The Beauty and the Sorrow (38 page)

They all know about SMS
Möwe. Möwe
represents everything Stumpf and millions of other Germans thought the war at sea would be like: bold manoeuvres on the oceans of the world, in which the elements would be defied and an apparently superior opponent outwitted time after time and with very definite results.

SMS
Möwe
began life as
Pungo
, a very ordinary freighter used to ship bananas from the German colony of Cameroon during peacetime. The war had been going on for only a few days when French forces, soon to be followed by the British, invaded the German colony.
^o
There, as elsewhere, the invaders’ hopes of rapid success quickly ran into the sand. Following a clumsy and protracted campaign that lasted throughout 1915, the German outposts did eventually fall one by one.
^p
And since it was obvious
that the German banana trade with Cameroon was ruined at least for the duration of the war, the
Pungo
was converted to the
Möwe
in the autumn of 1915 in order to serve as a merchant raider. The German fleet has perhaps a dozen such vessels. On the outside they look like ordinary freighters from neutral countries (mainly Scandinavian countries) but they are heavily equipped with both mines and concealed guns. Their prime target is Allied merchant shipping and they have caused fear and confusion out of all proportion to their numbers. It is also more than a touch embarrassing for all concerned that these insignificant vessels have succeeded in sinking more ships than the combined might of the great, costly and muscular High Seas Fleet.

The fact that all these battleships have largely been languishing in port has led to a good deal of derision from many people in civil life: the whole of this great and expensive fleet, which in pre-war days consumed one-third of the military budget, is seen as passive and even, some whisper, unusable. The last commander-in-chief of the navy, finally dismissed because of his cautiousness, used to be the target of pointed remarks, particularly from women, whenever he went out on the street. The following lines have been seen scribbled on walls or heard sung by boys on the street in Wilhelmshaven:

        
Lieb’ Vaterland magts ruhig sein

        
Die Flotte schläft im Hafen ein
.
^q

Given this situation, then, ships like SMS
Möwe
have had to make up for the manifest deficit in naval exploits. She sailed away in December—under a Swedish flag—and has had a daring voyage by any account. She mined the waters close to the great British naval base at Scapa Flow, thereby sinking the elderly battleship HMS
King Edward VII
. She then sailed on round Ireland to reach the French coast, before passing Spain and the Canary Islands and finally crossing the Atlantic to the coast of Brazil. She has been laying mines and holding up Allied merchant vessels
all the way: she has taken fifteen ships in three months, thirteen of which were sunk and two taken to harbour as booty.
^r

Just as they are about to sit down for lunch they hear shouts from the port side. Stumpf and his companions rush to where the cheering is coming from. When they emerge into the March sunshine they see the little SMS
Möwe
puffing along between the lines of great grey battleships, and the flags of the fifteen ships she has taken or sunk are fluttering from her mast. The first officer calls for a cheer and they all join in, “wildly, with all the strength of our lungs.” The crew down on the low deck of the
Möwe
are all lined up and respond with their own happy hurrahs. Stumpf notes with amazement that “there were a number of negroes wearing blue shirts and red caps standing on her deck, and unbelievably enough, they were cheering too.”

Then there is a remarkable balletic scene—the whole squadron performs a perfectly coordinated turn by way of greeting:

It was an indescribably splendid sight. Just a short distance away the island of Heligoland gleamed in the golden rays of the sun, the sea was dark-green and it looked as if fifty prehistoric monsters were dancing a triumphal dance around the returning
Möwe
. I really lamented my lack of a camera on this occasion.

A triumph, for once. Later the whole of the first squadron sails into Wilhelmshaven yet again and takes on coal until eight in the evening. They are supposed to go out again immediately—rumour says that this time it is for real.

A few days later Richard Stumpf notes in his journal:

Yet again there was no battle! As I write this we are back in the mouth of the Jade river, safe, sound and in one piece, without having fired a single shot. I have just given up all hope! Our fighting spirit has sunk to new depths.

WEDNESDAY
, 8
MARCH
1916
Florence Farmborough comments on the life of the civilian population in Chortkov

They are back in enemy territory. Chortkov, where they have been for a month now, lies in the Austrian part of Galicia. The town was badly damaged last year when Russian units, expecting to be driven out, set fire to many of the buildings. Jews form a large part of the population. Florence writes in her diary:

The position of the Hebrews living in Chortkov is most pitiful. They are being treated with vindictive animosity. As Austrian subjects they enjoyed almost complete liberty, experiencing none of the cruel oppression poured out on to the Russian Jew. But under the new Government their rights and freedom have disappeared and it is obvious they resent the change keenly.

When it snows—and it has snowed a great deal this winter—one Jew per household is compelled to go out and clear the streets under the supervision of Russian soldiers wielding knouts, and they do not hesitate to administer a whipping with them. There is a ruin opposite the house where Florence and several of the other nurses are quartered. One of the town’s rabbis used to live there. Next door to it is a synagogue which has been vandalised.

This morning Florence receives a visit from a Jewish seamstress who has made her a grey cotton dress. The woman is upset. When Florence asks why, she tells her that three Cossacks pounded on the door the evening before and demanded house room. (All soldiers have that right and the majority quarter themselves on Jewish families, sometimes twenty or thirty men to a house. The overcrowding is indescribable.) She told the Cossacks quite truthfully that all her rooms were already overcrowded with soldiers, but they forced their way in all the same and began to carry out a sort of improvised search. They soon found what they were looking for—a revolver they had obviously planted there themselves. The seamstress and her husband protested, upset and, indeed, terrified since possession of a weapon was strictly forbidden and punishable with death. It was all a trick, of course, and the Cossacks offered to forget the
whole business as long as they were paid ten roubles. The seamstress and her husband had no choice:

So the ten roubles were scraped together and handed over to the Cossacks who, as they left, commented in loud, scandalised voices on the treachery of the heathen Jewish race. Such tales of injustice are commonplace in this part of the world; it would seem the very name “Jew” is, to Russian soldiers, a word of scorn.

Otherwise the last months have been quiet. Apart from the costly and ineffective attacks made far to the north, on Lake Narocz outside Vilnius, no one has seen any signs of the Russian offensives everyone was talking about so expectantly. Something close to a sense of disappointment has begun to spread and even Florence feels frustrated by all the waiting.

The front is so quiet at the moment that there have been very few wounded to take care of, so Florence and the other nurses have been trying to help the civilian population instead. There have been many cases of typhus and smallpox and the outbreaks have been made worse partly by the extreme overcrowding, which has facilitated the rapid spread of infection, and partly by the shortage of food. The shops in the town are well stocked with luxuries like corsets, high-heeled shoes, silk ribbons and chamois-leather gloves but it is difficult to get hold of simple basics like butter, eggs and yeast—and what little there is of them sells at ridiculous prices.

A severe typhus epidemic raged here last year and the smallest and youngest were hit hardest. Between ten and twenty children a day were dying at one point. Florence has seen a good deal by this time but she writes in her diary:

Sometimes it seems to me that not one of those dreadful wounds which I saw and treated during last year’s retreat touched me so deeply as the sight of these suffering children, with their small wan faces and limp little bodies.

One of the people she nurses is a four-year-old called Vasilj who comes from a poverty-stricken peasant family from outside the town. His father, who was conscripted into the Austro-Hungarian army at the start of the war, has disappeared and his mother makes her living by doing washing for Russian soldiers. The boy caught smallpox last year
and because of the illness and malnutrition he has stopped growing. When Florence picks him up his arms and legs feel like thin twigs.

Another of those seeking her help today is a young Ukrainian woman. She says she is eighteen but she looks younger. She came yesterday, surly and scared, to get help with her skin problems and they started by cutting off her filthy, matted hair. Then they gave her green soap to wash with. “Her body, full of sores, told its own sorry story of prostitution.” The girl survives by selling her body to soldiers. She has come back today with a slightly easier mind now that she understands that the nurses really want to help her.

Florence is standing by the door as the girl is leaving. She sees her turn round. She sees her bow her head to the doctor and mumble a thank-you. As the girl passes her, Florence has “a momentary glimpse of tears below her tightly compressed eyelids. She, too, was a victim of War.”

Edward Mousley is woken by the sound of shelling. His first thought is that it is their own artillery in Kut al-Amara; then he thinks it must be the Ottoman artillery bombarding the British relief force which, according to the latest reports, is less than twenty miles away on the north bank of the Tigris. He climbs up onto the roof to investigate and sees flashes in the distance; they are coming from the guns of the relief force, which is pounding the Turkish lines at Dujaila on the
south
bank of the river. That is only about eight miles away. The relief force has clearly crossed the river covertly and, after marching under cover of darkness, is making an attempt to break through to them.

The excitement among the besieged troops is enormous. As daylight grows stronger they can see Ottoman units making hastily for the threatened position. Mousley knows there are plans for the besieged to support the relief force by making a sortie, either to the north or to the south depending on which side of the river the relief force arrives, but he does not hear an order to put the plan into operation. Around nine o’clock he can see rows of heads moving along the Ottoman trenches and all of them are heading south-east.

The sounds of battle grow more intense and Ottoman units continue to pour in the direction of Dujaila.

Then everything goes very quiet and there are no more flashes to be seen on the horizon.

Mousley assumes that the silence means the British infantry has reached its target and that fighting is going on with cold steel at close quarters.

The silence continues. The besieged men are becoming increasingly nervous. What has happened? Why are they not making a sortie?

The hours pass and nothing happens. The big guns round Dujaila remain silent.

Evening comes.

Everything is quiet.

Meanwhile, Sarah Macnaughtan is still in Hamadan in northern Persia. She is ill and alone. She writes in her diary:

I lie in bed all day up here amongst these horrible snows. The engineer comes in sometimes and makes me a cup of Benger’s Food. For the rest, I lean up on my elbow when I can, and cook some little thing—Bovril or hot milk—on my Etna stove. Then I am too tired to eat it, and the sickness begins all over again. Oh, if I could leave this place! If only someone would send back my car, which has been taken away, or if I could hear where Mrs. Wynne and Mr. Bevan
^s
are! But no, the door of this odious place is locked, and the key is thrown away. I have lost count of time. I just wait from day to day, hoping someone will come and take me away, though I am now getting so weak I don’t suppose I can travel. One wonders whether there can be a Providence in all this disappointment. I think not. I just made a great mistake coming out here, and I have suffered for it. Ye gods, what a winter it has been—disillusioning, dull, hideously and achingly disappointing!

THURSDAY
, 9
MARCH
1916
William Henry Dawkins’s father receives his dead son’s belongings

Today Arthur Dawkins has signed receipt of a parcel shipped by Thomas Cook & Son from the Australian military authorities in Egypt. The parcel contains William Henry Dawkins’s personal effects. They are:

1 Electric Pocket Lamp

1 Bible

1 Leather Sovereign Purse

1 Pocket Book

1 Diary

1 Pr Scissors

Belt