The Death March By Doctor Duwez, Army Surgeon to the Regiment of Grenadiers
There is very little improvement in the situation. The Germans are holding the trenches from Het-Sas as far as Steenstraete. Their attacks are getting more frequent. To-night, the Zouaves are to attack Lizerne.
At the present moment, all our batteries are raging. It is six o'clock in the evening. The 75's are yelling at short intervals. Our seven-fives, with the noise of anvils, send out their volleys into the vibrating air, with a piercing, shrill whistle.
We saw Pypegale, with its ruined houses. English couriers, concealed here and there, watched us pass by. To the left, the green plain stretched out before us as far as the tall trees of Kemmelbeeck. They were standing in groups, with their branches still bare. Farther away were hedges and little gardens, and in the corner, where the valley is cut into two by the road, in the midst of the green coppices, were pear-trees covered with blossom. We could see the red roofs of the little village of Zuydschoote, with its white church all charred.
The big German shells were falling all the time on[Pg 320] these wooded places. Great black convolutions rose in the air in balls, or, if the shell burst in the houses, the pink dust of the pulverised tiles could then be seen. We could hear the roofs cracking, the walls giving way, and the beams falling down.
Above the road occupied by the column, the white clouds of the little shrapnels were rising. They stood out clearly against the clear blue sky. The wind stretched them gently out, changed their shapes, and wafted them towards us. Farther still, the horizon was gradually veiled in a mist composed of smoke, rubbish, and dust.
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,[Pg 321] 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[Pg 322] 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 ex............