Once I ventured my head a little outside of the door and was curtly warned to eliminate myself or possibly I would get shot. I eliminated myself for the moment.
Now with dramatic suddenness death touches Vitry with her chill fingers.
In the distance, right away beyond the bridge behind a bend in the road, there is a clatter of hoofs. It stops. Again it goes on and stops for about a couple of minutes, and then quite distinctly can be heard the sound of a body of horsemen proceeding at a walk.
The cavalry scouts have vanished into big barns on either side of the road, and around the corner of the bridge comes a small body of German cavalry. They have passed the spot where the French scouts are hidden and I have retreated to my bedroom window, from where I can count twelve of the Death's Head riders.
They are riding to their fate. Right slap up in front of the cars they come. A rifle shot rings out from where the French scouts are hidden, then another, and that is the signal for the inferno to be loosed.
C-r-r-r-r-r-ack, and the mitrailleuse spits out a regular hail of death, vicious, whiplike, never-ceasing cracks. Two horses are down and three men lie prone in the road.
The Germans have not fired a shot, all their energies being concentrated in wildly turning their horses to get back again round the bend.
It is too late. Another two are toppled over by the scouts in the barns, and then cars are after them, still spitting out an unending hail of lead.
It seems impossible that even a fly could live in such a stream of bullets, yet out of the dozen three get round the bend, and, galloping madly, make for the only spot where they can leave the road and get across country. Even the automobile and auto-mitrailleuse men cannot follow them there.
These fellows seem perfectly satisfied with a bag of nine, obtained without a scratch. All are dead, one of them with over twenty wounds in him. Two horses are stone dead, and three others have to be put out of their misery. The other four are contentedly standing at the roadside munching grass, one with a hind leg lifted a few inches off the ground.
The bodies of the dead Germans are laid side by side in a field to await burial. The uniforms are stripped of everything that can be removed, buttons and shoulder straps. The men in the cars take the water bottles, swords, and revolvers as mementos.
I imperfectly understood the real meaning of this scrap. I had thought it was an encounter between stray forces. A talk with the driver of an armed car, however, enlarged my perspective. It was a meeting of the outposts of two great opposing armies, one of which was at Douai, the other at Cambrai. The feelers of both forces were being extended to discover the various positions, preparatory to a big battle, which was expected on the morrow (Oct. 1) along the line of Cambrai-Douai-Valenciennes.
It was understood that the Germans had massed in force at Cambrai and strong wings were thrown out on both sides, the outposts of one wing, as we have already seen, coming into touch with the French at Vitry.
From the reports of the auto-mitrailleuse men, who cover great distances in a day, similar skirmishing had been taking place at Etain, (where some farmhouses were burned,) Eterpigny, Croisilles, Boisleux, and Boyelles, these places ranging from ten to twenty kilometers from Arras.
There was a general exodus from Vitry and I secured standing room in a wagon of the last train leaving for Arras. It was loaded with fugitives.
Arras had changed completely on my return. Its calmness was gone. The station was empty of civilians, there were no trains running and the station entrance was in charge of a strong picket of soldiers, while the road outside echoed to the tread of infantry.
I stood still in amazement, while my papers were being closely examined, and watched regiment after regiment of foot with their transport trains complete marching out on the road to Douai. This was part of the preparation for the big battle which I was told was going to begin tomorrow.
In the town itself the transformation was still more amazing--soldiers in every street, cavalry, infantry, dragoons, lancers, and engineers in ones and twos, and parties of twenty or thirty picturesque Moroccans. I never saw such a medley of colors and expressions, and the whole town was full of them--material for one army corps at least.
I installed myself in quarters at the Hotel de l'Univers, with the intention of getting away the first thing in the morning if possible.
But it was not possible. I was informed that Arras was now under military control, and no permits were being issued whatsoever. The Lieutenant who told me this smiled as I shrugged my shoulders.
"You will bear witness, Monsieur, that I tried my best to get out," said I.
"Certainly; but why go away?" he asked with a smile. "Arras est tres belle ville, Monsieur. You have a good hotel, a good bed, and good food.
Why should you go out?"
And so I stayed at Arras.
That was Sept. 30. The next day I could hear guns. They started at about 8 o'clock in the morning, the French guns being in position about five kilometers outside of Arras to the south, southeast, and east, sixteen batteries of France's artillery or 75-millimeter calibre.
All day long the guns thundered and roared, and all day long I sat outside the cafe of the Hotel des Voyageurs in the Place de la Gare. The station building was right in front of me. I longed for a position which would enable me to see over the tall buildings on to the battlefield beyond. Even the roof of the station would have suited. There was a little crowd of officials already there with their field glasses, and they could discern what was going on, for I noticed several pointing here and there whenever a particularly loud explosion was heard.
Two men in civilian clothes sat down beside me and gave me "good day,"
evidently curious as to my nationality. I invited them to join me in coffee and cognac, and during the ensuing conversation we all became very friendly, and I was given to understand that one of them was the volunteer driver of an auto-mitrailleuse who had just come off duty.
I remarked that it would be very interesting to get a sight of what was going on behind the station.
"Is it very near--the battle?"
"About five kilometers, Monsieur. The German guns are ten kilometers distant. One of the German shells exploded behind the station this morning. Would Monsieur like to walk out a little way?"
"But surely the pickets will not let me pass beyond the barrier," said I.
My good friend of the auto-mitrailleuse smiled, rose, and buttoned up his coat. "Come with me," he invited.
At the barrier we were stopped, but luck had not deserted me, for in the Sergeant in charge of the pickets I recognized another cafe acquaintance of the previous night. We shook hands, exchanged cigarettes, and proceeded up and down numerous streets, bearing always southward in the direction of the firing, until the open country was reached.
My companion suddenly caught hold of my arm and we both jumped up the bank at the side of the road to let a long string of artillery drivers trot past on their way back for more ammunition. Another cloud of dust, and coming up behind us was a fresh lot of shells on the way out to the firing line.
Right up in the sky ahead suddenly appeared a ball of yellow greeny smoke, which grew bigger and bigger, and then "boom" came the sound of a gun about three seconds afterward. A shell had burst in the air about 300 yards away. Another and another came--all about the same place. They appeared to come from the direction of Bapaume.
"Bad, very bad," commented my companion. And so it appeared to me, for the Germans were dropping their shells from the southeast, at least one kilometer over range. We were standing beside a strawstack and looking due south, watching the just discernible line of French guns, when we heard the ominous whistling screech of an approaching shell. Down on our faces behind the stack, down we went like lightning, and over to the left, not 200 yards away, rose a huge column of black smoke and earth, and just afterward a very loud boom. A big German gun had come into action, slightly nearer this time.
Just behind a wood I could plainly see the smoke of the gun itself rising above the trees. Two more shells from the big gun exploded within twenty yards of each other, and then, with disconcerting suddenness, a French battery came into action within a hundred yards of our strawstack cover. They had evidently been there for some time, awaiting eventualities, for we had no suspicion of their proximity, and they were completely hidden.
My ears are still tingling and buzzing from the sound of those guns. One after another the guns of this battery bombarded the newly taken up position of the German big guns, which replied with one shell every three minutes.
Presently we had the satisfaction of hearing a violent explosion in the wood, and a column of smoke and flame rose up to a great height.
Soixante-quinze had again scored, for the German guns had been put out of action. From out the French position came infantry, at this point thousands of little dots over the landscape, presenting a front of, I should think, about two miles, rapidly advancing in skirmishing order.
Every now and then the sharp crackle of rifle fire could distinctly be heard.
The French had advanced over a mile, and the Germans had hastily evacuated the wood. Other French batteries now came into action, and the German fire over the whole arc was becoming decidedly fainter and less frequent. This might, of course, be due to changing their positions on the German front.
Wounded began to arrive, which showed that for the present at any rate, it was safe to go out to the trenches to collect them.
Very few of them seemed badly hit, and the wounded French artillerymen seemed to be elated in spite of their wounds. Had not their beloved Soixante-quinze again scored? The time was 6 o'clock of a beautiful evening and the firing, though fairly continuous, was dropping off. The Germans had changed their positions and it was getting a little too hazy to make observation, although a French aeroplane was seen descending in wide circles over the German position, evidently quite regardless of the numerous small balls of smoke, which made their appearance in the sky in dangerous proximity to the daring pilot.
It is very interesting to watch these aeroplane shells bursting in the air. First of all one sees a vivid little streak of bluish white light in the sky, and then instantaneously a smoke ball, which appears to be about the size of a football, is seen in the sky, always fairly close to the machine. Then there is the sound of an explosion like a giant cracker.
Occasionally several guns will fire at about the same time, and it is weird to watch the various balls of smoke, apparently coming into being from nowhere, all around the machine. Sometimes one of these shells, which are filled with a species of shrapnel, bursts rather unpleasantly near the aeroplane, and then one sees the machine turn quickly and rise a little higher.
Two or three holes have been neatly drilled through the planes. Perhaps one has appeared in the body of the machine, rather too near the pilot for safety; but it is a big gamble, anyhow, and besides the pilot has been instructed to find out where the various positions are, and he means to do it.
So he simply rises a little higher and calmly continues his big circles over the German position.
I take off my hat to these brave men, the aeroplane pilots. They are willing to chance their luck. What matters it if their machine gets hit, if the planes are riddled with holes? It will still fly, even if the engine gets a fatal wound and stops.
The pilot, if he is high enough, can still glide to safety in his own lines. But (and it is a big "but") should a shrapnel ball find its billet in the pilot--well, one has only to die once, and it is a quick and sure death to fall with one's machine.
[Illustration]