When The Somme Ran Red [Illustrated Edition]

Arthur Radclyffe Dugmore

• Publisher: Lucknow Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781782890775
• Topic: Geschichte
• Subtopic: Erster Weltkrieg

Captain Dugmore stands as a rather strange figure even in the mass of personalities that fought in the Great War: an artist of some standing, a writer, and traveller. When the war broke out in 1914, he visited Belgium as a private citizen; appalled by the damage that the Germans, who were overrunning country in short order at the time, were wreaking he decided to join the British Army. There was only one small problem: at the time he was forty-four, too years too old to enter the army. But he strode into his local recruiting office and demanded admission to the army, and if met with refusal, he stated, he would return with a changed appearance and falsify his age!The army accepted Mr Dugmore as an officer and sent him off for immediate training. Despite having spent a large slice of his life in the outdoors in Africa painting and writing about wildlife, he must have found the trenches a shock. As he recounts in his book, he was strafed, shot at, barraged, and gassed during his time at the front, finally wounded and passed unfit for service in 1916 during the later phases of the battle of the Somme.The author's book is excellently written, filled with anecdote and detailed battle scenes. Author — Captain Arthur Radclyffe Dugmore 1870 - 1955Text taken, whole and complete, from the edition published in New York, George H. Doran company 1918Original Page Count – 285 pagesIllustrations — 20 maps and illustrations

PART I

CHAPTER I—IN BELGIUM-A PRISONER

BEFORE dealing with my somewhat limited experiences and impressions of the Great War I feel that a word of explanation as to how at my age I happened to give up my peaceful occupation as a private citizen and join the army will not be altogether out of place, especially as it relates to that ghastly period of the war, the devastation of Belgium.

It will be remembered that within a few days after Great Britain's declaration of war against Germany accounts of the atrocities committed by the invaders of Belgium were circulated throughout the country. We were incredulous at first, no one believed that a great nation could be guilty of the horrors attributed to Germany, and yet evidence was not lacking to show that the worst stories were to a great extent true. Throughout my life, which has been devoted to the studs of outdoor natural history, I have always found it advisable to see before believing, in other words to verify reports before regarding them as facts. Thus it happened that on August, 14th, 1914, I made my way to Belgium armed with a camera and a large and most imposing British passport.

Ostend was my first objective, and I found the famous watering place in a very peaceful condition, but there was a great deal of suppressed excitement, and the conversation was only of the war and what the Germans were doing in other and less fortunate parts of the country. The town was more or less bedecked with the flags of the Allies, and various proclamations regarding the duties of the people and other matters, together with coloured posters of the uniforms of friendly and enemy soldiers were conspicuous in every street. Later on refugees from various parts of the invaded country drifted into Ostend, and arrangements were hastily made to feed and house the unfortunate homeless people. Private individuals as well as the Red Cross undertook this work of relief, but it put a great strain on the resources of the town. There was a rumour that Brussels was to be taken, so I went there and found the amusing, even pitiful, spectacle of ridiculous little barricades thrown across various main streets. These were guarded by members of the Garde Civique. The whole thing struck me as being absurd, to think that such childish efforts could stay the troops of the most highly organised military organisation the world had ever known. Reason fortunately prevailed and these futile preparations were abandoned. Sixteen hours after I left the city the Germans entered, so I missed the great but lamentable sight.

I returned to Ostend in time for a small taste of excitement when a few Uhlans made what was apparently a reconnaissance of the town. They were warmly received by the Belgians who met and engaged them on the outskirts. The town was in a badly frightened condition. Allied flags were hastily concealed. All who could were flocking to the steamer landing in hopes of getting away to England. Frantic efforts were made to get hold of money, English gold realising as much as 35 francs for the sovereign. I was eating my breakfast at the Motel Maritime when the excitement outside in the square suggested a new development of affairs. A few minutes later some Belgian soldiers passed through the dining-room, leading a highly indignant German officer on whose arm was the sign of the Red Cross. It appeared that he had been caught red-handed in the act of trying to shoot some Belgians. One of his captors was carrying the revolver. Soon a couple of badly wounded Uhlans were brought in and put on board the steamer for England. It is a pleasure to record that they were treated with the utmost care. This apparently was all we were to see of the skirmish. If I remember correctly about nine Germans were killed and three or four Belgians. It brought home to the people of Ostend that the war was very near. But their faith in France and Britain was great, help would come in time they felt sure. Alas they were doomed to disappointment.

From Ostend I moved to Ghent, and while there paid several visits to Termonde during the various periods of its destruction, and what a pitiful sight it was. The wretched little town of some 1600 houses was almost a complete wreck. Over 1200 houses were destroyed, whole streets were simply piles of bricks and broken stones, mingled here and there with remains of bodies and torn clothing. A few houses stood intact for on their doors was the magic chalk mark that good people lived there—in other words Germans, or at least German sympathisers, or still worse, spies. The churches and convents were ruthlessly destroyed and this was not because the churches being usually high were places of observation, for in one case the little low built chapel in the square surrounded by the houses of the old women who were supported by the town was burned, though it could offer no possible point for observation, while at the entrance to the square was the chalked order, that, as only very old women lived there the houses need not be destroyed. The Germans seem to have had the idea that by destroying the churches they were taking the heart and soul from the people: It is one of their many great psychological mistakes.

The last time I visited Termonde was a Sunday two or three days after the most recent destructive visit made by the Germans. I had with great difficulty obtained a pass. In fact it was granted only by explaining how necessary it was that people in England and America should know exactly what was happening to Belgium, so that they could help in whatever ways were possible, and that I would send or take these photographs directly to England. It made one's heart sick to see the misery of the wretched Termonde people. They seemed to be stunned. Of course during the bombardment, and subsequent incendiary work, practically all of the inhabitants had fled. On this Sunday the country seemed so quiet and peaceful that they returned as though in hopes that it had all been a dream, and they wandered about among the blackened ruins trying vainly to discover what had but a few hours before been their homes. What had they done that they should be so treated? They were peaceful people working only that they might live in their simple homes. Why then should these German devils come without cause or provocation and ruin them? One nice looking woman, who was carrying a tiny baby in her arms, pointed to a pile of bricks and said, “My little baby was born there three weeks ago and now I have not even a cradle for her. My God, this is not war, this is the work of the devils,” and she was right.

As I wandered through the scene of desolation I came upon a building, two-thirds of which had fallen, and its walls were pitted with shot. All that remained was a small wine and coffee shop. A voice called as I passed, “Come in, you are a friend—you are English. Have a cup of coffee. It is all I have left to offer, but you are welcome to it.”

I accepted the welcome refreshment from the old couple who were happy to find even a part of their house more or less intact. When I offered to pay for the coffee they refused to accept any money saying that soon the English were coming over to help them and they would then be happy. Poor people, I wonder what has become of them and if they are still waiting for the help they were expecting over three years ago.

After crossing the river where my car was waiting I engaged in conversation with a Belgian officer who told me how the soldiers had done all in their power to protect the town. The odds against them were overwhelming. He pointed with pride to the decapitated tower of the Place de Ville. It appears that the Germans had managed to place a machine gun in the belfry and it must have been a difficult task. I had been up there only a couple of days earlier and had great difficulty in getting my camera up to the top. The officer who was in the field artillery told his men that he wanted the gun destroyed. Two shots striking simultaneously cut off the upper half of the tower completely and with it the machine gun and crew. This same officer told how two German officers wishing to examine carefully the river banks, came out in the open street, carrying in their arms a baby, evidently hoping by this means to protect themselves. A man who was an expert shot was detailed to attend to the case with the result that the officer carrying the baby was shot through the head. The baby escaped unhurt while the second officer hurriedly sought the nearest shelter.

It was some days after this visit to Termonde that in company with my friend Arthur H. Gleason (whose splendid unselfish work in Belgium and France is well known) I visited a convent in which I had been told there was a young girl who had been terribly maltreated by German soldiers. She was lying then at the point of death, a victim of some twenty human devils, who forced the father and mother to be present that they might witness their daughter's ruin. This is not a nice subject to write about, and I merely touch on it to show one of the causes of. my joining the army.

Near Ghent is, or rather was, the little village of Melle. It happened to be in the way of the German army of invasion. Early one morning reports came into Ghent that severe fighting was in progress. My car not being available I hired a carriage to which was more or less attached a dilapidated horse, and which took us along the road toward Melle. We passed numbers of Belgian soldiers, ill equipped but always cheerful, going forward. Also numbers of wounded men being brought back. They were in all sorts of vehicles, from fine motor cars to springless waggons, and it was indeed a pitiful sight. Two cases I can even now remember clearly were men, one with his lower jaw completely shot away, and the other terribly wounded in the body, lying on the top of an old fashioned covered carriage. The inside was full to its utmost capacity with wounded. Every jolt over the rough paved roads sent a shock of pain through their torn bodies. They endured it heroically, for it was better than falling into the hands of the Germans whose treatment of Belgian wounded was in so many cases absolutely brutal. But what a contrast were these makeshift vehicles to the ambulances of the present time, pneumatic tired and smooth running, and equipped with stretchers, on which the wounded are borne with the minimum of pain. Conditions have greatly changed since those days of trial.

By the time we had gone within two or three miles of Melle the sounds of battle filled the air. Not battle as we now know it with its overwhelming voice of heavy artillery, but chiefly the rifle, and the machine gun with its regular rapping death-dealing shots. Now and then light artillery punctuated the sound, and we wondered whether this meant that the Germans were advancing on Ghent. No one seemed to know much of what was going on. The peasants stood about in silent groups, worried at the prospect of what fate had in store for them. Some few went on with their regular work apparently deaf to the unceasing clatter of shot. It did not seem advisable for us to proceed any further along the road by carriage, so, much to the driver's relief, for he thought we were urging him straight into the jaws of death, we told him to hide his vehicle in a narrow alley, and leaving the motion picture camera in his care we walked forward armed only with a small pocket camera.

Before long the glint of a lance caught our eyes, and we saw what we thought was a German Uhlan peering from among the trees at the entrance of a big estate. He was about 800 yards distant. How strange it was to see this silent evidence of the war, this human being stalking his own kind. It gave me a curious thrill of excitement for it was practically the first time I had been hunted by a soldier, a man trained to hunt his fellow man. And I was among those he was watching. He was dressed in the elusive grey-green uniform of the German army, and the colours blended among the trees so that he was scarcely visible. Silently he had come and as silently he vanished from our view.

After he had disappeared we looked further along the road and saw clearly a group of cavalry, all carrying their long tubular lances. Being filled with curiosity we wanted a nearer view, and decided to walk slowly in their direction. Before we had advanced more than three or four hundred yards we were startled by the clatter of horses' hoofs behind us, and turning we were very much upset by seeing three mounted men in field green uniforms following us. It was too late to attempt concealment and we dared not turn back. The only possible course was to continue forward as though we were not afraid, though I do not mind confessing I was so thoroughly frightened that my knees trembled violently. Before we had gone far the three hussars, as they turned out to be, overtook us and wanted to know who we were and what we were doing. I acknowledged myself an Englishman while my friend said he was American, whereupon one of the three spoke to us in good English, and told us he had been in New York for some years.

All this time we were approaching the cross roads while we talked in quite a friendly way about New York. As we drew near to the group of about a dozen, which proved to be of the same regiment as our escorts, our three formed up, one on either side, and one behind, and I had horrible thoughts of what might be in store for us. We were taken before the officer who on hearing our nationalities addressed us in perfect English. He was most polite and told us that for a number of years he had lived in England, had been to Oxford, and finished by saying that be hoped the war would soon end as he was very much attached to English life and was most anxious to get back to his friends there. He declared that he thoroughly disliked the idea of fighting us but that he had been recalled, and could not do other than obey. Altogether he seemed a thoroughly decent sort of Saxon. We asked whether we could go forward as we both were very anxious to see a fight.

“You can't go yet,” he replied, “as you would most certainly be shot, but later, when things have quieted down, you may perhaps be able to go with safety, and by the way do you happen to have any cigarettes, I have not had a decent smoke for a week?”

So I handed him a nearly full box, telling him to keep them, for I fully expected to be back in Ghent within a few hours. I then asked if he had any objection to my taking a photograph of him and his men. He did not object at all, in fact he was very much pleased.

“Don't forget to send me prints after the war,” he said, as he wrote his name and address on the envelope containing my passport.

“I shall be delighted to do so only, of course, there won't be any Germans left when we have finished with you.”

He replied, “You mean there won't be any English left.”

How little either of us realised what was before us, and how soon that war would develop into such gigantic proportions. That it would last even until Christmas of that year did not seem probable, for we in general knew nothing on the subject. We all thought that with modern methods conditions would be made so intolerable that no country could endure the slaughter which apparently must result. Only those who were in high command, and who had studied the subject, understood that there was a probability of the war continuing for many years. Did not people regard Lord Kitchener as a pessimist when he said we must prepare for at least three years? That period has passed and the end is not yet in sight. But to go back to our interview with the Saxon officer.

By half past three the sounds of fighting had subsided. Only an occasional shot disturbed the stillness of the afternoon. We were told that it would be reasonably safe to go forward and foolishly enough we went. Our way led us through a small one-street village which had not been molested. The people stood about in groups talking over what had been going on in the nearby village of Melle, and we gathered from what they said that the place had been completely destroyed, and a great many civilians and troops killed. While pressing along the road between the two villages a German sentry warned us not to walk on the paved part as he said it was mined. Why he let us pass I cannot understand, but he asked no questions. Evidently he imagined that we had a right to be there.

Soon we came on signs of the recent conflict, buildings burned or destroyed by shell, bodies of Belgian troops and occasional peasants in civilian garb, lying about in the queer distorted attitudes so common on the battlefield. Here and there the carcass of a cow or a pig lay across the road, often with the body of a soldier lying against it showing that the man had been foolish enough to trust to the soft body for protection against the enemy's bullet.

All that remained of the village of Melle was the row of slowly burning cottages. A truly desolate sight. I was in the act of securing a photograph of the scene, in the foreground of which lay a poor Belgian soldier slowly burning, when a German cyclist approached without my seeing him. Quickly dismounting he seized my camera, and was about to break it, when I made him understand that it contained the photograph of one of his officers. At first he seemed incredulous, but on being shown the name and address written in the officer's own handwriting he somewhat reluctantly handed back the camera. But strange to say, he did not seem in the least surprised and never even asked us what we were doing.

Had we possessed a particle of intelligence we would have been satisfied with what we had seen and returned, instead of which we very foolishly continued on the road to trouble with the result that within a few minutes we were taken prisoners by a number of soldiers, who, asking no questions, led us straight to their officers.

The prospect looked very dark and I must confess to having experienced a most disagreeable sinking sensation in the region of my heart. That we should come out of it alive did not seem possible. I, at any rate, was an Englishman, and had been seen trying to use a camera in a region that could not by any stretch of imagination be considered healthy for photographic work. The interrogations to which we were subjected by the group of ferocious unsmiling officers were brief. Gleason said he was an American out on newspaper work, while I proclaimed my British nationality, showed my imposing passport, and said that a thirst for knowledge and a roving disposition had brought me to Belgium to look on. The Germans have no sense of humour. They never so much as smiled, but brusquely ordered us both into a field and placed us under guard, Apparently we were not to be shot—just yet. Pretty soon a couple of large motors came along filled with a grand array of German staff officers. They stopped near us and began discussing the name of the village which their troops had so thoroughly destroyed. Evidently there were several different opinions, and, strange to say, I was called up and asked the name. I told them quite truthfully that I was a stranger, and so I was dismissed, and not even thanked for giving such valuable information.

Life was getting to be very monotonous and we could elicit no information from our silent guards. Once an officer came by and we asked him if we could go as we were tired of doing nothing. This only reply was a growl which seemed to mean, “No, damn you,” so we stayed. With the approach of evening other prisoners were added to the haul until we numbered nearly thirty. The newcomers being all Belgians who like ourselves imagined they were doomed to decorate the front of a convenient wall. Under the circumstances they were fairly cheerful, though there was no undue hilarity noticeable.

Shortly before sunset we were greatly interested in watching the German troops arrive, some 15,000 i...