Part 24
Her name has been honored in every possible way—in sculpture, in painting, in verse, in prose, in the sermons of the clergy, in the oratory of statesmen, and after the armistice England received home her body with such ceremonies as are reserved for those who have served the country greatly. An imposing ceremony in the ancient Westminster Abbey was attended by royalty and nobility, and the throng within and without the Abbey represented every class of English life. The funeral procession, in which marched hundreds of nurses, was witnessed by vast throngs along the route, and was in itself a memorable spectacle. The body of the martyr-heroine was taken to her native town for burial, where a monument portrait of herself, in the town square, will perpetuate to the eye a memory that will never perish from the English heart.
[Illustration: Bombed metal bridge in the river]
A PICARDY HEROINE
The Story of Marcelle Semmer, Who Held Up the Advance of a German Army Corps
French heroines were not few; indeed to be a woman of France was to be a heroine in those slow grinding years of the war that tired the soul, as it trampled the life of that country. But none of them was of greater courage or of more resolutely self-sacrificing purpose than a young woman of Picardy, a mere girl, Marcelle Semmer. She was the daughter of a phosphate factory owner, an Alsatian, who had quitted Alsace in 1871 rather than remain as a subject of Germany.
The story of her deeds was first given to the public by a lecturer at the Sorbonne, Paris, and was repeated by the Paris correspondent of the _Times_, but her fame had already run throughout the armies of France, and the Republic had honored her.
After the defeat of the Allies at Charleroi, the French tried to make a stand along the Somme, but being unable to resist the overwhelming mass of the invaders, they fell back across a canal in the vicinity of Marcelle Semmer’s home. The enemy were in close pursuit. As the last group of the French crossed the bridge, Marcelle rushed forward and raising the drawbridge, threw into the canal the control key, without which the draw could not be lowered. This remarkable evidence of presence of mind and coolness was hardly to have been expected from a girl in such terrifying circumstances. The act was a daring one, as the advancing Germans did not hesitate to fire at her as well as at the retreating soldiers; but realizing that it would hold up the advance of the Germans she unhesitatingly confronted the danger. It was the saving grace for the French, for it was not until the next morning that the Germans were able to get together boats enough to form a pontoon across the canal. The retreat had the advantage of those precious hours of the hold-up.
Though the risks were great, Marcelle remained in the village during the German occupation in order to be of possible assistance to the French. And she did render assistance. There was near the village Eclusier a subterranean passage used in the working of a phosphate mine, and in this passage Marcelle managed to conceal at different times sixteen French soldiers who had got separated from their command in the retreat from Charleroi and Mons. There she fed them, furnished them with civilian clothes and aided their escape into the French lines. It was not until she was helping the seventeenth to escape that she was caught and dragged, with a French soldier, before the local commandant. Asked if she meant deliberately to aid the soldier to escape, she replied firmly:
“Yes. He is not the first. I helped sixteen others to get away. Do what you please with me. I am not afraid to die.”
With little ceremony she was ordered to be shot. She was taken out for the purpose. The firing squad was drawn up and only waited the order to fire when suddenly there was a roar of French artillery bombarding the town and the position of the Germans around Eclusier. It was an unexpected French advance, and without thought of the girl the firing squad joined the confusion of men hurrying to the shelter of their defenses. Marcelle made her escape to the friendly subterranean passage. The French occupied Eclusier.
TWICE SAVED FROM THE GERMANS
The Somme lay between the opposing armies, and in the vicinity of Eclusier it forms a marshy lake. At flood the water covered the lines so that soldiers often lost their way, and here Marcelle found another means of serving France.
The correspondent says:
“Being thoroughly acquainted with the neighborhood, she used to pilot parties of soldiers. This brought her again close to death. While leading a squad of men who wanted to dig an advanced trench in the village of Frise she fell into the hands of a party of Germans.
[Illustration:
_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._
Corporal Fred C. Stein
_32nd Division, 125th Infantry, Company “F”_
Close to Romagnes, on October 9, 1918, Stein captured a strong enemy machine-gun nest. He received two wounds while endeavoring to operate the machine gun, and then received another wound which was in the arm and almost disabled him.]
“They locked her up in the little village church of Frise. On the morrow, she felt sure, they would shoot her.
“But once more luck and the French artillery were her salvation. The French across the Somme began a lively bombardment of Frise. One shell blew a large hole in the church wall. Through this hole, unperceived by her captors, Marcelle crawled. Creeping past the Germans scattered through Frise, she soon tumbled, safe and sound, into the nearest French trench.
“By this time her fame had spread and rewards began to shower upon her. She got the Cross of the Legion of Honor, and some time later the War-Cross. In spite of all she had gone through, she persisted in staying in the Somme country and continued to work for the cause of France. For fifteen months she remained, despite shot and shell, in her little Somme village, taking care of wounded soldiers. Also among her charges was a woman of 90, too feeble to travel to a safer place. Marcelle looked out for her night and day with unflagging devotion.
“Everywhere soldiers knew and admired her. One English General ordered his soldiers to salute when she passed and refrain from addressing her unless she spoke first.”
Under the strain of her volunteer work she finally came near to a breakdown and was persuaded to go to Paris. There she entered a nurses’ school to qualify for the care of the wounded, work being necessary to her to shut away her personal sorrows, as everything she possessed or held dear the war had taken from her.
All this and more was told at the Sorbonne Conference, and then, says the _Times_ correspondent, the narrator made a dramatic gesture and exclaimed:
“‘This little heroine of Picardy, this admirable girl, this incarnation of the qualities of the woman of France, this girl of simple origin, flawless dignity, of serious mind, and gentle ways, this girl of indomitable will-power, is here, ladies and gentlemen, here among you, in this room! And I feel that I am the spokesman for every one of you when I now extend to her the expression of our respect, our gratitude, our admiration!’
“The auditors, every man, woman and child of them, leaped to their feet, mad with enthusiasm. They craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the heroine. Unable to escape them, the young girl stood up, blushing. Through the great hall of the Sorbonne, where the most famous people of the world had been honored by France, swept a storm of cheers. A reward more splendid than the Cross of the Legion of Honor, than the War-Cross, than the salutes of soldiers at the front, had come to Marcelle Semmer.”
GIRLS OF THE “BATTALION”
Russian Women Who Gave Splendid Proof That Soldierly Valor Knows No Sex
When first reports of the Battalion of Death—the regiment of Russian women—were read in the western world they were regarded as the fiction of correspondents hard pressed for material. Fighting Amazons belonged to the legendary past. But the authentic confirmations of the story and the official recognition of the battalion’s services presently roused a curious interest in these women doing heroes’ work, and there was demand for information concerning the redoubtable “Madam Butchkareff” and the circumstances leading to the organization of the regiment of which she was given command.
The story when told more than gratified the expectant interest. The London _Daily Telegraph_ was the first to give the particulars as they are here presented.
“Vera Butchkareff, or simply Yashka, as she has been christened by the men of the regiment to which she belonged, got much of her war-like spirit from her father, who fought through the whole of the Turkish war and was left a cripple for life. Her mother was a hard-working woman, with five children, of whom Yashka was the eldest, and she had to go out washing and cooking to earn enough to clothe and feed this flock.
[Illustration:
© _Underwood & Underwood._
Marie Botchkareva, Commander of the Battalion of Death]
“At the age of five Yashka was sent out as nurse to a baby of three. And from that time she has never stopped working. She looks none the worse for it. Finely yet strongly built, with broad shoulders and healthy complexion, she can lift 200 pounds with the greatest of ease. She has never known what fear is.
“Not long ago she remarked that during the last two years she had lived through so much that there remained but one danger yet to experience, that of flying. Just as she was saying that an aviator came up and offered to take her for a flight, and before the day was out she had exhausted her list of perils.
MARRIED AN UNKNOWN
“When she was sixteen years old her parents seized the first opportunity of getting her married. She never knew the man, but luckily as time wore on they grew very fond of each other, and were very happy. At first they both served in a shop, and thanks to their perseverance and frugality they were soon able to open a small shop of their own. But just as they began to prosper the war broke out, and he was one of the first to be called up.
“She was very keen on accompanying him as a soldier, but he begged her to stay behind and work for her parents, whom they had been keeping.
“She was always ready for any daring venture, and it was with great reluctance that she stayed at home in compliance with her husband’s wish. Time passed, and after long waiting she got the news that he had been killed in action in May, 1915. At once she went to her parents and said: ‘I have decided to go to the front, and you will either hear of my death or I shall return to you in honor and glory. I trust in God.’ And no persuasions were of any use.
“For two years she lived in the trenches and fought like a man. She was wounded three times—in her arm, leg, and back. In the Lake Naroch battles there was a time when all the officers were killed and the men lost courage and lay down, too frightened to attack. Then she rose up and dashed forward calling on them to follow her. Every one obeyed her command, and the trench was captured. She has received two St. George’s medals and two St. George’s crosses for various feats of bravery. At the end of the two years she was legally admitted into the 28th Polozk Regiment.
RAISES HER BATTALION
“She was presented to Mr. Kerensky for her bravery, and after hearing all her experiences, the Minister of War asked what wish she would like to have granted. She straightway said: ‘I want to form a woman’s volunteer battalion, which is to lead men into battle if they will not go of themselves.’ The idea was approved by Kerensky, and, with the sanction of the commander-in-chief, the battalion was formed.”
There were 300 girls, most of them being recruits from the higher educational academies and secondary schools, with a few peasants, factory girls and servants. There were a few married women, but none with children were accepted. They ranged from 18 to 28 years in age and were of good physique, most of them pretty and of refined appearance. They wore their hair short, or their heads entirely shaved. They wore as uniform a soldier’s khaki blouse, short breeches, stockings, heavy soled shoes and forage cap. It was a mixed battalion in the matter of class; with the peasant and the factory girl marched the daughters of noble families, society women, writers, etc., for it was in the universities and schools that the Russian revolution found its most earnest advocates.
These were the women who in action near Vilna that terrible July day exhibited great courage and coolness, and did such heroic service in the midst of a wavering and weakening, cowardly, panic-stricken body of troops that they have hardly a parallel in all history. Marie Golokbyova, a member of the battalion but eighteen years old, who enlisted from the high school, has told of the first engagement of the fighting girls.
THEIR FIRST ENGAGEMENT
“We went into action a fortnight after our arrival at the front under heavy German cannon fire. Given the order to advance, we rushed out of our trench. Feeling no sense of danger, we dashed toward the enemy in the wood. The machine guns began knocking over my companions. We were ordered to lie down. I noticed those at the front with me were all women. The men were further back.
“I began shooting, the gun kicking my shoulder so hard that it is still blue and stiff. I was glad when we were ordered to charge the machine guns in the woods. We paid dearly, but we held on, and by night our scouts discovered the machine gunners and we shelled them out.
“After the first attack I was attached to a machine gun, carrying ammunition to an advanced position under the fire of hidden German machine guns. We were advancing and constantly in danger of capture by the Germans. On one trip over newly captured ground I saw what I considered a wounded German officer lying on the ground. I went to help him with my gun in my right hand and the machine gun ammunition in my left.
“Seeing me, he jumped to his knees and pulled out his revolver, but before he could shoot I dropped the ammunition and killed him.
“How did I feel on taking a human life? I had no sensation except to rid my country of an enemy. There was no sentimentality. We were trying to kill them and they were trying to kill us—that is all. Any Russian girl or any American girl in the same position would have the same feeling.”
Mme. Butchkareff—Commander Butchkareff—the peasant born leader of the heroic girls, was not only endowed with the highest quality of courage but she seemed to have an instinct for military command. She was, as her soldiers testified, “here, there, everywhere,” directing the action, adding the fire of her own spirit to the enthusiasm of the members of the battalion, urging them to “fight like real Russian soldiers,” and they met the demand. Said one of them:
“None of us was afraid once we got started. We were in the midst of a great fusillade of shots. Then terrific big shells began bursting around us. We were again frightened a little when we first saw the dead about, but before very long we were jumping over the dead and quickly forgot all about them. We just forgot ourselves entirely. We were simply Russia fighting for her life.
“As we ran forward we suddenly came upon a bunch of Germans immediately ahead of us. It was only a second until we were all around them.
“They saw they were caught and threw down their rifles, holding up their hands. They were terribly frightened.
“‘Good God! Women!’ they exclaimed.”
It might have been better for Russia had all her soldiers been women.
HER AMBULANCE UNIT
An English Woman’s Contribution Was Her Fortune and the Daily Risk of Her Life
Among the decorations worn by Mrs. Hilda Wynne are the French Croix de Guerre, the Belgian order of Leopold, and the Russian Order of St. George—certificates of preëminent service in circumstances of danger that demand the high courage of utter self-devotion. Mrs. Wynne is a young English woman who gave her fortune to organize an ambulance unit and risked her life driving an ambulance on the firing line. Her organization was known as the Bevan-Wynne Unit, and it cared for some 40,000 wounded soldiers in the course of the war. Mrs. Wynne visited this country in the Autumn of 1917 for the purpose of arousing interest in the public in the needs of soldiers in France. Happily her mission was a successful one.
While she was in Denver the _Post_ of that city induced Mrs. Wynne to tell some of her experiences, which are here reproduced.
“Looking upon the human courage I have witnessed, from this distance and in the little breathing space I have taken from service I can recall thousands of heroic acts, but the bravest happened on the Russian front.
“I saw two aviators go up to certain death. They were a Russian and a Frenchman. Both were little men. They went up to meet twenty German aeroplanes. It was suicidal. But they had been ordered to go—and theirs was the spirit of the gallant six hundred. I stood near them as they made ready to go. They said nothing. That is one of the lessons you learn in war—not to waste time nor words.
[Illustration: Women Ambulance-Drivers Served With All the Allied Armies
Many of them received decorations for conspicuous bravery while under fire.]
“They got their machines ready as a rider tests his saddle-straps and stirrups before starting for his morning gallop through the park. A little pothering and fixing of the machinery and they had gone. They went straight up and began blazing away at the German planes. I watched and the cords of my heart tightened, for the German planes, looking like great gray birds with wings widespread, came closer and closer. They surrounded them. They formed a solid double circle about them. Then they began to fire. And I turned and covered my eyes with my hands. A few seconds later what had been aeroplanes were splintered wood and what had been men a broken mass covered by smoking rags.
“While this was the bravest act I saw in two and a half years on the firing line, I readily recall the most pathetic. It was the second line of men in the Russian trenches. They were unarmed soldiers. There were no guns for them. They took their places there expecting that the man in front might drop, and the second-line man could pick up his gun and take his place.
“I have seen many of the Allies die. They all die bravely. At Dixmude when the fusiliers arrived 8,000 and went out 4,000 there was magnificent courage in death. The Frenchman dies calling upon his God. The Englishman says nothing or feebly jests; just turns his face to the wall and is still. The Russian is mystic and secretive. The Russian lives behind a veil of reserve. You never fully know him. In the last moments you know by his rapt look that his soul is in communion with his God.
AN IMPLACABLE BREED
“One of the deepest, unalterable truths of the war is the German power of hatred. It is past measuring. An example occurred at Dixmude. When we had been there three days we were driven out. I took my car filled with the wounded across a bridge just in time. A second after we had crossed there was a roar, then a crash. A shot had torn the bridge to pieces. Three weeks later to our hospital was brought a wounded German.
“‘I know you,’ he said. ‘We nearly got you at the bridge at Dixmude.’
“‘I remember,’ I said.
“That man’s eyes used to follow me in a strange way. Build no beautiful theories of his national animosity disappearing, or being swallowed up in his gratitude. There was no such thought in his mind. The eyes said: ‘I wish I had killed you. But since I didn’t I wish I might have another chance.’
“This, after I had driven away a group of zouaves who had taken everything from him, including his iron cross, and who were debating whether to toss him into the canal then or that night.
“Shells have a disturbing way about them, more disturbing to your plans than your equanimity. Shells prevented my having a nice comfortable illness. In southern Russia one can get little to eat. Coarse black bread is the chief food. It causes various disorders. I, afflicted with one of them, arranged a table in the corner of my tent, placed remedies on the table, undressed, and turned in, intending to have a cozy illness of a few days. But as I lay came an angry buzzing. A shell hissed through, carrying away a corner of my tent. That ended my illness. I had no more time to think of it.
“The greatest peril I encountered was not from shells. One becomes used to them. One of the greatest dangers I faced was on a dark night drive along a precipice in the Caucasus. It was while the plan to bring troops through Persia to Russia was expected to be successful. I went ahead with some ambulances. It was necessary to take two Russian officers across the mountain. I offered my services. The road was an oddly twisting one. On one side was a high wall, on the other a precipice whose depth no one calculated. But as I allowed myself to look into it at twilight I could see no bottom to it. We started on the all-night drive at dusk. The precipice remained with us, a foot away, most of the distance. Had my car skidded twelve inches the story would have been different.
“Then, too, I wandered once within the Turkish lines, mistaking them for our own. But amid a courteous silence I was allowed to discover my mistake and escape without harm.
TOO BUSY TO REFUSE HER
“I think I owe my opportunity to do my bit, in the way I have, to the fact that I arrived in Flanders a few hours before the fight and the officers were too busy to send me back. I had seven automobiles, and knew how to use them. I took them to Dixmude and offered the automobiles and my services to the cause. I established headquarters at Furnes, which is seven miles from Nieuport, eight from Dixmude, and twenty from Ypres. I drove along the Yser Canal to the parts of the field that were under the heaviest fire, for there, I knew, my cars and I would be most needed. For a year I worked for the relief of the wounded of the French armies. Then I went to Russia, where I found the need of help and the sacrifice of life because of lack of that help almost inconceivable. The French armies have 6,000 ambulances. The Germans have 6,200. Russia, with a firing line of 6,000 miles, has only 600 motor-ambulances.