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A VI SIT TO
THREE FRONTS
GLIMPSES OF THE BRITISH
ITALIAN AND FRENCH LINES
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
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A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
By ARTHUR CON AN DOYLE
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
THE VALLEY OF FEAR
THE POISON BELT
THE LOST WORLD
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK
A VISIT TO
THREE FRONTS
GLIMPSES OF THE BRITISH
ITALIAN AND FRENCH LINES
BY
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Author of "The Valley of Fear?" etc.
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
|d&
Copyright, 1916,
By Arthur Conan Doyle
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PREFACE
IN the course of May 1916, the Italian
authorities expressed a desire that
some independent observer from Great
Britain should visit their lines and report
his impressions. It was at the time when
our brave and capable allies had sustained
a set-back in the Trentino owing to a sud-
den concentration of the Austrians, sup-
ported by very heavy artillery. I was
asked to undertake this mission. In order
to carry it out properly, I stipulated that
I should be allowed to visit the British
lines first, so that I might have some
standard of comparison. The War Office
kindly assented to my request. Later I
obtained permission to pay a visit to the
French front as well. Thus it was my
great good fortune, at the very crisis of
the war, to visit the battle line of each of
[5]
PREFACE
the three great Western allies. I only
wish that it had been within my power to
complete my experiences in this seat of
war by seeing the gallant little Belgian
army which has done so remarkably well
upon the extreme left wing of the hosts of
freedom.
My experiences and impressions are
here set down, and may have some small
effect in counteracting those mischievous
misunderstandings and mutual belittle-
ments which are eagerly fomented by our
cunning enemy.
Arthur Conan Doyle.
CltOWBOROUGH,
July 1916.
[6]
CONTENTS
PAGE
A Glimpse of the British Army ... 11
A Glimpse of the Italian Army ... 38
A Glimpse of the French Line ... 60
[7]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
A VISIT TO THREE
FRONTS
A GLIMPSE OF THE
BRITISH ARMY
IT is not an easy matter to write from
the front. You know that there are
several courteous but inexorable gentle-
men who may have a word in the matter,
and their presence "imparts but small ease
to the style." But above all you have the
twin censors of your own conscience and
common sense, which assure you that, if
all other readers fail you, you will cer-
tainly find a most attentive one in the
neighbourhood of the Haupt-Quartier.
An instructive story is still told of how a
certain well-meaning traveller recorded
his satisfaction with the appearance of
[11]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
the big guns at the retiring and peaceful
village of Jamais, and how three days
later, by an interesting coincidence, the
village of Jamais passed suddenly off the
map and dematerialised into brickdust
and splinters.
I have been with soldiers on the warpath
before, but never have I had a day so
crammed with experiences and impres-
sions as yesterday. Some of them at least
I can faintly convey to the reader, and if
they ever reach the eye of that gentleman
at the Haupt-Quartier they will give him
little joy. For the crowning impression
of all is the enormous imperturbable con-
fidence of the Army and its extraordinary
efficiency in organisation, administration,
material, and personnel. I met in one day
a sample of many types, an Army com-
mander, a corps commander, two di-
visional commanders, staff officers of
many grades, and, above all, I met re-
peatedly the two very great men whom
Britain has produced, the private soldier
and the regimental officer. Everywhere
[12]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
and on every face one read the same spirit
of cheerful bravery. Even the half -mad
cranks whose absurd consciences prevent
them from barring the way to the devil
seemed to me to be turning into men un-
der the prevailing influence. I saw a batch
of them, neurotic and largely be-spec-
tacled, but working with a will by the
roadside. They will volunteer for the
trenches yet.
^r * * ^9*
If there are pessimists among us they
are not to be found among the men who
are doing the work. There is no foolish
bravado, no under-rating of a dour oppo-
nent, but there is a quick, alert, confident
attention to the job in hand which is an
inspiration to the observer. These brave
lads are guarding Britain in the present.
See to it that Britain guards them in the
future ! We have a bad record in this mat-
ter. It must be changed. They are the
wards of the nation, both officers and men.
Socialism has never had an attraction for
me, but I should be a Socialist to-morrow
[13]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
if I thought that to ease a tax on wealth
these men should ever suffer for the time
or health that they gave to the public
cause.
"Get out of the car. Don't let it stay
here. It may be hit." These words from
a staff officer give you the first idea that
things are going to happen. Up to then
you might have been driving through the
black country in the Walsall district with
the population of Aldershot let loose upon
its dingy roads. "Put on this shrapnel
helmet. That hat of yours would infuri-
ate the Boche" — this was an unkind al-
lusion to the only uniform which I have
a right to wear. "Take this gas helmet.
You won't need it, but it is a standing or-
der. Now come on!"
We cross a meadow and enter a trench.
Here and there it comes to the surface
again where there is dead ground. At one
such point an old church stands, with an
unexploded shell sticking out of the wall.
A century hence folk will journey to see
that shell. Then on again through an
[14]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
endless cutting. It is slippery clay be-
low. I have no nails in my boots, an iron
pot on my head, and the sun above me. I
will remember that walk. Ten telephone
wires run down the side. Here and there
large thistles and other plants grow from
the clay walls, so immobile have been our
lines. Occasionally there are patches of
untidiness. "Shells," says the officer la-
conically. There is a racket of guns be-
fore us and behind, especially behind, but
danger seems remote with all these Bairn-
father groups of cheerful Tommies at work
around us. I pass one group of grimy,
tattered boys. A glance at their shoulders
shows me that they are of a public school
battalion. "I thought you fellows were all
officers now," I remarked. "No, sir, we
like it better so." "Well, it will be a great
memory for you. We are all in your
debt." They salute, and we squeeze past
them. They had the fresh, brown faces of
boy cricketers. But their comrades were
men of a different type, with hard, strong,
rugged features, and the eyes of men who
[1-5]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
have seen strange sights. These are
veterans, men of Mons, and their young
pals of the public schools have something
to live up to.
" ^v 9fr ^c
Up to this we have only had two clay
walls to look at. But now our intermin-
able and tropical walk is lightened by the
sight of a British aeroplane sailing over-
head. Numerous shrapnel bursts are all
round it, but she floats on serenely, a thing
of delicate beauty against the blue back-
ground. Now another passes — and yet
another. All morning we saw them
circling and swooping, and never a sign
of a Boche. They tell me it is nearly al-
ways so — that we hold the air, and that
the Boche intruder, save at early morn-
ing, is a rare bird. A visit to the line
would reassure Mr. Pemberton-Billing.
"We have never met a British aeroplane
which was not ready to fight," said a cap-
tured German aviator the other day.
There is a fine stern courtesy between the
airmen on either side, each dropping notes
[16]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
into the other's aerodromes to tell the
fate of missing officers. Had the whole
war been fought by the Germans as their
airmen have conducted it (I do not speak
of course of the Zeppelin murderers), a
peace would eventually have been more
easily arranged. As it is, if every frontier
could be settled, it would be a hard thing
to stop until all that is associated with
the words Cavell, Zeppelin, Wittenberg,
Lusitania, and Louvain has been brought
to the bar of the world's Justice.
And now we are there — in what is
surely the most wonderful spot in the
world, the front firing trench, the outer
breakwater which holds back the German
tide. How strange that this monstrous
oscillation of giant forces, setting in from
east to west, should find their equilibrium
here across this particular meadow of
Flanders. "How far?" I ask. "180
yards," says my guide. "Pop!" remarks
a third person just in front. "A sniper,"
says my guide. "Take a look through the
periscope." I do so. There is some rusty
[17]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
wire before me, then a field sloping slightly
upwards with knee-deep grass, then rusty
wire again, and a red line of broken earth.
There is not a sign of movement, but
sharp eyes are always watching us, even
as these crouching soldiers around me are
watching them. There are dead Germans
in the grass before us. You need not see
them to know that they are there. A
wounded soldier sits in a corner nursing
his leg. Here and there men pop out like
rabbits from dug-outs and mine-shafts.
Others sit on the fire-step or lean smok-
ing against the clay wall. Who would
dream to look at their bold, careless faces
that this is a front line, and that at any
moment it is possible that a grey wave may
submerge them? With all their careless
bearing I notice that every man has his
gas helmet and his rifle within easy reach.
A mile of front trenches and then we
are on our way back down that weary
walk. Then I am whisked off upon a ten
mile drive. There is a pause for lunch at
Corps Headquarters, and after it we are
[18]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
taken to a medal presentation in a market
square. Generals Munro, Haking and
Landon, famous fighting soldiers all three,
are the British representatives. Munro
with a ruddy face, and brain above
all bulldog below; Haking, pale, distin-
guished, intellectual; Landon a pleasant,
genial country squire. An elderly French
General stands beside them. British in-
fantry keep the ground. In front are
about fifty Frenchmen in civil dress of
every grade of life, workmen and gentle-
men, in a double rank. They are all so
wounded that they are back in civil life,
but to-day they are to have some solace
for their wounds. They lean heavily
on sticks, their bodies are twisted and
maimed, but their faces are shining with
pride and joy. The French General
draws his sword and addresses them.
One catches words like "honneur" and
"patrie." They lean forward on their
crutches, hanging on every syllable which
comes hissing and rasping from under
that heavy white moustache. Then the
[19]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
medals are pinned on. One poor lad is
terribly wounded and needs two sticks. A
little girl runs out with some flowers. He
leans forward and tries to kiss her, but
the crutches slip and he nearly falls upon
her. It was a pitiful but beautiful little
scene.
Now the British candidates march up
one by one for their medals, hale, hearty
men, brown and fit. There is a smart
young officer of Scottish Rifles; and then
a selection of Worcesters, Welsh Fusiliers
and Scots Fusiliers, with one funny little
Highlander, a tiny figure with a soup-
bowl helmet, a grinning boy's face beneath
it, and a bedraggled uniform. "Many
acts of great bravery," such was the record
for which he was decorated. Even the
French wounded smiled at his quaint ap-
pearance, as they did at another Briton
who had acquired the chewing-gum habit,
and came up for his medal as if he had
been called suddenly in the middle of his
dinner, which he was still endeavouring to
bolt. Then came the end, with the Na-
[20]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
tional Anthem. The British regiment
formed fours and went past. To me that
was the most impressive sight of any.
They were the Queen's West Surreys, a
veteran regiment of the great Ypres bat-
tle. What grand fellows! As the order
came "Eyes right," and all those fierce,
dark faces flashed round about us, I felt
the might of the British infantry, the in-
tense individuality which is not incompati-
ble with the highest discipline. Much
they had endured, but a great spirit shone
from their faces. I confess that as I
looked at those brave English lads, and
thought of what we owe to them and to
their like who have passed on, I felt more
emotional than befits a Briton in foreign
parts.
*;!-_ .*&. &- &.
^^ ^^ ^jv ^|^
Now the ceremony was ended, and once
again we set out for the front. It was to
an artillery observation post that we were
bound, and once again my description
must be bounded by discretion. Suffice
it, that in an hour I found myself, together
[21]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
with a razor-keen young artillery observer
and an excellent old sportsman of a Rus-
sian prince, jammed into a very small
space, and staring through a slit at the
German lines. In front of us lay a vast
plain, scarred and slashed, with bare places
at intervals, such as you see where gravel
pits break a green common. Not a sign
of life or movement, save some wheeling
crows. And yet down there, within a mile
or so, is the population of a city. Far
away a single train is puffing at the back
of the German lines. We are here on a
definite errand. Away to the right, nearly
three miles off, is a small red house, dim
to the eye but clear in the glasses, which
is suspected as a German post. It is to
go up this afternoon. The gun is some
distance away, but I hear the telephone
directions. " 'Mother' will soon do her
in," remarks the gunner boy cheerfully.
"Mother" is the name of the gun. "Give
her five six three four," he cries through
the 'phone. "Mother" utters a horrible
bellow from somewhere on our right. An
[22]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
enormous spout of smoke rises ten seconds
later from near the house. "A little
short," says our gunner. "Two and a half
minutes left," adds a little small voice,
which represents another observer at a
different angle. "Raise her seven five,"
says our boy encouragingly. "Mother"
roars more angrily than ever. "How will
that do?" she seems to say. "One and a
half right," says our invisible gossip. I
wonder how the folk in the house are feel-
ing as the shells creep ever nearer. "Gun
laid, sir," says the telephone. "Fire!" I
am looking through my glass. A flash of
fire on the house, a huge pillar of dust and
smoke — then it settles and an unbroken
field is there. The German post has gone
up. "It's a dear little gun," says the of-
ficer boy. "And her shells are reliable,"
remarked a senior behind us. "They vary
with different calibres, but 'Mother' never
goes wrong." The German line was very
quiet. "Pourquoi ils ne repondent pas?"
asked the Russian prince. 'Yes, they are
quiet to-day," answered the senior. "But
[23]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
we get it in the neck sometimes." We are
all led off to be introduced to "Mother,"
who sits, squat and black, amid twenty of
her grimy children who wait upon and
feed her. She is an important person is
"Mother," and her importance grows. It
gets clearer with every month that it is
she, and only she, who can lead us to the
Rhine. She can and she will if the fac-
tories of Britain can beat those of the
Hun. See to it, you working men and
women of Britain. Work now if you rest
for ever after, for the fate of Europe and
of all that is dear to us is in your hands.
For "Mother" is a dainty eater, and needs
good food and plenty. She is fond of
strange lodgings, too, in which she prefers
safety to dignity. But that is a danger-
ous subject.
** jfc * 46
#r» *p vr* vi*
One more experience of this wonderful
day — the most crowded with impressions
of my whole life. At night we take a car
and drive north, and ever north, until at
a late hour we halt and climb a hill in the
[24]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
darkness. Below is a wonderful sight.
Down on the flats, in a huge semi-circle,
lights are rising and falling. They are
very brilliant, going up for a few seconds
and then dying down. Sometimes a dozen
are in the air at one time. There are the
dull thuds of explosions and an occasional
rat-tat-tat. I have seen nothing like it,
but the nearest comparison would be an
enormous ten-mile railway station in full
swing at night, with signals winking, lamps
waving, engines hissing and carriages
bumping. It is a terrible place down
yonder, a place which will live as long as
military history is written, for it is the
Ypres Salient. What a salient it is, too!
A huge curve, as outlined by the lights,
needing only a little more to be an encir-
clement. Something caught the rope as it
closed, and that something was the British
soldier. But it is a perilous place still by
day and by night. Never shall I forget
the impression of ceaseless, malignant
activity which was borne in upon me by
the white, winking lights, the red sudden
[25]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
glares, and the horrible thudding noises
in that place of death beneath me.
II
In old days we had a great name as
organisers. Then came a long period
when we deliberately adopted a policy of
individuality and "go as you please."
Now once again in our sore need we have
called on all our power of administration
and direction. But it has not deserted us.
We still have it in a supreme degree.
Even in peace time we have shown it in
that vast, well-oiled, swift-running, noise-
less machine called the British Navy. But
now our powers have risen with the need
of them. The expansion of the Navy
has been a miracle, the management of
the transport a greater one, the formation
of the new Army the greatest of all time.
To get the men was the least of the dif-
ficulties. To put them here, with every-
thing down to the lid of the last field
saucepan in its place, that is the marvel.
[26]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
The tools of the gunners, and of the sap-
pers, to say nothing of the knowledge of
how to use them, are in themselves a huge
problem. But it has all been met and
mastered, and will be to the end. But
don't let us talk any more about the mud-
dling of the War Office. It has become
just a little ridiculous.
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I have told of my first day, when I
visited the front trenches, saw the work of
"Mother," and finally that marvellous
spectacle, the Ypres Salient at night. I
have passed the night at the headquarters
of a divisional-general, Capper, who
might truly be called one of the two
fathers of the British flying force, for it
was he, with Templer, who laid the first
foundations from which so great an or-
ganisation has arisen. My morning
was spent in visiting two fighting
brigadiers, cheery weather-beaten soldiers,
respectful, as all our soldiers are, of the
prowess of the Hun, but serenely confi-
dent that we can beat him. In company
[27]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
with one of them I ascended a hill, the
reverse slope of which was swarming with
cheerful infantry in every stage of dis-
habille, for they were cleaning up after
the trenches. Once over the slope we ad-
vanced with some care, and finally reached
a certain spot from which we looked down
upon the German line. It was the ad-
vanced observation post, about a thousand
yards from the German trenches, with
our own trenches between us. We could
see the two lines, sometimes only a few
yards, as it seemed, apart, extending for
miles on either side. The sinister silence
and solitude were strangely dramatic.
Such vast crowds of men, such intensity
of feeling, and yet only that open rolling
countryside, with never a movement in its
whole expanse.
The afternoon saw us in the Square at
Ypres. It is the city of a dream, this
modern Pompeii, destroyed, deserted and
desecrated, but with a sad, proud dignity
which made you involuntarily lower your
voice as you passed through the ruined
[28]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
streets. It is a more considerable place
than I had imagined, with many traces of
ancient grandeur. No words can describe
the absolute splintered wreck that the
Huns have made of it. The effect of
some of the shells has been grotesque. One
boiler-plated water-tower, a thing forty
or fifty feet high, was actually standing
on its head like a great metal top. There
is not a living soul in the place save a
few pickets of soldiers, and a number of
cats which become fierce and dangerous.
Now and then a shell still falls, but the
Huns probably know that the devastation
is already complete.
We stood in the lonely grass -grown
square, once the busy centre of the town,
and we marvelled at the beauty of the
smashed cathedral and the tottering Cloth
Hall beside it. Surely at their best they
could not have looked more wonderful
than now. If they were preserved even
so, and if a heaven-inspired artist were to
model a statue of Belgium in front, Bel-
gium with one hand pointing to the treaty
[29]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
by which Prussia guaranteed her safety
and the other to the sacrilege behind her,
it would make the most impressive group
in the world. It was an evil day for Bel-
gium when her frontier was violated, but
it was a worse one for Germany. I
venture to prophesy that it will be re-
garded by history as the greatest military
as well as political error that has ever been
made. Had the great guns that destroyed
Liege made their first breach at Verdun
what chance was there for Paris? Those
few weeks of warning and preparation
saved France, and left Germany as she
now is, like a weary and furious bull,
•tethered fast in the place of trespass and
waiting for the inevitable pole-axe.
We were glad to get out of the place,
for the gloom of it lay as heavy upon our
hearts as the shrapnel helmets did upon
our heads. Both were lightened as we
sped back past empty and shattered villas
to where, just behind the danger line, the
normal life of rural Flanders was carry-
ing on as usual. A merry sight helped to
[30]
A GLIMPSE OF THE BRITISH ARMY
cheer us, for scudding down wind above
our heads came a Boche aeroplane, with
two British at her tail barking away with
their machine guns, like two swift terriers
after a cat. They shot rat-tat-tatting
across the sky until we lost sight of them
in the heat haze over the German line.
*****
The afternoon saw us on the Sharpen-
burg, from which many a million will gaze
in days to come, for from no other point
can so much be seen. It is a spot forbid,
but a special permit took us up, and the
sentry on duty, having satisfied himself
of our bona fides, proceeded to tell us
tales of the war in a pure Hull dialect
which might have been Chinese for all that
I could understand. That he was a "ter-
rier" and had nine children were the only
facts I could lay hold of. But I wished
to be silent and to think — even, perhaps,
to pray. Here, just below my feet, were
the spots which our dear lads, three of
them my own kith, have sanctified with
their blood. Here, fighting for the free-
[31]
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS
dom of the world, they cheerily gave their
all. On that sloping meadow to the left
of the row of houses on the opposite ridge
the London Scottish fought to the death
on that grim November morning when
the Bavarians reeled back from their shot-
torn line. That plain away on the other
side of Ypres was the place where the
three grand Canadian brigades, first of all
men, stood up to the damnable cowardly
gases of the Hun. Down yonder is Hill
60, that blood-soaked kopje. The ridge
over the fields was held by the cavalry
against two army corps, and there where
the sun strikes the red roof among the
trees I can just see Gheluveld, a name for
ever to be associated with Haig and the
most vital battle of the war. As I turn
away I am faced by my Hull Territorial,
who still says incomprehensible things. I
look at him with other eyes. He has
fought on yonder plain. He has slain
Huns, and he has nine children. Could
anyone better epitomise the duties of a
good citizen? I could have found it in