The Passing Bells (25 page)

The silence was total. Finally, the war correspondent of the New York
Times
, a man with an international reputation for his coverage of every war since 1890, cleared his throat and got to his feet.

“Your Excellency, do you mean to say that none of us can visit the front? That we are forbidden to view with our own eyes the current battles in Lorraine?”

The minister's tone was bland. “There is no necessity for it, sir. We shall provide you with those data. Captain de Lange, who traveled with you from the station, will keep you abreast of all developments. The official communiqués will be at your disposal every afternoon at four o'clock in the Military Information Center on the second floor. Room number two hundred and twenty-five. Captain de Lange will give you today's communiqué, which you are free to transmit to your journals. If there is any way I can be of further service to you, do not hesitate to call upon me. Good day, gentlemen.”

And then he was gone, striding out of the room as regally as he had entered it. A solid oak door closed noiselessly behind him. Captain de Lange, a tall, thin, gray-haired man who wore pince-nez glasses on the very tip of his nose, walked stiffly from the back of the room and occupied the spot vacated by the minister. He removed a single sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his uniform jacket and unfolded it.

“The following communiqué has been received from General Castelnau in Nancy. The Second Army, in close coordination with the First Army under General Dubail, has everywhere been successful in its drive toward Morhange. Our infantry has inflicted grievous losses on the enemy and has recaptured many towns on the sacred soil of the lost province, the flag of France flying above the town halls of the following places for the first time since 1870: Burthecourt, Moyenvic, Lezey, Donnelay, Marsal, Salival, St. Medard. Château Salins is expected to fall by dawn tomorrow. Our losses have been insignificant, and reports from field commanders indicate that the German Sixth Army is in a disorderly retreat. On the Alsace front, General Pau is in firm possession of Mulhausen and expects to reach the Rhine within three days.” He folded the paper and placed it back in his pocket. “That is the termination of today's communiqué. Copies will be available. Are there any questions?”

Baker of the
Journal-American
stood up. “We heard a rumor in Calais that the Germans are well past Liège in force. That they crushed the forts there with some exceptionally powerful, highly mobile siege guns and are approaching Namur in strength, bringing these guns with them. It seems to me that if the Belgian forts at Namur should fall—”

“Let me advise you not to pay heed to defeatist rumors,” Captain de Lange interrupted with a tight little smile. “There are a great many German spies on the loose. We are discovering them daily and putting a speedy end to their intrigues. The truth will be found in Room two hundred and twenty-five every day at four
P.M.
Are there any more questions? No? Then let me bid you a good afternoon.”

The captain had been mistaken. It was evening when they left the ministry and walked across the broad courtyard toward the waiting taxis. Martin shared a taxi with Tom Ramsey and three other men, one of whom was struggling to unfold a large map of France which he had bought in Cherbourg. The taxi crossed the Seine on the Pont Alexandre III and plunged into the brilliantly lit boulevards beyond the Petit Palais. Sidewalk cafés were jammed with people. Soldiers and pretty girls strolled arm in arm under the streetlamps, and the traffic along the boulevard des Capucines was at a standstill. The city was in a fever of holiday.

“Got it!” the newspaperman said grimly. “Here they are, those towns he told us about: Burthecourt . . . Moyenvic . . . Salival. . . . Why, they aren't
towns
. . . just dots on the map. There may be a pigpen or two, but there sure as hell is no
town hall
in any of 'em.”

“I think we made a mistake in coming to Paris,” another man said. “We should have gone straight into Belgium by way of Holland. They're just going to feed us a daily dose of pap.”

“That's all
Leslie's
is after,” Ramsay said. “Pretty pictures of marching soldiers and cheering crowds. They think this war is going to be nothing but a lot of saber rattling and martial posturing. What does your paper expect from you, Rilke?”

Martin shrugged. “General background stuff . . . as objective as possible. We have a lot of German-American readers.”

The letter from Briggs had come as a surprise to Martin, but the editor had been candid.

. . . as long as you are already in England, there doesn't seem to be any point in sending another man from here, although Jack Pierson expressed a desire for the job. You speak French and German, which was another point in your favor. Martin, just keep your eyes open and write what you see. Don't slant your reports one way or the other. Most people I've talked to here believe this war is based on an economic struggle between Germany, France, and England, and there is a good deal of sympathy for Germany's position. I had a long talk with a brigadier general in the Illinois National Guard, and it is his opinion that the war will last only four to five weeks and that the French Army, being, in his view, seriously antiquated, will fold and that the token English force will go back across the channel without ever firing a shot at the Prussians. He does not believe the Germans will occupy any part of France, but will withdraw their armies in a hurry. If they don't, they'll by overrun by the Russians in the east. The way he sees it—and you can take this for what it is worth—is that the Germans' only intent is to eliminate France as a military threat to them. To be frank, I don't think the general knows any more about this war than the guy on the street—who knows nothing. I sure as hell don't understand it.

You're a sensible young fellow with no ax to grind, so just remain objective and write down what you see. Don't fall prey to rumors, which always abound in a war, and take all official communiqués with a grain of salt. I discovered that when I was covering the Boer War for the old
Gazette.
I will arrange monetary matters, salary and expenses, through American Express. I would suggest that you spend no more than ten days in France and then go to Berlin via Switzerland and get the German viewpoint. I want your articles to be as balanced as possible.

P.S. I saw your uncle at the Union Club and he wishes you well. He picks Cleveland to win the pennant.

There seemed to be little point in staying in Paris. He spent the night, wandered about the city the next day with Ramsey, who was delighted with every stone and made innumerable sketches, then went to the ministry at four o'clock along with a score of other reporters and listened to Captain de Lange read a communiqué.

“. . . Château Salins and the town of Dieuze were captured this morning by General Castelnau's Second Army. However, a strategic withdrawal was advised by Marshal Joffre in order to consolidate the efforts of the First Army's drive on Sarrebourg—”

An English journalist was foolish enough to ask a question.

“Was this withdrawal in the face of German counterattacks?”

Captain de Lange looked piqued. “If there had been an enemy counterattack, it would have been mentioned in the communiqué.”

The line to Basel passed through the French Zone of the Armies, and only a few civilians had been issued travel permits. Even with papers properly stamped and signed, Martin was given no guarantee that he would be allowed on any of the trains rumbling out of the Gare de l'Est; trains that left every fifteen minutes filled with troops, horses, and supplies. It was five o'clock in the morning before he and twenty somber Swiss nationals were given reluctant permission to board a small passenger car that had been attached to the rear of a freight train loaded with field guns and caissons. The train groaned slowly eastward along the Marne, stopping every few miles on sidings to allow faster trains filled with soldiers to go by. Late that afternoon they had reached Epernay, and the flatcars of 75mm guns were uncoupled and hitched to another train heading north for Reims. No one at the station seemed to care what happened to the detached passenger car, although a railway official made a vague reference to another train due that night from Paris and bound for the Swiss frontier.

The carriage was hot, the Swiss were sullen, there was nothing to eat and only lukewarm water to drink, and so Martin decided to leave. Judging by the heavy rail traffic going north, the war lay in that direction and he just might be able to see something of it. He was so deep inside the Zone of the Armies that no one he encountered in the crowded station questioned his right to be there, even though he looked like a commercial traveler, a lone civilian in a sea of uniforms. While he was having a meal of sausage, bread, cheese, and wine in an
estaminet
near the depot, an artillery major pulled a chair up to his table and sat down.

“Are you in the Chamber of Deputies?” the man asked.

“No,” Martin said, “the Ministry of Information.”

The major toyed with his mustache, which was heavily waxed.

“Information, eh? Well, I'll tell you something that you can pass on to your superiors. It is cannon and only cannon that the Boche will have any respect for. The Minister of War has given us a good field gun, but we must have bigger and better ones.”

“I'll make a note of that.”

The major twirled the points of his mustache into firm needles.

“They say it is the infantry who will drive the Boche into the Rhine, but I say it is the cannon.”

“I agree with you wholeheartedly. Have some wine.”

“Thank you,” the major said, reaching for the bottle. “You seem like a fine fellow. Civilians don't understand the first thing about war. You mention cannon to them and they stare at you blankly. I can tell that you are different.”

“I understand the need for cannon. Absolutely.”

The major drank carefully from the bottle and then wiped a drop of wine from his lower lip.

“I admire a civil servant who understands the needs of the military. However, I do not believe that you are a civil servant. A man from the ministry would not wear a brown jacket and checkered trousers. He would wear a black suit and a shirt with a stiff collar. Also, you speak with a slight accent that is not familiar to me. Are you Swiss?”

“American—of a French mother.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“A journalist.”

“Ah.” He took another drink of wine and then leaned forward across the table and lowered his voice. “Papa Joffre does not like journalists. No one in the high command likes them one bit. Are you trying to get up to the war?”

“That was my hope.”

“Then I will take you. And in payment for my generosity, you will, please, inform the world that it is cannon that win battles. I will give you an artilleryman's cloak to cover yourself with . . . and a kepi. My battery is entrained and we leave for the Ardennes in an hour. We're the Twenty-seventh Regiment of Artillery in the Third Colonial Corps. Veterans, I can tell you. We've used our beauties more than once in Morocco. Fifteen rounds of shrapnel a minute. Bang . . . bang . . . bang.”

Trains moved like snails along the line north of Reims. On the second day after leaving Epernay, they crossed the River Aisne and the major's battery was taken off the train, hooked up to the horse teams, and put on the long tree-lined road to Mézières. Martin rode in one of the transport wagons that creaked along behind the clattering gun teams, nestled down among the men's packs and a jumble of other gear. He wished he had brought his camera to France, but the French consulate in London had advised him against it. His eyes must be the camera lens, the notebook on his knee the photographic film. He jotted down impressions to be fleshed out later.

Montigny-sur-Vence, August 22

A small village of whitewashed stone houses, thatched roofs. Orchards beyond the village. Vineyards covering the low hills. Peasants in smocks working trees and vines and not turning their heads as the endless columns of troops pass through the village and ford the sluggish, weedy little river. Dragoons on black horses, cuirassiers on grays. Infantry in great, untidy masses, like a crowd pouring out of a baseball stadium. They wear blue wool greatcoats despite the heat, the tails of the coats pinned back. Their red trousers are chalky with dust. The officers carry swords, and many of them wear white gloves. French officers, after all,
très chic.

Fontaine-Gery is a few miles up the road. Rolling hills, heavily wooded. The Ardennes is a dark-green cloud mass along the horizon. A dispatch rider on a bicycle catches up with the battery, and the major has ordered the guns pulled off the road next to an ancient church and a crumbling cemetery wall. A Zouave band stands in the sun patches and shadows of an orchard. They wear yellow Turkish trousers, vivid blue jackets, and red fezzes. Like parrots among the trees. They play the “Sambre et Meuse” march on drums and fifes. Troops cheer and weep. We are not far from Sedan. Germany ground the face of France into this road in 1870, and now her sons are coming back to make them pay for it.

There is a sound like rolling thunder ahead of us. We have heard it since dawn, but intermittent, extremely far away. Now, it is closer, a continuous bumping and thumping, as though hundreds of empty freight cars were rolling back and forth inside a long tunnel.

Congestion on the road. Peasants from the north, driven from their farms by the fighting that must be raging ten or fifteen miles away, push against the oncoming troops. They pull carts and wagons loaded with their belongings. Children sit crying on top of bundles of goods. The refugees are oblivious to the soldiers, who yell at them and try to make them leave the roads. Mixed in with the refugees are wounded soldiers. Some are in horse-drawn ambulance wagons. Others walk as though in a daze, clutching bloody bandages. The troops seem embarrassed by the sight of them. A colonel lying in the back of a wagon with a blood-caked bandage wrapped clumsily around his chest mutters over and over, “
C'est une castastrophe.”