25-28 August, 1914

ABOUT TO BE SHOT FOR A SPY

by Paul Maze

The author of this narrative was for four and a half years one of the most remarkable figures on the Western Front. A French artist and a fluent English speaker, he attached himself to the Scots Greys on their landing at Le Havre and acted as an informal interpreter and liaison officer. Afterwards he was on the staff of Sir Hubert Gough. During the retreat from Mons he was almost shot as a spy.

I woke up suddenly – it was daylight. I didn’t know where I was. I only felt the weight of my boots. I looked at my watch – I had slept five hours. Not a sound came from the village. I peeped through the window – the street was deserted. I slipped down the stairs into the kitchen, shouting for madame. Her bread and coffee lay on the table. I got no response. Full of apprehension, I ran up the stairs, and as I seized my cap and revolver belt I heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs – the square tops of Uhlan helmets were passing right under my window! I paused, breathless, then a motor-car rushed through the streets, carrying a party of Germans, revolvers in hand. I had to push the window open gently to see if anyone else was coming. The two riders I had seen turned off to the right were now out of sight.

I had to act quickly. Fortunately the village was small. Each farm opened onto a yard. I knew I had to avoid the roads. The kitchen door was locked; it opened onto a small garden. Jumping out of the window I climbed a wall covered with pears, crossed over a lane into a farmyard, then slipped through some stables and out into open space where I made for another farm, disturbing some hens pecking at a manure heap. They took off with much fluttering and clucking. At the next farm, looking through a window, I saw some people. They all talked at once. One little fellow, a hunchback, caught hold of my arm and said ‘Suivez-moi’, and I followed him. After much dodging about we came to a wall which I peeped over and viewed an expanse of countryside that looked like the whole of France spread out in the sunlight. The trees of two main roads divided the landscape; one led to the town of St. Quentin. I shook the hand of my guide, who said: ‘Bonne chance, sauvez-vous vite’. Hiding the best way I could, I crept towards the road, shuffling noisily through a wet cabbage patch that soaked me to the skin. After a short run I flung myself headlong into the ditch bordering the road.

Key men in the Alliance between England and France – members of the French Army who could speak fluent English. Paul Maze is the central figure in this group of seven Frenchmen. The group are still wearing the uniforms of their individual units prior to changing to British Army khaki.

Carefully I looked around – not a soul could be seen anywhere. Putting my ear to the ground I could detect no sound of movement. I ran dodging from tree to tree which, happily, were thick trunked and not far apart, stopping only to recover my breath. I watched every haystack, keeping my eye on a village to my right. I had just paused for a moment and was on the verge of rushing forward again when there, standing against a high red brick wall, were three mounted Uhlans, their shadows sharply cast against the wall. My eyes were glued to them, I dared not move. A cold shiver ran down my spine as one of them rode his horse across the open towards a group of small hay-stacks about 200 yards from where I was crouched.

Stopping suddenly, he stood up in his stirrups and looked through his field-glasses. He took his time, concentrating on certain places. I could see his dark horse lashing the air with its tail. Nothing, however, had arrested his attention in my direction, but when he waved to the others and they promptly joined him at a quick trot, I thought I was finished. They stood a while conversing, then looked round and, to my relief, turned their horses and started at an easy trot, moving back towards the village, their lances with folded pennants swinging above their heads.

As I had my eyes fixed on them I heard coming up from behind a kind of flapping sound. It was a dog running straight at me. I gave a sudden jerk, swinging at it as it neared, which frightened it off. With suppressed yelps it swerved round me and ran on, with its tail between its legs, trailing a lead. Meanwhile, the Uhlans had neared the village and were disappearing behind farm buildings.

There was nothing for me to do but run. I looked in every direction first, before crouching and darting across to the other side of the road; noting as I did the dog, away ahead, still running for all it was worth. What hid me from sight was the depth of the ditch and the bank on both sides of the road. By keeping my head down I could run along, confident that I could not be seen from the fields. What distance I covered along that ditch I do not know.

Suddenly two shots rang out ahead and over to my right, echoing from wood to wood. I dropped down and lay still, my faced pressed against the damp earth. Cautiously, I raised myself and began moving very slowly along the ditch towards a crossroads. The light from the sun was blinding as I approached a bunch of road-side trees. More shots caused me to drop to the ground. Over by a small wood I could just make out what appeared to be men wearing the familiar khaki uniforms of the British. Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw what was unmistakably two dismounted cavalrymen. With hopes raised I waited; there among the leaves I could see red faces – I was becoming more confident. Having advanced a little more, I cleared the bank and, waving for all I was worth, I shot in amongst them like a football between goal posts.

They were our cavalry, dismounted; their horses were just at hand, a few paces away. For a moment I could hardly talk I was so out of breath. The officer in command told me I was lucky, for German patrols were everywhere and they had been firing at anyone who showed himself.

‘You were lucky they didn’t see you. Your unit must be somewhere close by as it passed through here earlier in the morning. Brigade headquarters is about two miles away in that direction. They will be able to direct you. You had better begin walking – and keep your head down.’

Setting off in the direction indicated I joined up with an infantryman belonging to the Highland Light Infantry who was going the same way. Red-haired, tall, as brown as a berry, with a broad Border accent, he looked the picture of health, in spite of his long weary march. He told me the details of a severe scrap in which he had been engaged. His haversack was full of unripe apples, which he kept munching and spitting out as we trudged along.

Officers of the British High Command discussing the situation during the retreat from Mons. On the left, leaning on his stick, is Lieutenant General Sir Douglas Haig, commanding I Corps, he is talking with Major General C. C. Monro, commanding the 1st Division. On the right are two members of Haig’s staff, Brigadier General J. Gough and Colonel Percival. It was to such a group, which included Major General Monro, that Paul Maze approached directly to offer information and was promptly arrested on suspicion of being a spy.

The village we next walked into was occupied by British infantry and in the middle of the market square there stood a throng of officers obviously engaged in deep conversation. Among them was a stoutish man with a grey moustache, General Sir Charles Monro, who commanded the 2nd Division. As I was still new to the army, the sight of red tabs had not the sobering effect on me that it had on a regular private soldier.

Rashly I imagined that those staff officers would welcome any information that I might be able to supply. Approaching the group I saluted and asked the whereabouts of the Greys or of their transport with which I had lost touch. I was about to say where I had come from and what I had seen, when the General cut me short, looked me up and down from head to toe before informing me that the Greys had passed through the village earlier that day, but that he had no idea where their transport had gone. Suddenly his manner changed, with his face twitching, he sharply asked my name; there was a look of suspicion in his stare. ‘Where have you come from?’ I mentioned the village. ‘That place has been occupied by the enemy since earlier this morning.’ he replied. I felt a stir among the officers who were suddenly listening – one officer walked away quickly.

‘What village did you say you were in?’

I could not remember the name.

‘What is the name of your colonel?’

My memory failed me entirely.

‘What squadron are you in?’

My mind was a blank.

Suddenly the ground disappeared from under my feet as I was lifted up and my belt and revolver taken from me. I was immediately searched, right down to my puttees. Hand-cuffed, my legs trembling under me, I was marched off to join a party of German prisoners and Belgian civilians who were tied to one another and standing by the headquarters’ baggage cart. Suddenly we were marched off, escorted by men with fixed bayonets. It all happened so fast I had barely time to realize what was happening. A soldier called out ‘Here is another blasted spy!’ It was no use my appealing. It made me realize the dangerous situation I was in.

As the group marched along bound together the General and his staff drove past in a staff car without even giving us a glance. It was useless trying to get a hearing from those guards escorting us. I could not talk to the German prisoners, who all the time were mumbling to me, ‘Bist du Deutsch?’ I dared not answer – it would look worse for me if I was seen talking to them in their tongue. I heard them discuss me – they could not make out what I was. The three Belgians looked such ruffians I thought it wise not to address them at all. We were made to step out, to keep up with the rear of the transport wagons. All around there was a general sign of urgency – riders were driving their heels into their horses; infantry alongside us were marching at a fast pace. Earlier the dew had kept the dust down, but now, even though it was still early morning, clouds of dust were rising. Staring at the wagon before me I followed the sound of its squealing as one does a tune. It was as though I was in a dream, not realising yet the full extent of the trouble I was in. A loud rumble of guns on our right grew nearer and nearer.

In a village where we rested later in the day, things livened up as the villagers caught sight of the espions. They spat at the captured spies and threw stones at us. One French Territorial soldier, for some unknown reason alone in that village, came up to us seething with rage and foaming at the mouth waving his bayonet. One of our guards became furious and handled him very roughly.

We resumed our weary march, picking up as we went along a considerable number of stragglers belonging to all sorts of regiments. From their appearance it was evident that they had had a bad time – but they looked determined and walked on, keeping in rank. Motor-cyclists and staff cars would rush past, raising a cloud of dust. Artillery would cut across fields, leaving the road free for the infantry, everybody was bent on pushing on. Every sound and sight I witnessed of the situation all around sharpened my apprehension.

UNHAPPY RECOGNITION

We overtook a halted wagon line and as ill luck would have it three German prisoners who had been with the transport the day before recognised me and waved. As they had been with us for a whole day I had chatted with them a good deal so as to try to get some information out of them so, of course, they knew me. How could I explain to the guards, who had witnessed their greeting, the circumstances of my acquaintance with enemy soldiers? The incident was at once reported to the military police and nothing I could say made things any better.

When night came I was led to a small shrine by the side of the road. Tired out, I lay down, a simple statue of the Virgin Mary above my head. I remembered what a nun had said on my way north as she had pressed a crucifix into my hands, saying that it would help me. Indeed, I now needed all the help in the world, even hers.

The night was very cold. Troops went by incessantly. Above the shuffling of feet I heard my sentry solemnly remark: ‘Why don’t they just shoot the bastard and be done with him, instead of keeping us shivering out here all night guarding him?’ Somewhere in the darkness a fierce engagement was taking place, not too many miles away.

August 27 – I was taken out of the shrine at an early hour and into a thick fog. Artillery, transport and infantry seemed to be all mixed up. An officer was shouting out instructions as units extricated themselves from all the confusion and got on to the road. The three German prisoners from the day before were brought up and I joined them; we became part of a long column of infantry. We were given biscuits and a tin of bully beef.

Something serious had happened during the night – I did not know what it was, but I sensed it by the way the horses pulled and the chains strained and by the urgent voices of the drivers and increased pace of the marching men – all indicated the gravity of the situation. The enemy was obviously pressing in on all sides. In all this I wondered what eventually would happen to me.

After we had been on the march for some hours, the day cleared brilliantly. Suddenly, as I marched alongside some kilted men, I caught sight of a French soldier who happened to be a friend of mine. I hailed him and we walked along together. He had fought at Charleroi and lost touch with his regiment. As he knew no English it was difficult for him to explain that I was an old friend, but he eventually found an officer who understood French. Unfortunately, this turned out to be no help as the troops became split up and I even lost touch with my friend.

After a day-long march my feet were beginning to hurt and the pain took over from the predicament I was in. Over to the left a fierce battle was being fought and I could make out the quick bark of French 75 mm field guns. As darkness fell I was taken into a large modern house.

There were two beds in the room – we were three – I was assigned one of them. For the first time since leaving Mons my two guards were able to remove their boots. I could not recall when I had last had my boots off. The feeling immediately was not one of relief as I had expected.

One of my guards was a Cockney and he seemed marginally more sympathetic to my plight. The other was a Scot, whose only words to me when I tried to talk about my plight was: ‘Dinna worry, if yr’re a spy ye’ll be shot alrecht, and if you’re no, ye wilna be.’ Which seemed logical enough. The Cockney confided, when we were alone, that he knew they had got it all wrong – and that I was not a spy.

READY FOR THE WORST

After a brief rest the Provost Marshal walked in with my haversack. He produced serveral of my possessions and asked if the razor was mine. Yes it was – a great German razor bought in Hamburg years before. I pointed out that if he had had any experience of either German or Swedish razors he would have one himself. He left smiling. After he left I couldn’t sleep. I listened to the guns booming to the east and west of us, the sounds of which seemed to be increasing in an alarming way. The very air became heavy with tension.

As the grey light of dawn filtered into the room there was the sound of the clattering of bayonets on the wall and heavy steps on the stairs. The door was flung open and the Provost Marshal stood framed in the doorway. Behind him was a sergeant major, who was calling for the prisoner to be marched out. This is it, I thought, as I was marched down into the street, which bustled with activity created by baggage wagons and infantry hurrying through the village street. Then I heard a voice yelling ‘Make way for the cavalry!’

‘Cavalry to the rescue!’ A party of Scots Greys on a road in France. Paul Maze was about to be taken away and shot out of hand as a traitor and a spy when a squadron of Scots Greys almost rode the party down. Leading the Greys was Major Swetenham, who immediately recognized him and was able to vouch for him.

Suddenly I saw him – it was Major Collins riding ahead of a squadron of Scots Greys.

I shouted his name at the top of my voice – but he never saw me. In desperation I continued yelling his name as the squadron rode past. The clamour in the street drowned out my desperate cries.

‘There you are, none of the Greys recognized him,’ said one of my guards, and I was pushed on to where I assumed I was to be shot.

With leaden heart I stumbled on toward whatever fate awaited me.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ It was Major Swetenham.

We had walked in front of his horse. He was leading the next squadron and had reigned back at the sight of me. With his arm raised to halt his men he repeated the question, puzzled as to why I was under arrest. He swung down from his horse and I was able to gabble a quick explanation.

‘Sergeant Major – where is the Provost-Marshal?’ Major Swetenham demanded. ‘Lead me to him.’

We were told to wait and soon Mr Swetenham and the Provost Marshal were walking back towards us with smiles on their faces.

Major Seligman, who commanded J Battery, Royal Horse Artillery. Paul Maze was assured that he would be in good hands with the Battery.

‘You had best come along with me sharpish – they were about to bally well shoot you.’

He stopped a limber of J Battery of the Royal Horse Artillery and had me jump up on to it. ‘I have no horse to spare so you will have to make do with riding on this,’ he said.

No words can express the feeling that came over me – I had been reprieved when minutes away from death at the hands of men of my own side.

After bouncing along for some time we came within sight of a small village called Cerizy on the St. Quentin – La Fère road, it was here we caught up with part of the Greys halted in the middle of a cup-shaped plain. J Battery drew up and I immediately found Colonel Bulkeley-Johnson, who was talking to Major Swetenham. On seeing me the colonel appeared pleased as he had concluded, after missing me for the last two days, that I had been taken prisoner. He expressed, in his charming way, a deal of sympathy for what I had gone through.

‘You must remember that the 2nd Infantry Division have had a very bad time and they have been very nervy about spies. One can hardly trust one’s brother these days, such odd things have happened.’

He told me to remain with J Battery in the meantime, as I would be in good hands with Major Seligman, who commanded the Battery.