A WAR DRAMA

New Zealand Times, Volume XLI, Issue 9256, 25 January 1916, Page 6

A WAR DRAMA

THE HUMAN SCREEN

HOW A BELGIAN SAVED A CHILD

M. Maurice Ebnhier, in the “Gaulois,” tells a dramatic story of the Flemish trenches, of which a translation recently appeared in the “Standard.”

It »3i between Dixmude and Nieuport, in the last days of October, 1914. The French Marino Fusiliers had gone to the rescue of the Belgians who in their retreat from Antwerp were holding on to each hedge and ditch and contesting each inch of their native land with the fierce energy of despair. In many places th/ losses had been so heavy that all that was left of a regiment or company was a little knot of men who had kept together under seltchosen leadership. It was such a knot of heroes that the Fusiliers found in one of the trenches they went to occupy, and the leader, a simple-looking, stoic -Flemish peasant, begged aa a favour to bo allowed to remain in attendance on the French captain and continue to fight as before. He was a man of about 30, taciturn and not given to much speech or gesture, but always ready to do good work. Above alt, he was a dead shot, and the manner in which his rifle never failed to bring down his man was the admiration of the French. Whenever any German officer or sniper came within range of eye it was invariably to the Belgian that the captain applied to pay his account, and as soon as he had “drawn his bead” on him the German was a dead man. Ho must have been a native of those parts, too. as he seemed to know every tree and bush and stream, and was invaluable for patrol or scouting duties. The German trenches were within about a mile, and one misty inorning the look-outs reported signs of general activity. The enemy was evidently about to make another attempt on the Ysor. Before long it could he dimly seen through the lifting fog of the morning that the Germans were moving forward in their usual solid formation, trusting to weight of numbers to break down the defence. The Belgians, who were accustomed to these attacks, kept up a steady fire, aiming low and deliberately, but the French officer had great difficulty' in restraining ,hia men from charging with the bayonet. At his right hand the Belgian sharpshooter followed his instructions, only stopping between each shot to take a pull at his pipe or to try to see the effect of his fire on the advancing enemy. As the Germans drew nearer, though, a growl of rage shook the trench, for when it was possible to distinguish the outlines it was seen that the front line of the attack was a pitiful staggering crowd of men, ivomen, and children being driven on with blows and pricks from the bayonets of the invaders, on whoso faces could he discerned sneers and grins of triumph, as the firing from tho trench suddenly ceased. The men were half mad with fury and half stunned with horror, and many with tears begged to he allowed to charge, for nobody dared to fire. Next to the captain, the Belgian sharpshooter looked as if to stone, with his eyes fixed in a terrified stare on the horrible sight and his fingers playing mechanically with his trigger. Tho Germans were now within 100 yards, and every face, feature, and expression of thei- victim was plain’y v sible And behind them the savagely - exultant smiles and laughter of the Germans. The captain was in one of those awful dilemmas that war must sometimes contrive for responsible commanders. To send out his Fusiliers was to condemn them to annihilation against the overwhelming odds, and in. the fearful hand-to-hand fight that would ensue the civilians would he the first sacrificed. His resolution was taken in a flash, and he explained that ho would shout to tho villagers to throw themselves down on the ground, and at the same time both French and Belgians would open and keep up the hottest fire they could. Turning to the crack shot, he said, “You see that officer leading, with a baby girl in his arms?’’ The Belgian, with the same fixed stare, nodded, like a dead man might nod. The captain added, “You must bring him down, for it is he who keeps the attack together.” For an instant there came a look of panic and torture in the eyes of the Belgian. “I know it is an atrocious thing 1 am asking you, but it is our only chance, and you must be brave, cool, and quick.” The Germans were closer now, and all the men in the trench could mark the small, fragile, flaxen-haired child, and in the tragic stillness hear her cries of “Maman” as she was held in her white frock against the uniform of the big German, a shield of innocent flesh, enough to save his breast from any French or Belgian bullet. Scarcely a sound but a sort of gasping sob could be heard as the sharpshooter threw up his rifle and took a long, deliberate aim over the edge of the parapet. As the shot rang out he drew himself up and out, with a face like a mask of terror and dread, to see the figure of the German stretched out on tho earth. After the fall of the leader, the attack degenerated into a wild general volley on both sides over the prostrate forms of the civilian screen'. But, heedless of the hail of bullets, the Belgian flew towards the body of his quarry, and snatching up the child regained the French lines. There he retired r into a corner, and seemed oblivious of the battle, and all else. But once more the German assault had failed, and when it was over, and each man had reoccupied his place iii the trench, all looked in silence at their Belgian comrade, who was fondling the girl he had saved from apparently certain death.

The captain at last went up to congratulate him, and said, “You seem to know the little thing?” With a fierce yet tender glance, tho Belgian replied, “It is my little daughter Marie.”