossible. C'est la guerre!

A straggling procession of women visits the inn. Most of them have baskets. They have walked many miles in the burning heat. They need bread. Alas! Albert in the fort there below has other things than baking to think about. Besides, there is very little flour. Only just enough for M. le Directeur, the ch?teau on the hill and ourselves.

Madame Job stands out in the street and wrinkles her forehead at the sight of the familiar words, "Boulangerie Lepouse." She does not mind the villagers, but suppose the dreaded Uhlans interpret the sign. What will happen to those six black loaves so snugly concealed in the postmaster's cupboard? M. Alfred mounts a ladder and sploshes out the offending letters till nothing but a few black smudges and a hooded cart in the backyard tell of their once thriving trade in bread.

We have had no Prussians in the village for quite four-and-twenty hours, so the peasants are becoming almost their normal selves. We walk freely about the street and dare to laugh. Laughter is a rare sound in Manhay these days. We even affect to despise the Germans for not coming on in greater numbers.

"Nous avons vu les ?chantillons, mais o? sont les marchandises?" asks one village wit.

M. Floribert puts his tongue in his cheek and says the Walloon equivalent of "let 'em all come."

Ren? and Victor are showing their contempt for the foe by lassoing imaginary Prussians up and down the street, Ren? as usual acting the unfortunate Teuton who is lassoed, hanged, decapitated, in whirlwind fashion, turn by turn.

A group of women sit out under the shady trees in the orchard and talk together as they mend their socks. Some of the older men stroll over to us and spin yarns. An Ardennois legend is spoken of. Anyone could weave a legend round a spider's web in the Ardennes. But legend-making is really rather out of fashion. Instead we have become military experts in minutiae. We splay our fingers convincingly upon our tattered maps and say here ... and here ... are the English, there ... there ... and there are the French. They will advance so, and the Germans will retreat so ... until our audience fades away from sheer boredom and we are left to strategise alone.

"Do be quiet!" says M. Job testily later in the day. He is worried by his children's nervous chatter as they wander restlessly about the dimly lighted rooms. He has been working in the nursery garden all through the hot hours and is a little annoyed not to find his supper ready.

Mdlle. Rosa slips a soft white hand into her mother's wrinkled one and rubs her slender nose affectionately against the elder woman's cheek. Even in war-time she does not forget the teaching of the Good Sisters of the Orphelinat de St. Joseph. She repeats in a dreamy childish voice: "Te souviens, Maman. Qui que le bon Dieu garde, eh bien il le garde ... bien" . So we go to bed consoled.

THE "TERRIBLE" FRENCH!

This is a gala day. Company to lunch! The Tax-collector has walked here from a small town thirty miles away, en route for Aywaille, another twenty, where he intends to fetch his son from school.

"Quelle d?sastre que cette guerre," is his opening remark as we fraternise over the vegetable soup.

I agree.

"The French are very brave," I say.

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