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Title: Campaign diary of a French officer
Author: René Nicolas
Translator: Katharine Babbitt
Release date: February 11, 2026 [eBook #77912]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1917
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMPAIGN DIARY OF A FRENCH OFFICER ***
CAMPAIGN DIARY OF A FRENCH OFFICER
BY
SOUS-LIEUTENANT RENÉ NICOLAS
OF THE FRENCH INFANTRY
_Translated
By Katharine Babbitt_
[Illustration: A black-and-white oval illustration of a seated nude
figure resting on a stone bench, leaning forward and playing a flute
beneath a tree, rendered in a classical woodcut style.]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
_The Riverside Press Cambridge_
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published March 1917_
_Aux grandes âmes d’Amérique qui ont si
bien su comprendre et aimer la France._
PREFACE _of a_ FRIEND
A Campaign Diary, do you say, Reader? If the original were before you,
you would not find it, like these printed pages, clean and whole. On it
are the marks of war—bloodstains and smears of mud, and, from cover to
cover, a hole made by a tiny piece of steel. These you may not see, but
for the rest no change has been made. The author is presenting to you
his notes just as he set them down at the front. The facts are true,
though the form is brief, almost impersonal, and entirely without the
literary flourishes that it would have been so easy to add _après coup_.
He is very young, this French officer. When the war broke out he was
still at the university, a member of that inner circle of the École
Normale Supérieure, where he was completing his studies in literature.
After the mobilization, he qualified rapidly for an officer’s commission
and started for the front. His first months there were spent in the mud
and desolation of that barren plain known as _la Champagne Pouilleuse_.
They were months made difficult by frequent skirmishes with the Boches,
and by a constant struggle with that other and more relentless enemy—the
mud of Champagne. In April, 1915, his regiment left the trenches, and
crossed on foot, by daily stages, the great Forest of Argonne, all
fragrant with the spring. We meet him again early in May before Arras,
on the eve of the Artois offensive. Only the beginning of this offensive
is described in the Diary. On May 9th, he fell, seriously wounded,
between the French and German lines, ten yards from the enemy’s trench.
He himself will describe to you that terrible day and his agonizing
return to the French positions.
And that is all—three months of the war. It is not much, but it is
enough to quicken for all time the pulse of the man who has lived it.
If, among these pages, there are some that for a moment make you feel
the horror and the thrill of war, then say to yourself, Reader, it is
not one man alone who has thought these thoughts and endured these
sufferings. It is the history of the youth of a whole nation.
L. PLANTEFOL
_École Normale Supérieure_
Paris, 1917
FOREWORD
During the long hours of idleness spent in the trenches or behind the
front, almost all the soldiers write in their _carnets de route_. And
the slender notebook which they keep constantly by them is their
greatest friend. It is the confidant of their troubles and their joys,
of their heroism and their discouragement, which they describe
naïvely—the reflection of their innermost thoughts. As for myself, I
tried to jot down my experiences as objectively as possible, bringing
together the impressions and details that counted most to me. In so far
as I have succeeded in depicting only myself, may it be remembered that
my ego, if it is not the centre of the world, is necessarily the centre
of this journal, written without any thought of publication.
When I visited America recently I came to realize the widespread
interest in the European War shown by the citizens of the New World. To
relieve the misfortunes that follow in the trail of war, they have
brought to bear the great strength of their sympathy and of their
material resources. But, not content with this, they give proof of a
keen desire to know “just how they do things over there.” And the many
questions I have been asked, and the earnest attention accorded to my
accounts of the war, are my excuse for publishing this journal.
I was not a soldier at the moment the war broke out; I was called to the
colors in the first days of August, 1914, and went through the training
for the infantry. Then my university degrees, together with an
examination, made it possible for me to join a training-class for
officers. At the end of this course, I was given the rank of Second
Lieutenant on probation and started for the front.
Except for a few trifling omissions, this book reproduces exactly the
notes I took at the front, though the last two chapters were written
rather a long time after the events they describe—the reader will
understand why. Nor is the form finished: for how shall one point
phrases to the tune of grapeshot? But the story is a true one, lived and
lived intensely. In this fact lies the little merit the work may
possess.
RENÉ NICOLAS
CONTENTS
I. ARRIVAL IN THE ARMY ZONE—IMPRESSIONS BEHIND THE FRONT 1
II. THE MARCH TO THE TRENCHES 13
III. DESCRIPTION OF THE TRENCH—LIFE IN THE FIRST LINE—BOMBARDMENT,
GERMAN ATTACK 22
IV. RECUPERATING—LIFE IN CANTONMENT AND IN CAMP 41
V. MUD—CORPSES—TAKING A GERMAN TRENCH—IN THE SECOND LINE—RETURN
TO THE FIRST LINE—PARADE MARCH BEFORE THE FLAG 50
VI. ENCAMPMENT—IN THE FOURTH LINE—FATIGUE DUTY—VISIT TO THE
ARTILLERY 72
VII. IN THE FRONT LINES—THE TRENCH CANNON—GAS BOMBS—CAPTURE OF A
BOCHE TRENCH—GRENADES—HILL 181—IN THE SECOND LINE—OUR LAST
DAYS IN CHAMPAGNE 89
VIII. A MONTH AWAY FROM THE TRENCHES 106
IX. BEFORE THE GRAND OFFENSIVE (ARTOIS, MAY 1–8, 1915) 119
X. THE ATTACK 139
XI. EVACUATION—THE SANITARY TRAIN—THE HOSPITAL 155
CAMPAIGN DIARY OF A
FRENCH OFFICER
_February-May, 1915_
CHAPTER I
ARRIVAL IN THE ARMY ZONE—IMPRESSIONS BEHIND THE FRONT
_February 12._ On the train, which at last is bearing us away to the
war. My companions are asleep, wearied by a day and night of this
endless journey. But I cannot sleep for joy. One thought possesses me. I
am on my way to fight! If I had so wished I could have remained with the
General Staff as interpreter, but what I crave is action—the intense,
mad action of battle. The enthusiasm of the first days of the war has
not left me, but grew greater during the long months I had to spend in
training-camps, where I learned first to be a soldier, then an officer.
As soon as I received my appointment to the grade of second lieutenant
on probation, I asked for and obtained permission to start for the
front. Am I cherishing illusions? Is it real, this glory of war that
makes my head swim?
But I am happy. The sadness of saying good-bye to my mother I have left
far behind. The weight already began to lift when we made our triumphal
departure from that little snow-covered town through which we marched,
with the band at our head and the Marseillaise on our lips and in our
hearts, amid the cheers of the people.
Just now the train is going through a beautiful bit of country. Never
has the valley of the Saône, that I know so well, seemed so fair to look
upon. Truly, _La doulce France_ is a mistress we may proudly live and
die for. Die? No. I have a conviction that I shall not be killed in the
war; I feel sure I shall be able to do my duty to the end, and once my
task is finished, return to my mother and my own life.
_February 13._ We have just got out of the train. I am writing in the
friendly warmth of a room some peasants have put at my disposal.
This morning, in the fog and chill of early February dawn, our train
stopped in the middle of a vast plain, grizzly and wet, whose monotony
was unbroken except for a few clumps of trees. The bugler gave us the
signal to detrain by playing our regimental march. Instantly the men
streamed out, still heavy with sleep, and benumbed by these two days of
travelling. I hurried to the cars of my section, lined up my men and
stacked arms while waiting for orders. Fatigues were detailed at once to
get rations and unload the cars.
But where were we? No one but the commander knew our itinerary in
advance, for of course it has to be kept secret. We had a vague idea we
were bound for Champagne. The station bore a name I did not know:
Cuperly. I looked on my map and found that this village was right in the
field of Châlons, several kilometres to the south of the villages of
Perthes and Hurlus, which have so often been mentioned in the dispatches
of late. So we are to be launched in the midst of an offensive! What
joy!
I hastily scribbled a card to my mother and gave it to a trainman, who
promised to mail it.
As we stood waiting in the cold, our attention was drawn to the
autobuses of a provision convoy going along the road phantom-like
through the fog. And we noticed also a dull rumble like a prolonged roll
of thunder. It was cannon.
“Sling knapsacks! Take arms! Fours right! Forward! March!” And the
battalion swung into a road that was broken up and covered with mud, a
gray, filthy, liquid mud that seemed to flood the whole countryside. An
artillery convoy came by and spattered us badly. It was cold.
Two kilometres farther on we halted at the edge of a village where we
were to breakfast. I promptly attended to the kitchens of my section;
two men from each squad went to get wood, and before long four fires
were burning merrily. Pans were brought forth from their places above
the knapsacks, and soon the portions of coffee and sugar provided us
with a “juice”[1] that was much appreciated in the dampness of the
winter morning. I gave orders to warm some canned beef in wine for the
men, and they had a real feast. While our soldiers were resting after
their meal, we section commanders, together with the other officers,
accepted the hospitality of some artillery officers, who made us welcome
with several bottles of champagne. The festivity was at its height when
the bugle sounded. It was time to start out once again. For what
destination? We did not know.
Footnote 1:
_Jus_, soldiers’ slang for coffee.
We marched two hours along the slippery road before coming to La Cheppe,
where we were to await the return of the brigade that was in the
trenches. We took possession of our quarters. My section was comfortably
billeted in a large barn well supplied with straw, and I chose to make
my abode among my _poilus_. I should like to be in closer contact with
them and I am determined to make friends with them if possible. When the
regiment left the training-camp I was able to procure a few little
extras that they wanted, and this evening they came and invited me to
dinner. The artful member of the third squad had succeeded in getting
into the good graces of an old peasant woman, who gave him two chickens.
The men insisted on my doing the honors, and I accepted with pleasure.
We chatted together familiarly and I told them how glad I was to be at
the front, and enlarged especially on the great things I expected of
them. “With you, lieutenant, we will go anywhere,” said a corporal, and
they all applauded. Of course I was much pleased.
And then what a welcome the peasants gave us! My old hostess was
determined to give up her bedroom to me, but I told her I would rather
sleep on the straw with my men. At least I am making use of her warm
kitchen where I am scribbling these lines in my diary after writing to
all my family.
But to-morrow? What of to-morrow? The roar of the cannon is very loud.
An attack is to be made to-night and I shall have no share in it. But my
turn will come soon, I hope.
_February 14._ The booming of the cannon all night kept me from
sleeping. However, I was snug and warm in my bed of straw beside my dear
friend Henry. We are glad to be together at the war after being chums in
college.
I am on duty this morning with my section. We are posted for police duty
at a crossroads, and we are instructed, in addition to keeping order in
the village, to regulate the movements of the convoys which pass
incessantly. What an infernal whirl! Not a minute passes without
something going by—a great ammunition train, heavy cannons drawn by
motor tractors, a regiment of infantry returning from the trenches,
muddy but triumphant. The _poilus_ are radiant. We surround them. They
give details. Good news! “Hot fight, all right, but the Boches are
catching it like fun.”
And then there go our old Paris autobuses, transformed into meat wagons.
Some of them still flaunt their signs: Madeleine—Bastille, Neuilly—Hôtel
de Ville, Clichy—Odéon. One is marked “complet,” and the places, if you
please, are filled by huge cattle. O valiant autobuses of Paris, you
forget your luxurious existence of Parisian bourgeois and jolt bravely
on through the mud of Champagne, accepting these hardships to save your
country. We take off our hats to you in your coat of mud, for you also
are doing your duty.
I went outside a moment to have a look around the village. It is very
nearly intact, as it is out of range of cannon. The inhabitants are
either peasants or refugees from the invaded districts. Every one is
busied in some way with the soldiers. Many have opened little shops and
sell provisions, underclothing, and various other articles. Wine
merchants are not very numerous, and the sale of spirits is strictly
regulated. It is necessary to get permission of the officers, and they
occasionally give it, wishing to improve the army ordinary. But the
commissariat is generous and each soldier receives a pint of wine a day.
We officers have a special mess. We eat at the house of a peasant who
has loaned us his rooms. Our cook has been a chef in the big hotels of
Nice. He is excellent, and has just brought me at my post a most savory
roast of mutton.
Weather still lowering. I took out of my little chest my old volume of
Rabelais and I occupy my leisure moments feasting on the exploits of
Picrochole. I have brought along a few books that are easy to handle,
mostly our great classics that I have been neglecting these latter
years. I wish to keep up my intellectual life.
_February 16._ Noise of battle in the distance. Convoys pass back and
forth incessantly.
This evening the battalion had manœuvres; the men must not be left idle.
Not that any one wants to loaf. We are all burning to get into action.
It is tiresome to be so near the fight and know only its echoes.
After supper I went for a walk with my friend. Twilight and absolute
calm brooded over the plains of Champagne. The cold, round moon, palely
reflected in the mud and ruts, cast glints as of steel. Nature, so
indifferent to the deeds of men, helped us to forget them for a time,
and our talk grew intimate and turned on old times as we walked along in
the silence of the night.
_February 17._ The regiment returns to-day from the trenches. We are
getting better acquainted with the peasants, who are the very soul of
kindness. They have been telling us of their sufferings: how the Boches
occupied the village,—without destroying it however, for they expected
to settle there for a long time,—and then the endless files of Germans
who kept calling out as they passed that the gates of Paris were open to
them; finally, the return of these same Germans, shamefaced, pushed back
by the irresistible thrust of our victory of the Marne. And these good
people went mad with joy when behind the fleeing enemy they saw the
first lines of the French with the bugler marching at the head, their
native land coming back to them.
We have just inspected supplies and equipment. Each soldier has twelve
biscuit, cans of “bully” beef, coffee, sugar, and bouillon cubes,
without counting his own provisions, which are plentiful. The reserve
supplies are sacred; they are never to be touched except under express
orders. Each man has also one hundred and fifty cartridges. All these
material details have been attended to, but this is not the whole of our
readiness. We are also filled to bursting with enthusiasm,
determination, and eagerness to fight. We start soon for the firing
line.
_February 19._ We are ordered to go and join a different regiment; our
battalion is detached and we are to fill in the vacancies made by the
recent fighting. I hope I shall be able to stay with my men. It is my
most earnest desire.
_February 20._ This morning we left La Cheppe to go to S. S. Weather
dry; landscape still depressing, a desolate, muddy plain with a few
scattered trees.
At Suippes we had our first real impression of war; the town is half
demolished and the château and factories are dismal ruins—destruction
wherever you look. And cannon thunder in the distance. A shell fell with
a great crash on the railroad track near by, and a great mass of earth
rose slowly into the air. The Boches are very fond of aiming at this
track, but their _marmites_ will have a hard time stopping this enormous
traffic. What an endless number of cars and sheds, what mountains of
merchandise! And the procession of trains never stops.
At last we reached S. S. and came in touch with our new regiment. I
belong to the Eleventh Company and command the second section. I am to
keep my men. The officers received us kindly. We are lucky enough to
arrive at a moment of activity, and we shall not lack work.
_February 21._ The village is largely in ruins. The church has been
turned into a hospital. Its steeple is hidden by a covering of branches,
and from a distance it probably looks to the enemy aviators just like
the neighboring trees. A little farther on was a shower-bath, which was
welcome, for we were pretty well plastered with mud.
The cemetery, in the midst of the fields, is full of little wooden
crosses. This evening I saw the funeral of an officer—a pine coffin
followed by a bare handful of men—the regiment was probably in the
trenches. A soldier priest with the military medal on his breast
pronounced the benediction.
We have no news of anything or anybody. No mail of any kind has come
through yet. Shall I have to go into the trenches without receiving a
single letter? I do not need encouragement, but I wish I could have had
some word from home. Well, we start for the trenches to-morrow.
CHAPTER II
THE MARCH TO THE TRENCHES
_February 23._ At last! I have just been admitted to the sacred ranks of
the _poilu_; I have just had a magnificent baptism of fire, and really
the Boches have done me honor. But since this journal is to be a
faithful record of my campaign, I must go back a little, and follow in
order the events of the last few days.
Three days ago, then, we came to the trenches. Orders arrived in the
morning. The captain called us together and showed us our respective
positions on a map of our line of defenses. Our section extended to the
east of the Perthes-Hurlus line facing the north. Then after we section
commanders had received final instructions, the company assembled and
the captain made a short speech. Most of us were youngsters who had not
yet been under fire, or else men who were wounded at the beginning of
the war. “Our introduction to the first-line trenches would not give us
a very complete notion of what war is really like. Our trench will be
clean and well built, we shall not have to attack, and the Germans will
certainly have the good taste not to bother us too much.” It remains to
be seen whether these predictions were destined to be fulfilled by the
events that followed.
We were to start at 5 P.M. Troops are always relieved and moved at night
in order to escape being seen by the enemy and avoid inopportune
bombardments. The day was spent in preparations. All the men took baths;
then stocked up their haversacks and filled their canteens. They bought
great quantities of canned goods; also chocolate, condensed milk, and
cigarettes. Any superfluous articles were taken out of the knapsacks and
left in one of the rooms of the encampment. As the cold was sharp,
mufflers were given out, and warm helmets, knitted by the devoted hands
of the women of France or of America. The men then rigged themselves out
after the true _poilu_ fashion—greatcoats with the flaps let down,
double leggings, cartridge boxes full to bursting, canteens and
haversacks bulging at their hips, and above them the fringe of a long
muffler ready to be wrapped three times around their necks and over
mouths from which protruded the ever-present pipe. Last of all, the
stick, fantastically carved, to aid in walking through the mud.
We ate early. At four o’clock I called the roll and made sure that
everything was complete—food, tools, equipment—and that the guns were
clean. I gave parting instructions to the cooks who were to remain at
the hillock of Hurlus. Everything was in good shape. The company
assembled on the road. There was a general roll-call. Beside us, the
three other companies of the battalion were occupied in the same way. At
a whistle from the major the companies began to move.
While we were going through the village we kept at attention and
shouldered arms, but as soon as we got by the cemetery the command was
given, “Route step! March!”—and then began our climb toward the enemy.
The road was appalling. It was broken up by endless convoys and covered
with an abominable, sticky mud which made every step an effort, besides
being very slippery. We envied the sappers of the engineering corps who,
with their barbed wire and heavy tools, were sent to the front in the
little Decauville railroad that runs along beside the road, and is used
for carrying provisions and wounded.
We marched a long time. At the end of the first hour we made the
regulation halt, on the edge of a little wood, where there was a very
pretty view of the plain, dotted here and there with ruined villages.
Suddenly a terrific report right beside us gave us a disagreeable start.
The captain told me it was a piece of heavy artillery twenty metres
away. I looked, but could see nothing. What is more, not once during our
whole march did I succeed in making out a single piece of artillery.
Inasmuch as those who pass right beside our guns cannot see them, all
the more reason to hope that enemy aviators will not be able to ferret
them out!
But if the big guns were not visible, it was easy enough to see the
gunners, or at least such of them as were not busy with their pieces.
They sat smoking their pipes at their front doors, for these gentlemen,
mind you, have houses. Nicely hidden under the trees are mud huts, all
covered with sod and branches. They look like the giant ant-hills
depicted in natural history books, or the habitations of a Hottentot
village. Stairs lead down, seemingly deep into the earth, and a peep
inside that I managed to get as I passed, convinced me that this
primitive form of architecture shelters a comfortable and modern
interior.
We kept on marching, ever and always in the mud that plastered our shoes
and flecked the bottoms of our coats with a border of gray spots that
made them look like altar cloths adorned with precious embroidery. Above
our heads shrieked our shells, outstripping us on our way to the Boches;
and very near at hand our cannon thundered. This seemed to displease our
friends the Teutons, for suddenly a great humming, as of a monster
insect, grew louder and louder and came straight toward us, making
everybody duck, before it finally burst two hundred metres farther on.
The first impression is not at all pleasant. The conviction is crystal
clear that this snarling mass is headed straight upon you, and there
flash through your mind all the tales of horrible wounds you have ever
read or heard of—men blown to bits or disembowelled or what not—none of
them things one is anxious to experience at first hand. Another, then
another shell whistles by. Every head bobs down, while we all try in
vain to hide our qualms under a smile; our nerves are not yet hardened
to the fray. “Column of files!” commands the captain, and the column
marching four abreast melts into four long lines, very far apart,
advancing without speaking. A few harmless shells still went by, but
just as the French seemed to be getting angry, and the detonations
barked louder and louder, the Germans decided that the joke was stale,
and nothing more came to make our hearts beat pitapat. However, we kept
on ducking every time a shell came too near,—whether French or German it
made no difference,—and we began to laugh every time we got a scare for
nothing.
We climbed over a whole series of trenches, four or five lines, one
behind the other, perfectly constructed, ready to be used in case it is
necessary to fall back. The men in command are taking no chances.
After a fresh halt, the battalion formed once more by sections, four
abreast, and stacked arms. We had reached the kitchens, hidden in a
little ravine, and buried deep underground. Pots and pans came out of
their places and were handed to the cooks. Then bread was given out, and
preserves and wine. We were not to have coffee until morning in the
trenches.
We set out again about 9 P.M. One more hill to climb and we should be in
the communication trenches.
The battalion had been broken up and two companies only were to follow
this sector, the two others going more to the east. Suddenly, down a
slight incline we slid into the communication trench one by one and
began to march between two walls of earth where we were entirely
sheltered; it was hard to believe that we had arrived near the enemy.
The night was dark and silent; no noise of cannon, only a few stray
bullets that went over our heads with a sound like the swish of silk. A
fine rain began to fall. After a march of about five hundred metres, the
command to halt was given. We were at our destination. “The commander of
the second section,” said a voice in the darkness. I stepped forward. It
was the guide attached to the troops we were about to relieve who was to
conduct me to my position. I received from my predecessor instructions
with regard to the sector: two half-sections in separate salients, two
listening-patrols, the enemy one hundred and fifty metres away, sector
quiet, no casualties during the days he had spent there. But the Germans
are continually on the watch, and we must be careful not to show our
heads above the edge.
When I had gained this information I asked the sergeant who was with me
to go bring up the men. As my section came up on the right, the men we
were replacing filed by on the left. Soon I was sole master of the
field. One squad was quickly detailed for guard duty; double
listening-patrols, relieved every hour, posted in shell holes in front
of the trenches in the midst of the wire entanglement.
The night was very quiet, but I did not attempt to sleep. Besides, no
one had any great desire to sleep without knowing the place a little
better, and then the nearness of the silent enemy is a bit
awe-inspiring. Just before dawn it is necessary to be doubly vigilant,
for that is the critical moment; many surprise attacks, it seems, take
place then. At four in the morning a messenger came from the captain to
ask for a report of the events of the night. I was obliged to answer
that nothing had happened.
Coffee arrived shortly, comforting and a little warm even yet. Then the
day broke, cold, gray, and foggy. At last I was able to look around me.
CHAPTER III
DESCRIPTION OF THE TRENCH—LIFE IN THE FIRST LINE—BOMBARDMENT, GERMAN
ATTACK
So I examine my domain. It is not very extensive, one hundred and twenty
metres at the most, occupied by my sixty men. My trench is composed of
the communication trench and two large salients, each containing half a
section or two squads. Its general arrangement is as follows:—
Each of the salients is divided in the middle by a bomb-shield, and
contains therefore two squads, whose dug-outs, rather deep, are at the
right and left ends of the salient. In front, in shell holes, the
listening-patrols are posted during the night. There are machine guns in
each of the salients. My headquarters are so placed that I am in
immediate touch with both my half-sections. A little winding trench
leads to my dug-out, which is about two metres underground. It is
comfortable and contains a rather dilapidated hair mattress which the
Germans, formerly proprietors of the trench, brought over from the
village of Perthes. A set of shelves made of three boards has on it some
old tin cans, along with the things I have taken out of my haversack.
Two or three pegs stuck in the dirt wall serve as clothes hooks. The
furnishing is completed by a wooden stool brought from the village, and
by a brazier in which charcoal is burning. In one corner are some trench
rockets and a large case of cartridges.
This domicile is not at all bad; it is almost luxurious. The dug-outs of
my soldiers are large undergrounds holding fifteen men very comfortably.
Straw helps ward off the dampness of the soil of Champagne and discarded
bayonets stuck in the walls serve as hooks for canteens and haversacks.
Meanwhile, as the cold was a bit sharp, I had some braziers made for the
men by piercing holes in old tin cans with bayonets. Charcoal was
brought up from the kitchens.
So life was sufficiently endurable. We felt pretty secure. The loopholes
were well protected, and one could fire comfortably. The machine guns
were always in readiness, and in short, the Germans over opposite did
not seem malicious. All that could be seen of them were white streaks
across the land, many and intertwined, with wire entanglements
alongside. That was all—nothing that budged or had the least human
semblance, only here and there a sort of ragged, bluish heap that seemed
a part of the earth on which it lay—a corpse. There were not many dead
directly in front of us, but to the west, on our left, much higher up,
in front of the skeleton remnant of a wood, lay a number of those
motionless bundles, bearing witness to recent attacks.
Thus the region opposite us was fairly uninteresting—barbed wire,
torn-up earth, skeleton trees, and dead men’s bodies. And the enemy was
there at one hundred and fifty metres. I discovered this rather
promptly, moreover, and had a narrow escape. At a given moment, very
early in the morning, I went into the communication trench that formed
the eastern end of my trench. There was a large, hollowed-out place
through which one could get a better view of what lay in front of us: at
the left, the ruined village; in front, the labyrinth of trenches and
the skeleton wood. Suddenly, as if warned by some instinct, I turned
away a little. Five or six bullets, undoubtedly intended for me,
whistled through my window, one of them grazing my field-glass. Not a
little shaken up, I left that dangerous spot. I soon began to laugh,
however, and I should have enjoyed telling my neighbors the Boches that
they had missed me. But I was more prudent after that.
Besides, everything was silent except for an occasional shell that
passed high above our heads and burst so far away that we could not hear
it explode. Listening-patrols, being useless during the day, were
replaced by two sentries for each half-section who watched through the
loopholes of the trench itself. The men in their warm dug-outs smoked
their pipes, ate, read, or played cards. If this is war, thought many of
them, it isn’t half bad.
But, like most good things, it did not last. At nine o’clock a messenger
came to tell me that the captain wanted to see me. I went to his
headquarters, situated in the second line. Orders had just come. A
French attack was to be delivered on the Boche trenches to the north and
east of Perthes. The object to be gained was as follows: The firing line
was far from being straight; as a result of the vicissitudes of the
recent fighting, the German trenches made a salient into the French
trenches; it was desirable to destroy this salient.
To attack at the point where we were would have been costly, for the
distance between the two opposing lines was more than one hundred and
fifty metres. The plan was, therefore, to attack at two other points, so
that, once having taken the German trenches there, the whole system
could be enfiladed. Our rôle was to put them on the wrong scent, and at
a specified time to make as much noise as possible with our muskets and
machine guns, in order to attract attention to ourselves at the moment
when the main attack was being launched elsewhere.
So I went back to my trench and gave the men the necessary instructions.
About ten o’clock we were startled by four loud reports coming almost
simultaneously. It was a battery of 75’s, placed two hundred metres or
so behind us. At the same instant the shells went whistling over our
heads and raised four black clouds in the trench opposite. It was the
beginning of the bombardment. It was very violent. At the start we all
ducked, but we gradually got used to it and learned to distinguish the
difference in sound of the French firing. Some of the shells went by at
mad speed and burst almost at once. Others took their time, especially
our Rimailles, nicknamed the “ox-cart,” which seems to take an airing
before going to tell its tale to the Germans, and its tale is generally
a terrible one.
Posted at a loophole, I watched through my glass the effect of the
bombardment. All the German trenches, as far as the eye could reach,
were filled with constantly recurring explosions. They looked like an
uninterrupted line of volcanoes. The noise and the superb masses of
earth thrown up into the air fairly intoxicated me. The Boches in their
turn began to answer, and scorning us poor infantrymen, sent their
shells far in our rear in quest of the gunners and their guns. The
chorus grew deafening. The sensation was that of being under a roof of
steel, invisible but with the voices of all the fiends. And in the midst
of all this din, two larks kept flitting about joyously, and mingled
their song of life with the dull chant of the engines of death.
New orders came, and I sent for my two sergeants and four corporals. We
were ordered to fire during exactly four minutes, from one minute past
twelve to five minutes past twelve. A supply of cartridges was placed
beside each loophole, so that every soldier could fire the greatest
possible number of shots in the given time. All guns were inspected.
The bombardment was growing more intense, and it was no longer possible
to distinguish the shots from each other. It was one uninterrupted boom,
the efficiency fire that the Germans call “__,” or “drumfire.” For half
an hour the uproar was enough to drive one mad; my head felt as if it
were bound with iron and about to burst; and yet, in the midst of it
all, it was a great satisfaction to think that the Boches were having to
endure, in addition to the noise, the very deadly effects of our
artillery. We were unquestionably better off than they.
At ten minutes to twelve every one was at his post, and I also took my
place with the second half-section. I had carefully set my watch
according to the time that is telephoned every day at noon and midnight
to the various officers’ headquarters. At one minute past twelve the
artillery lengthened its range. This was the moment, and I whistled.
Immediately the guns began their clatter and the machine guns their
regular chop. At twelve-five another whistle. “Cease firing.”
I had no sooner whistled the second time than half a dozen Boche 77’s
fell very near our trench. As there was nothing more to be done, every
one except the sentries went into the dug-outs. We were hotly bombarded,
for the first six shells were followed by others and still others. This
was not altogether according to our programme and the surprise was a
trifle disagreeable. We had of a certainty fulfilled our mission, for we
had drawn both their attention and their fire. During two hours we were
deluged with shells; every shell seemed to be coming straight at us, and
in spite of ourselves we shrank together and ducked, measuring anxiously
with our eyes the depth of the dug-out. Mine was fairly safe. I stayed
in it some time with my sergeants, and we were none of us very happy. To
tell the truth, the situation is a stupid one. The rôle one plays is
purely passive, and it is not pleasant for a reasoning human being to
sit by helplessly and feel coming toward him a mass of brutish matter
capable of annihilating him. Several shells fell near my dug-out. One
even landed in the little winding trench that led to it, but the
splinters were stopped by its turns. Otherwise, they would have made me
a visit.
But I could not desert my men entirely, so I went around to the various
dug-outs. Sitting huddled together my soldiers were not any more used to
this kind of entertainment than I was, and would doubtless have
preferred to be somewhere else; but no one was hurt, and they were glad
to see me. On coming in contact with them I resumed my rôle of chief,
and, true to the theory of William James, by pretending not to be
afraid, I very soon discovered that I was _not_ afraid. I chatted with
them and cracked jokes, and all of a sudden, everybody felt better. Then
I went back to my own quarters and made some tea on my brazier.
Shells were still raining down, but as none of them had done any harm up
to that time, we bothered no more about them. They fell more especially
in front of the trench, in the wire entanglement. That set me to
thinking, and together with the machine-gun lieutenant I examined the
situation. The Boches had battered down the parapet in several places,
and the barbed wire was pretty badly damaged. Were they going to amuse
themselves by attacking us? I doubled the sentries and gave orders that
as soon as the bombardment slackened every man should run to his
loophole. I wondered what was up, as I did not know the result of the
flank attack. I had no sooner sent word to the captain and the section
commanders on either side than I saw through my glass points of bayonets
here and there gleaming in the sun above the edge of the enemy’s trench
opposite. “Every man at the loopholes,” I shouted, and in the midst of
the downpour of shells every one ran to his post. Several of the men
were covered with dirt by explosions, one even was knocked down by the
impact of a bursting shell, but no one was hit.
Suddenly from the German trenches, like devils from their boxes, emerged
the infantrymen, yelling and running toward us waving their arms. They
were in close formation, three deep, I think, so that nothing could be
easier than to mow them down. I quickly seized a gun and fired with the
rest. The machine guns started in immediately, and hardly more than a
minute later our assailants took to flight, leaving many of their men on
the ground. At fifty metres from us, forty or more Boches were lying
flat on their faces as if waiting for the order to stand up. The machine
gun had done its work well. So the assault was beaten back, but every
one remained at his post. Wounded men dragged themselves painfully to
their lines; others were groaning. No one thought for an instant of
firing at them. Then, when the danger was over, came a wave of emotion.
I was frightened, but the joy of having escaped a real danger made me
very happy. “Now you’re real _poilus_!” I cried to my men. Everybody
lighted a good pipe and a bluish smoke mounted up to the God of Battles,
like the incense of gratitude.
When everything was quiet, I hurried to the captain to make my report;
he was well pleased, congratulated me, and instructed me to congratulate
my men. Our baptism of fire had been thoroughly first-class, and we
behaved rather well. During all this bombardment, only three of the
company were wounded. As for the French attack, it had succeeded in
seizing the extreme northern point of the German line.
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. A few disgruntled shells came
our way, but we had as an offset the thrilling sight of a splendid
aeroplane reconnaissance. Six French ’planes, in a half-circle, flew
over the German trenches. From time to time one of them dropped a spurt
of flame into the deepening twilight, a signal for the artillery. Shells
flew around our war-birds like a multitude of snowflakes that remained
floating a long time in the calm air. But without paying the least
attention, the aviators continued their proud flight and it seemed to us
poor buried infantrymen that they were bearing aloft all our pride as
Frenchmen, all our will to conquer. We were enchanted, but at the same
time a little moved.
Then slowly night fell. The order came to detail two men from each squad
to go with tent sheets, under the conduct of the corporal on duty, to
fetch rations from the kitchens.
The trench was then organized for the night. Listening-patrols were
posted out in front; it was decided that one squad from each
half-section should watch at the loopholes in case of a return offensive
of the enemy. About ten or eleven o’clock it was time to think of
mending the barbed wire. The fatigue brought a great quantity of the
Brun networks which fold and unfold like an accordion. They are very
complicated and are fastened into the ground with a sort of fork. I
wanted to direct the work myself, so, accompanied by six men, I crawled
twenty or thirty metres from the trench; the work went on without a word
being uttered. The six rows of wire were placed one behind the other,
and in front were fixed strong _chevaux-de-frise_. We were then in the
midst of “No-Man’s Land” near the German corpses. We heard the groans of
the wounded and some little moving about, which indicated that the
Germans were coming to pick up their men. But we did not make any
attempt to molest them, whereas soldiers who are old in the knowledge of
this war tell me that German snipers are always trying to put a stop to
the work of the stretcher-bearers.
When we got back, we were rewarded by supper, consisting of sardines,
roast meat, and rice, which we warmed on the braziers. After the meal I
took a little rest. My two sergeants divided the rest of the night, and
it was solid comfort to go to sleep snugly wrapped in my blanket, with
my feet against the warm brazier. My revolver was rather uncomfortable,
but it is against the rules in the first lines to disarm. At four in the
morning every one was up. Coffee arrived, ever welcome. The day was
quiet; the Germans did not attack, but their positions were favored with
a plentiful bombardment. As for us, we were let quite alone and could
sleep to our hearts’ content.
The only real hardship was in not being able to wash; we were very muddy
and dirty, and besides, a morning without a splash of cold water is flat
and savorless; one doesn’t feel really waked up. But we will get used to
little things like this, I suppose.
This afternoon, everything being quiet, I invited the neighboring
section commander to come and spend a little time with me. In the
trenches we rarely have anything to drink but wine and coffee, and by
way of a special feast I decided to make some chocolate. So I sent for a
canteen of water, and poured some of the precious fluid into my pan and
devoutly emptied in the chocolate and sugar. It was simmering gently on
my brazier, and I was just on the point of adding condensed milk, when
some one called me from the outside. It was my orderly coming to see if
I needed anything. I invited him to join us, but at that precise instant
the stupid battery of a 77 began to spit its six shells at us. Two burst
so near that my faithful _tampon_ stumbled in fright and fell headlong,
taking with him brazier, saucepan, and chocolate,—our chocolate so
nearly ready which our eyes were drinking so hungrily. The poor chap was
most unhappy, so I laughed, but I must confess my laugh was a bit
sickly. At that moment I detested the Germans worse than ever.
It still gets dark early; my supply of candles was getting exhausted,
and I wanted to save my electric lamp. And yet, I needed a light. Then I
remembered we were to have sardines for supper and the idea occurred to
me to requisition the oil and pour it in an old corned-beef tin. I cut a
round of cork, put a string through it dipped in oil, lighted it and
behold, I had a night lamp like the ones that burn in churches. The
flame was a trifle ill-smelling and rather yellow, but sufficient. I
also told the cook to save me some mutton tallow. I melted it on my
brazier in a tin can, stuck in a string, and this primitive candle
burned very well. I gave the secret to my _poilus_.
An exciting thing happened last night. It had been snowing, and toward
one in the morning when I was chatting with the machine gunner, the
sentry outside began to fire. At the same moment a voice rang out in the
night, “Kamerad! Kamerad!” I quickly sent up a trench rocket, and the
light showed me a German soldier crawling toward us with a great clatter
of tinware. I cried to the sentry to let him alone, and called to the
man himself in German to come on. He appeared on the parapet and jumped
into the trench. I had him taken to my headquarters and there, revolver
in hand, ordered him to disarm. He had no weapons but his bayonet and a
belt full of cartridges, but he was loaded down with canteens. I
questioned him in German. He was a great big Bavarian who had got his
fill of the war. To-day’s bombardment—absolutely terrible, he said—had
determined him to flee. He managed to be detailed for water fatigue,
then made his way to our lines. He had had nothing to eat, for our
bombardment made it impossible to bring up food. I gave him some bread
and chocolate while waiting for supper to arrive. I kept him until
morning in order to ask him certain questions, especially as to the
effect of our artillery on the trenches opposite. He told me that the
attack of the day before had cost them many men, and, furthermore,
pointed out without much urging the position of their machine guns and
also of a certain little revolver cannon that greatly annoyed us. This
information was communicated to the artillery and since then the
revolver cannon is silent. I kept the man’s cartridge belt and canteens,
rather good ones, and distributed them among my men. In the morning our
Boche was sent to the commander. A happy man was he to have said
good-bye to war.
A little later my section went to the second lines, into the dug-outs.
Of the four sections of the company only three are in the first line,
one being held in reserve for reinforcements. Each day we change and now
it was my turn. Nothing to do. Deep dug-outs. That is where I have been
writing all this long account in my notebook.
_February 28._ This morning I was able to wash in the snow. It is good
to be clean, and I feel very fit.
The end of the day yesterday was not quiet; at four o’clock a note
informed us that a German counter-attack was imminent. Vigilance and
coolness were urged; our positions must be held at any cost. In case of
attack, the reserve section—mine, therefore—was to go to the first line
to strengthen the points attacked. I went to make sure of my fighting
post and then took my men there, so that there would be no confusion in
case we were needed.
The counter-attack did not come; we were heavily bombarded, but
fortunately we were well sheltered and none of my men were hit; what is
more, we hardly noticed the shells. The announcement came that we were
to be relieved at 2 A.M.—joyful news. Say what you will, we have been
through a good deal of bodily and mental strain and we have not had much
sleep. Meanwhile my section is ordered to clean the snow out of the
communication trenches. And then we shall return to the rear!
CHAPTER IV
RECUPERATING—LIFE IN CANTONMENT AND IN CAMP
_March 3._ Great disappointment on reaching our cantonment. No letters!
And yet it is thirty days since I came away. We are still at S. S. in
the same quarters, except that I share a room with my friend Henry; the
men are well fixed and have plenty of straw. I am glad to possess a sort
of home.
We were relieved at 2 A.M. The march in the snow was long and difficult.
At Hurlus the battalion was re-formed and the roll was called near a
wood where there was a giant masked battery—four cannons of 220
millimetres rose formidably under their veil of foliage. The casualties
proved to be slight, perhaps twenty men in all. In my section every one
was present.
Then began the march through the snow. We were all so tired out by it
following upon the days in the trenches that the minute we arrived and
got rid of our equipment, we threw ourselves down and went to sleep.
I woke up at nine, had a bath and a change of linen, and feeling greatly
refreshed, turned my attention to my men. The morning was left free and
many of them slept right through. The afternoon was devoted to cleaning
clothing and arms, and every one had a bath.
I explored the village a little and found the traffic at the station
particularly interesting. I chatted with several staff officers; they
gave me very little information, but one of them handed me a copy of the
“Matin” which I read eagerly.
But I am still tired and sleepy and I am cross at not having any
letters. It seems to me it would have made up for all our hard work of
the last few days.
_March 4._ This morning reveille at eight; review of arms and clothing—a
formality quickly gone through, for the men understand that their gun is
their best friend and they take great care of it. And in spite of
certain accounts in the papers, the soldier is not fond of being dirty.
He does not revel in his mud and filth, but suffers from it. Some of
this misapprehension is probably due to the false derivation credited to
the word _poilu_. It is not derived from the fact that the soldier is
hirsute and unshaven. It is an old word. Under the First Empire they
were the grenadiers with their bearskin bonnets, Napoleon’s best troops.
They called _brave à trois poils_ any one who was worthy to be a
grenadier. To-day the word _poilu_ means simply a good soldier.
Our officers’ mess is very well set up. We are going to have a special
fund for extras during recuperation. The cook is nothing short of a
blessing.
At last this afternoon the baggage-master announced that our
communications with the rear were open. He brought us a quantity of
letters; I had for my share thirty-two. “Joy, joy, tears of joy,” as
Pascal said under slightly different circumstances.
I passed the evening with the interpreting officer, to whom I introduced
myself, offering my services if he needed any help in translating
documents. He was most friendly, gave me champagne, and showed me German
letters and notebooks. They spoke volumes as to the state of their
morale.
To-morrow we go camping in a little woods near La Cheppe. The snow has
melted, the weather is fine, almost spring-like.
_March 6._ In camp. The whole regiment, battalion by battalion, is
gathered together in this woods. We marched to the music of the band,
flag flying, into the village of B.-le-Château and reached this wood
about four. Signboards on trees indicated the places of the companies.
The companies were disposed in a deployed line, the sections being side
by side, and in this way the ground they were to occupy was marked out.
The squads of my section took their places and began to raise their
tents in groups of six. Each soldier carries above his knapsack a
waterproof tent sheet in which he wraps his blanket; four of these
sheets make the tent proper, while the other two are used to close the
openings at each end. Mine I shared with my sergeants and my orderly.
Straw was given to us and the whole thing was perfect.
We had an absolute rest; nothing to do but breathe in the air filled
with the fragrance of the pines, to take walks or go hunting. There are
quantities of rabbits all about, and the men got up battues which
wonderfully improve the army fare. The company mustered once a day,
simply for roll-call and to hear orders read. But we were forbidden to
go very far away, so as to be ready in case of an alarm. The regimental
band rehearsing its pieces gave us pleasant concerts. To be sure, the
repertory is not remarkably choice, but selections from well-known
operas, polkas of Offenbach, and flute solos give a great deal of
pleasure in this rough life. But some of the military marches are really
beautiful, “Sambre and Meuse,” for example, when the whole band and the
bugler play it together.
It is full of charm, this open-air life in the country; in the evening,
when it is cold, we make big fires and sit around them, smoking and
chatting happily. Our morale is excellent; wine brought from the
village, repose, the crackling fire, and the knowledge of duty well
done—much there is to make the heart gay. I have written a great many
letters. I had so many to answer. And I have read anew my “Don Quixote”
with delight.
_March 7. Sunday._ Mass at La Cheppe, the village where we were first
quartered; a little church full of soldiers, a few peasant women in
black, a very old priest who spoke with sublime simplicity of the dead.
I went to call on my former hosts, who were delighted to see me again.
The rain made me hurry back, for the roads were already beginning to be
heavy. I had to cut across lots, and even then my shoes were weighed
down with mud. The rest of the time I spent in our tent chatting,
reading, and smoking.
_March 8._ We start for the firing line again this evening. Farewell
tranquillity and the rustic life. But we go back willingly. It seems
that the sector is no longer the same. The order of the day informs us
that recent attacks made it possible to take the whole system of German
defenses in front of our former trench, which is now the third or fourth
line. We are to occupy positions newly acquired.
_Evening._ We are making a halt for the night. It is impossible to make
at one stretch the whole trip to the first lines in this mud. We started
shortly after noon and marched the rest of the day in a heavy, sticky
mud that is very exhausting. And the rain keeps falling, icy and
monotonous. What will the trenches be like?
We are billeted for the night in a kind of little village of huts made
of earth and wood, completely hidden by the trees from prying cannon,
and we are passably comfortable. I have for myself and my orderly a
little shanty with a place to make a fire, and a comfortable bed of pine
needles. The rain is pattering on the roof. To-morrow we return to the
trenches. Cannon boom heavily. There must be fighting.
_March 9._ It is still raining; the soil is soaked. Our encampment is
called “Cabane-Puits” because in time of peace it used to contain a well
and a cabin. The latter is now inhabited by our brigadier-general. As
for the well, it has been put in order by the engineers and furnishes
water to a very large section; water fatigues are endlessly standing in
line to obtain the precious fluid, which trickles in rather a tiny
stream.
There is a big supply station here. The little railroad that starts from
S. S. ends in the upper part of this wood, and huge sheds have been
built, carefully hidden away under the foliage, in which are stored all
sorts of supplies—wine, canned goods, bread, meat, straw—everything, in
short, that is needed by the regiments of the brigade which occupies
this sector. The traffic is very lively, and I watched the arrival of a
train and the unloading and storing of the goods. I also saw a whole
trainload of artillery ammunition, which is kept in very sheltered
dug-outs.
Eight or ten German machine guns, captured in the recent combats, were
on exhibition. Our machine gunners are studying them, and I too examined
their mechanism; it is well to know how to use the enemy’s engines so as
to be able, on occasion, to turn them the other way about.
A hundred or more prisoners tramped by, looking haggard and dejected,
both their faces and clothing disappearing under a mask of mud. So
things are going our way. Several wounded went by also, some on foot,
others drawn by stretcher-bearers on little vehicles with springs so
arranged that the men are not made to suffer unduly from jolting over
these churned-up roads.
_Evening._ In a few hours we are going to the trenches. We are ordered
to take light equipment; knapsacks are to be left in undergrounds at
Hill 181, in care of the oldest man in each section. The trenches we are
about to occupy are not luxurious, it seems, and the sacks would be in
our way. We have been given a large supply of hand grenades. It is still
raining.
CHAPTER V
MUD—CORPSES—TAKING A GERMAN TRENCH—IN THE SECOND LINE—RETURN TO THE
FIRST LINE—PARADE MARCH BEFORE THE FLAG
_March 15._ We returned yesterday to encampment. During the last five
days, the most terrible I have yet spent, I have not had a minute of
physical or mental quiet to write a single line of my diary. I have run
the gamut, I think, of nearly all the emotions afforded by
war,—bombardment, attack, counter-attack,—all the while in a most
precarious position, long painful marches through the communication
trenches, and above and over all, the mud, that terrible enemy, much
more terrible than the Boches. For the Boches have their moments of
respite. The mud is there ever and always, implacable and relentless—the
mud that keeps you from walking, chills you, clutches you, weighs you
down, and drives you to despair. Five days of dragging one’s self along
more than knee deep in the horrible, cold, gluey paste.
It began as soon as we left Cabane-Puits. But at first it was bearable.
We slipped, or got stuck or splashed or splattered, but that was a mere
nothing. The terrible part came when we went into the communication
trenches. It was fortunate that our knapsacks were at Hill 181 and not
on our backs. The chalk of Champagne when combined with water rapidly
forms a soft paste in which one plunges nearly up to the waist. And it
was necessary to march in this; in other words, to put one foot before
the other, to pull it out with enormous effort only to replunge it in
the mire; and so on for five kilometres. At the start, the effort was a
conscious one, but at the end of the first hour the motions became
automatic; all one’s sensations resolved themselves into one dull pain
in the whole body. Several times I got my leg stuck, and had to appeal
to the man behind me to help get it out. One of the lieutenants left his
shoe in the mud; he was literally caught like a lark on a lime-twig, and
when, by dint of desperate efforts, he brought forth his shoeless foot,
a great laugh went round. But a little farther on we were sobered by a
terrible discovery. We found the body of a soldier who had perished in
the mud; he had evidently fallen while alone and was unable to extricate
himself from the horrible embrace of the mire. This was the first corpse
I had seen and I was much affected.
And then the tiniest of obstacles interrupted the march and upset the
distances—a telephone wire getting loose from a crumbling wall, a
soldier who was stuck, a fatigue coming in the opposite direction; those
ahead would have to stop and the ones behind struggle to march at the
double to catch up with them. A regular march was impossible.
At the end of three hours we reached the village of Perthes, or rather,
the ruins of Perthes, melancholy wraith of a village, a few dismantled
walls, barns that looked as if they lay in the path of an avalanche, and
a church by some miracle still standing, though all ruinous. Just at
that moment we were obliged to halt in the communication trench. The
Boches were firing shrapnel. We huddled against the bank. I was so tired
that I slept a few minutes standing up leaning on my stick. The
sensation that people were moving awoke me, and once more began that
slow, automatic, painful advance. A cold rain was falling, which in
spite of my mackintosh trickled down my neck to my chest. Occasional
spent bullets went grunting over our heads. Each moment seemed eternal.
Day broke, still overcast. We had been on the march more than four
hours. Several shells burst near by. One man had his head blown open,
and remained standing. It was necessary to push this ghastly thing
against the wall of the trench and nearly climb over it.
At last, after a long time, we stopped. I went with the guide to inspect
my new quarters. The trench was an abomination—a charnel house—with dead
piled upon dead, on the ground where you walked, above the parapets, in
the walls of the trench half buried, with either their heads sticking
out or their feet or their hands or their knees. We were in a
communication trench that had just been seized and hastily repaired to
make it tenable. I was horribly agitated, but I managed to listen to the
explanations of the officer I was replacing. We should have to use the
greatest care. The trench was caught in an enfilade. Alas, our
predecessors had not had a very gay time. They lost more than twenty
killed or wounded. A pleasant prospect, truly. I went to get my men, and
told them beforehand what to expect, so that they might be spared the
worst of the shock I had had. It was not very cheering, the sight of all
these dead, but our sufferings in the mud had dulled our sensibilities.
My trench, then, formed a point in the German trench. It was one of
their communication trenches that we had not succeeded in seizing clear
to the end. The general system of our company was in the form of a
letter “H.”
At the end nearest the Germans, the trench that I was in was closed by a
cave-in of earth. In front of us, the rest of the communication trench
was empty up to the German trench running at right angles to our sector,
and situated only about twenty or twenty-five metres beyond. At the end
of the trench was the listening-post, and a machine gun kept the Germans
out of the vacant trench. Very likely their machine guns also were ready
to pepper us if we made the least move in their direction. Thus the
situation was far from being amusing. We were caught in an enfilade, and
all day long grenades, bullets, shells, and mines assailed our position.
Something must be done. Two sentries were killed at their post, so I
decided to use a periscope. Three in succession were shattered by
bullets. The problem was a hard one. I changed the arrangement of the
sentry loopholes, making them as small as possible. I took my place
there myself for a few minutes; somewhat reassured, my sentries remained
on duty without flinching, beside the bodies of their dead comrades,
both of whom had been shot through the eye. The Germans have gun
supports to which they fasten their guns and aim them at a loophole with
the aid of a field-glass. After that, they have nothing to do but fire.
Every shot goes home. But we managed to find a remedy for this
difficulty.
There are no dug-outs, of course, and no possibility of digging any in
this earth that crumbles at each stroke of the spade. I took my place
nearly in the middle of the trench, on what looked like a seat that some
ingenious soldier had dug in the wall. As it was rather high, I asked my
orderly to dig down a little so that I could sit more comfortably.
Several strokes of the pick brought to light the cloth of a uniform. I
was sitting in the lap of a corpse. I went and took up my domicile a
little farther on. The explosion of a shell knocked down some of the
earth of the wall opposite, and in the breach appeared the green and
earthy head of a corpse. From that moment, this head was my vis-à-vis,
and once the first shudder of disgust had passed, I thought no more
about it.
In the end, one gets used to living beside corpses, or Maccabees as we
call them. They not only cease to make us uncomfortable, but they even
make us laugh. Beyond the parapet there were two or three corpses, in
the drollest attitudes. One looked as if he were invoking Allah; another
was in the midst of a back-somersault. One of my _poilus_ hung his
canteen to a foot that was projecting over the wall; the others laughed
and followed his example. The true French spirit was to the fore—an
extreme adaptability, and above all, good humor.
The odor of the corpses was nauseating, but pipes soon got the better of
it. Meanwhile, shells and grenades kept pouring in on us. We were
obliged to use the greatest care, and keep as near the side of the
trench as possible. The shells were not very dangerous when they fell in
the mud, for they either did not burst at all, or they exploded without
much force, but when they went from one end of the trench to the other
and landed farther on, they were indeed deadly. Toward noon a messenger
came to bring orders from the captain. He was standing in front of me,
halfway up to his waist in mud. Suddenly he was without a head; he
tottered, but did not fall; two streams of blood spurted violently from
the headless body and bespattered me. It is hard sometimes not to have
the right to show feeling; my men were all around me and I did not want
them to see me blanch. I simply told them to cover his body with a tent
sheet that was lying near, and sent word to the captain.
These various shocks hardened me. After that, I was more or less
indifferent to the terrible things that happened. I even ate with good
relish in the company of the head that was sticking out of the trench.
The day passed slowly, full of the anguish of explosions, to say nothing
of the pain of every movement and the cold that came from sitting
motionless in this prolonged foot-bath.
Night fell early. Then came orders. In the darkness a trench was to be
dug, joining the two ends of our position. The men were to start at the
same time from the two communication trenches and meet before daybreak.
The digging was done from the trench itself, working forward as the new
trench advanced. Several times corpses were turned up; the place was a
regular cemetery. The work went on rapidly. The trench was to be only a
metre deep and the earth was very easy to dig. But the Boches threw hand
grenades, and I received for my share a splinter near my right eye. I
stopped the bleeding and remained at my post. At three in the morning
the crews met.
Rations arrived in very bad shape. The cooks had to make the same long
trip through the mire that had cost us so many efforts. So they brought
us the coffee cold, meat all covered with mud, and vegetables that had
to be thrown away. The wine alone arrived intact. Instead of its being
brought in pails, I had taken the precaution to have it put in tightly
stoppered canteens, the same ones the Boche was carrying when he crawled
up and surrendered. Although the fatigues had slipped down several times
or been knocked down by the impact of shells, the _pinard_ arrived
untouched, to our very great joy. Fortunately, every one was well
supplied with canned goods.
In the morning, although we were exhausted by a sleepless night in
addition to the strain of all our other hardships, the order came to
attack. There was a good deal of grumbling, but I emphasized to my men
that if our situation was pitiable, the thing to do was to improve it.
It was to the interest of all of us to go across the way, where we
should certainly be more comfortable; and the attack would not be
dangerous. We should dash to the assault from the trench dug the night
before, at a moment when the Boches did not expect it, and there would
be so little ground to cover that the risk would not be great. Besides,
it was our duty, and I was certain my _poilus_ would keep the promise
they had made me to follow wherever I led.
At two o’clock the whole company was to take its place in the new
trench; at 2.10 we were to make the attack. However, things did not
happen according to schedule, and the Germans gave us the opportunity to
take their trench almost without any losses on our own side, but with
many losses on theirs.
Toward eleven o’clock, when our bombardment had only just begun, our
machine guns began to clatter and likewise all the guns at the
loopholes. The Boches were attacking! They had a hankering after the
trench we had dug during the night, and wanted to launch an assault on
our lines from that point—the exact thing that we were planning to do to
theirs. They came on in full force, but there was time for the machine
guns to mow down numbers of them before the first ones reached the new
trench. The mud kept them back, and the poor wretches made a tragic
struggle to get their feet loose and to hurry. Three successive waves
started. The machine gun at the end of our trench was quickly shifted,
and enfiladed our new trench full of Boches, killing nearly all of them.
It was horrible but magnificent. But others were coming on. Then I
commanded, “Fix bayonets! Forward! Forward!” and we dashed against the
assailants. The whole company followed my example and rushed forward.
Was it to be a hand-to-hand fight? Our murderous grenades crushed the
first row, and in the face of our air of determination the others
hesitated, then turned tail. We threw grenades at them and fired at
close range. We kept sticking in the mud and stumbling over bodies, but
the opportunity was too good to be lost. We followed them home; their
batteries and machine guns could not fire for fear of hitting their own
men. They had no sooner reached their trenches than we were at their
heels, stopping just long enough to shower in grenades before we jumped
in after them. I had a feeling that some one was aiming at me and I
emptied my revolver point-blank into the head of an _Oberleutnant_ who
was wearing a monocle. I did this automatically, by reflex action. I
seized another enemy by the throat and struck him in the face with the
butt of my revolver. He fell like lead. But the hand-to-hand fight did
not last long. The forty soldiers who were left quickly surrendered.
“Quick! Quick!” I commanded. “Reverse the trench!” In other words,
pierce several loopholes and turn the German machine guns against their
own trenches. We stopped up the communication trench, and opened up the
ones toward the rear, and the prisoners filed through my former trench,
which was once more a communication. We then prepared to ward off the
counter-attack. Barbed wire was brought and securely fastened. The
Germans proceeded to treat us to reprisal fire, which damaged our newly
conquered trench rather badly, but did little real harm.
I lost nine men in all, four killed and five wounded. The Germans had
been neatly outwitted. By quarter-past eleven we were established in our
new positions. These events had lasted but a very few minutes—the
hand-to-hand fight just long enough to let me kill two Germans.
Nevertheless, the situation was none too cheerful. German corpses were
all about. Our grenades had done their work well, and any wounded were
drowned in the mud as they fell. As we walked, the bodies sank in
deeper, for the bottom of the trench was literally covered with them,
forming a sort of carpet under our feet. In spite of it we were radiant.
The commander expressed his satisfaction. The counter-attack might come
at any moment, but we were ready for anything; as for shells, we laughed
at them. Every one gathered trophies. I carried off the revolver and
field-glass of my _Oberleutnant_, also his notebook, which I proposed to
decipher and hand over to the staff officers.
Night fell gradually. The air was very sharp, and it began to rain
again. We all looked like Capuchin friars with our blankets wrapped
around us and our tent sheets over our heads. No one could sleep, or
rather, no one was allowed to sleep; but as I made my way with great
difficulty back and forth in the trench, I saw several men asleep,
holding their guns at the loopholes. In order to keep them awake I made
them fire salutes. The bombardment was intense all night, but it was
directed more especially against our second lines. That augured a
counter-attack for the next day. At midnight word was sent that we
should be relieved at 2 A.M. Great rejoicing. At last we should be able
to get some sleep! Quickly we folded blankets and tent-sheets, but we
had a long wait in the rain that was falling and under the shells that
were dropping.
It was not until daybreak that the others came to relieve us. And then
began anew the fight with the mud. It took us nearly two hours to reach
Perthes. There we learned that we were not to be sent to recuperate, but
were to reinforce the third line in the fortified dug-outs of Hill 200.
Then we left the communication trenches, for they were in too bad a
state, and walked in the road, almost in the open. A rather high parapet
protected us from bullets and from being seen by the Germans, who were
about a kilometre to the north. But we had to march bent double,
alternately making rapid leaps and stopping. Of course, a few bullets
came our way, but the Boches did not see us and we were not molested.
Once when we stopped, I saw stretched out in the road beside me a dead
soldier, with his pipe still in his mouth. Evidently, he had not
suffered much.
After five hundred metres on the road we had to go into the
communication trench again; that is to say, begin to flounder through
the mire. A big German shell had fallen into the trench without
bursting, and we were obliged to climb over it. Dangerous engines those,
that a mere trifle may cause to explode. I wonder now how we managed to
keep going for another hour, for it seemed at every step that we should
sink in our tracks. It had been impossible to send up rations, and we
had nothing to drink. Some of the men suffered so from thirst that they
scooped up in their hands the muddy water that was lying stagnant in the
trench and quaffed it with delight. I had a flask of mint and I drank a
swallow that refreshed me greatly. We were so tired at the last that we
could neither see nor feel, but stumbled on with our eyes shut, some of
the men asleep as they went. At last we arrived.
These dug-outs were a sort of cave made in the side of the hill, large
galleries well propped up with planks with the entrance carefully
protected by a regular rampart of bags of sand. The minute we arrived we
threw ourselves down and slept and slept, in spite of the big German
shells that were bursting with a frightful hubbub, and in spite of a
French battery concealed near by that kept up an incessant fire, and in
spite of our consuming thirst. We didn’t wake up until the commissary
arrived, bringing letters and rations. Everybody demanded the letters
first. We were in such sore need of a few words of endearment, much more
so than of food! I got for my share five letters which I read hungrily.
I also got a package of eggs my little godmother managed to send me from
Lorraine, and they were a wonderful feast, sweet as a caress of the one
who sent them.
Then we ate, and went to sleep again. We cannot be entirely brutish,
since letters bring us such joy. We have killed men, under penalty of
being killed ourselves, and also because it was our duty, but these
combats took place in a sort of frenzy, the frenzy of action, of
enthusiasm, and likewise of suffering. I have killed two Germans and I
am proud of it, and yet, I have not the soul of an assassin.
At eight in the evening the major received word that two companies were
to be sent to the trenches. All the troops were jaded, all had labored
long and hard; we drew lots—Eleventh and Twelfth. So I had to set out
again. I went to rouse my men. They grumbled a little, but obeyed
philosophically, buckling on their equipment and folding their blankets.
At nine o’clock we set out to traverse in the opposite direction the
ground we had come over in the morning: trench, road, trench, village,
trench, mud, and again mud. It was impossible to maintain distances. One
section got lost and had to turn back; then troops were met coming the
other way, the ditch was narrow, and it was slow work squeezing through.
Order was once more established as we came near our goal. The night was
full of the uproar of a battle. Machine guns were emitting in the
distance the regular click of a sewing-machine, while the little guns
sounded like the sputtering of fish in a frying-pan. A few bullets
whizzed by. I heard one of the men say, in his utter weariness, “I hope
one of those bullets is for me.” I chided him mildly, but it was
exhaustion that wrung this cry from him, for the day before at the
moment of the attack he had fought with the bravest.
We arrived at an empty second-line trench that we were to occupy, and
defend in case of need. But it was very different from having the enemy
right before us, and we could be comparatively tranquil. We went to
sleep sitting in the mud, or in the dug-outs, where the brittle earth
crumbled and fell in tiny frozen pellets. We slept the rest of the night
and spent the following day almost without moving, wearily awaiting the
moment to depart. We were disgustingly dirty, caked with mud from head
to foot. We scraped the mud off our hands and faces with our knives; our
hair was converted into a strange, unfamiliar substance that looked as
if it would withstand any process of cleaning.
A few shells fell among us, and several of the men were wounded, but we
were perfectly indifferent and didn’t budge when the explosions came.
The _marmites_ were not honored by us with the slightest attention.
Although we were physically tired, our morale was intact, and the men
laughed and joked, every one recounting the deeds of prowess he had
performed at the time of the attack. Who shall blame us if we were a
little boastful? We were tasting the satisfaction of work well done. If
the Boches had chosen that moment to attack us, they would have had a
warm welcome. However, they didn’t risk it.
Toward eight in the evening orders came that we were to be relieved.
They were greeted with a satisfaction not unmixed, for no one smiled as
the prospect rose before him of the return trip through those
communication trenches. Slowly, with many difficulties, and at the cost
of great efforts, we made our way once more through the mire. We were
simple automatons with very little more notion of time and space than a
pendulum on the end of its pivot.
We reached Hill 181 and solid ground, solid except for big shell holes
filled with water. A number of the men, blind with fatigue, fell into
them and had to be pulled out with rifle butts. Shells were falling, so
we changed into open formation to march the five hundred metres that
separated us from the kitchens. Hot coffee awaited us there, but we
could not stop long enough to drink it, as shells were coming down too
fast. It was not until some distance farther on when the coffee was cold
that we were able to refresh ourselves. The Germans were keeping up a
continuous bombardment of Cabane-Puits, so that we could not stay there,
but had to go to B.-le-Château, twelve kilometres beyond.
The long column of the regiment wound through the plain four hours
longer with numerous halts and untold weariness. The knapsacks that we
had picked up again dragged heavily on our shoulders. From time to time,
exhausted men left the ranks and lay down in the road, falling asleep
with their packs on their backs. We were very near the end of our tether
when the cock on the steeple appeared at a turn of the road. A long halt
was made here, and the stragglers had time to regain their places before
we marched into the village. Was there such a thing as being able to
shoulder arms and march at attention in our state of exhaustion?
Yes indeed, and it was sublime. The colonel, before dismissing us to
recuperate, wished to have us file before our flag, our beloved flag,
blackened and torn by battles. We had earned this honor, and it made us
forget everything else. Every man of all the mud-smeared ranks felt that
his very soul was wrapped in the glory of that sacred emblem for which
he had suffered so much and so willingly. Now as a supreme reward, while
we still bore upon us the marks of duty well done, we were to perform in
the presence of the flag an immense and joyous act of faith in our
native land. All the men felt the solemnity of the moment; and to the
ringing notes of the farewell hymn that tells us to live and die for our
Republic, these worn and footsore men, so covered with grime as to have
scarcely a human semblance, defiled before the flag and presented arms
as they never had presented them before. And when I saw my men stand up
proud and straight to present arms, putting into this act all the little
strength that was in them, and when it came my turn to salute our
colors, I was so stirred that the tears rolled down my mud-stained
cheeks. I am happy. I give thanks for all I have suffered, since it has
won for me the joy of this moment.
CHAPTER VI
ENCAMPMENT—IN THE FOURTH LINE—FATIGUE DUTY—VISIT TO THE ARTILLERY
And then we went off duty. I was determined to be clean before I went to
bed. A soldier employed at the bath-house was obliged to scrub me all
over with a stiff brush. Not a spot on my body had escaped the
treacherous mud. We had two days to rest and clean up and put our
clothing and arms in order. The men were allowed entire freedom.
My billet is comfortable. I even have a real bed—a bed with sheets—that
I share with my friend H. Joy and delight to be able to take off one’s
clothes and crawl into bed between sheets—a luxury we have not tasted
for a month. And such a month!
This morning there was drill. Not very interesting, but according to
theory, the men must not be left idle. I suggested that we organize
games and the idea was approved. Peace-time manœuvres afford little
amusement to men who are just back from the trenches.
Our mess is very jolly. We officers get together and chat, play cards or
have music. I often go and play the little organ in the church. A priest
who is on the hospital nursing staff has asked me to play during
services. I consented with great pleasure. There is a service every
evening which many soldiers attend. They sing the hymns of the liturgy.
I accompany and I amuse myself playing some fugue of Bach or of my
beloved César Franck. The organ is nothing to boast of, but I get a good
deal of satisfaction out of it.
_March 18._ We start to-night for Cabane-Puits which forms the fourth
line of our positions. We are not to go to the trenches, it seems, but
will remain four or five days in reserve. Furthermore, we shall be
assigned fatigue duty. My company is flag escort.
_Evening._ We left B.-le-Château toward noon. The ceremony of departure
was beautiful. The third battalion had the flag and my company was
chosen to escort it. The battalion formed in line of masses, my company
being posted directly in front of the colonel’s house. At noon, bayonets
were fixed, and at the moment the flag appeared on the threshold the
band and the buglers saluted and played the Marseillaise, while every
man presented arms. We defiled through the village with the flag in the
middle of the company, just behind my section. Then the flag was folded
into its black sheath, and we began the march.
The road was better, much better. We met a regiment coming back from the
trenches, and it made us realize what we ourselves had looked like a few
days before.
Cabane-Puits is very curious—a village of primitive tribesmen made up of
half-buried huts of earth and branches. These dwellings are very
comfortable, however, with their fireplaces and thick beds of straw.
There are also dug-outs for each section. For myself I have a private
apartment which has been comfortably arranged by its various occupants.
There is a bed made of woven wire hung like a hammock about twenty
inches from the ground, a rough table, shelves, and a fireplace of big
stones. The baggage-wagons of the regiment have come with us up to this
point, so I have my chest and can profit by my books. Rabelais and
Montaigne have promptly been given the place of honor on the shelves.
There is a shanty for everything here. The infirmary is very well
installed; the offices of the various companies have packing-boxes for
desks. The kitchens are in the open air. Above the fires, hanging on a
stick, great kettles boil and bubble everlastingly. We had tea this
evening, but sad to say, there wasn’t enough sugar. Letters come through
with more or less regularity. I have made friends with the
baggage-master, who scolds me all the time for being one of those who
give him the most trouble; for I have a correspondence of almost
ministerial dimensions.
Take it all in all, this is better than the trenches.
_March 19._ A delicious existence. Weather fine. Nothing to do. I read a
little, write a little, chat a great deal with my friend H. or with the
_abbé-infirmier_, a man of extraordinary intelligence and a heart of
gold. Last evening after going to bed, H. and I lay awake a long time
and talked, with the splendor of the spring flooding in upon us. The
cannon in the distance were raging, and in spite of ourselves we
rejoiced in our comparative security. “Suave mari magno.”[2] Perhaps
Lucretius was not so far wrong. But this kind of selfishness is
conceivable when one thinks of the sufferings of the week just past.
Footnote 2:
“Sweet it is when the winds are ruffling the mighty surface of the
deep to witness the grievous peril of another from the shore.”
_March 20._ A very busy night. My section was detailed to clean out the
communication trenches near Perthes. The mud had dried and filled them
in so that they were no longer deep enough.
We started at 9 P.M. along Hill 181. At the entrance to the trenches,
sheltered behind a hillock, are the headquarters of the commander of the
sector, and likewise a toolhouse. Picks and shovels were piled up
waiting for us. We took an equal number of each alternately, and
proceeded to the trenches. A guide showed us the way. They were in a
very bad state from the point of view of protection, but oh, so easy to
walk in. The sector we were to put in order was about two hundred metres
long. With the aid of my sergeants and corporals, I measured off the
exact space for each pair of men. Every one set to work with a will, and
at the end of two hours the job was finished. Partly to keep warm and
partly to set the example, I took a pick and worked here and there. We
deepened and broadened the trench and put bomb-shields every twenty-five
or thirty metres, so that a bursting shell could be effective only on a
limited area. Moreover, the trench was wide at the bottom, and the walls
were near enough at the top to give less purchase to shrapnel. I had the
satisfaction of feeling that the work had been done rapidly and well. At
1 A.M. we arrived at quarters. I gave the men a swig of brandy to warm
them up, and we all turned in.
An enemy aviator was brought down this morning. He ventured near our
lines and was subjected to a lively bombardment. Swarms of white tufts
circled and unfolded around the ’plane, which made a yellow spot in the
lens of my field-glass. Suddenly I saw it dip, nose downward, and dart
like an arrow to the ground. Meanwhile the smoke of the shell that had
done the deed spread majestically through the sky as if content with its
handiwork. The aviator fell too far away for us to go and see him.
The Russians have taken Przemysl. The news was announced in this
morning’s bulletin. It seems the booty is enormous. To celebrate the
event every soldier has been given an extra ration of wine.
It is one of the first bits of war news we have had. We are narrowed
down to our own sector, and know practically nothing of what is
happening outside. Not much probably. But surely something will be doing
before long now. Every one thinks the grand offensive will take place in
the spring—the decisive blow that will pry the Germans out of their
holes in the ground and bring us the fight in the open for which we are
all longing. And then—victory!
I find myself yielding to the charm of our life here. It is,
indeed, the return to nature and simplicity; it is almost
physical, almost animal. The primitive instincts of the race have
full sway—eating—drinking—sleeping—fighting—everything but loving.
Lacking this, Rousseau would have found his idyl complete. But
however much we are sunk in savagery, memory still is living. As
well ask the spring not to be green as keep one’s thoughts from
wandering among cherished images, kept fresh by almost daily
letters. Beloved little godmothers, precious are your letters and
welcome your delicate gifts to those who fight. We are glad to
fight for you. But at times, the thought of you makes the chains
of war very hard to bear.
However, I am determined not to let my mind grow rusty. I read a great
deal, write quantities of letters, and I have two or three friends with
whom I can converse intimately. What is more, I have a most interesting
study in psychology always close at hand—the study of my _poilus_. I
think I am beginning to know them better and to be their friend; they
tell me their secrets and their adventures, their little family affairs
and their love affairs. Some of them want me to read their letters, or
show me photographs. All this makes it easier to approach each one of
them in the right way to make him do his best. I have grown very fond of
them, for they are fine fellows; they can even be heroes when duty
requires.
I passed the evening out of doors, lying sprawled in the grass, smoking
my old pipe, companion of all my adventures, and chatting with my
friends. The sound of the cannon was scarcely audible, and over the
unruffled air came whiffs of music. We recognized the “Russian Hymn” and
the “Marseillaise” and “God Save the King.” It was a regiment encamped
behind us, celebrating the fall of Przemysl.
It is late. I have loitered outside in the marvellous night, keeping
company with the spring. The air is laden with perfume as I write. But
“_Sat prata biberunt._”
_March 21. Sunday._ This morning mass was said in the open air behind a
great rock, a soldier priest officiating. Stones served as an altar. On
it were two candles without candlesticks—an old-time simplicity. The
gathering was large, and we sang canticles to the deep accompaniment of
the distant cannon.
Nothing has happened to-day, except that a few prisoners filed by.
This evening several men of the company go on fatigue duty to carry wire
and shells to the trenches. I examined the shells. They have tiny wings
and are fired from a cannon in the trench itself, and are very deadly,
it seems. Our _poilus_ call them “cauliflowers.”
My section is on duty, for of course we have to take turns keeping
guard. The service is very simple. Three sentries suffice, one near the
station and storehouses, one near the colonel’s cabin where the flag is,
and the third near the carriages.
_March 22._ Another uneventful day. The battalion had manœuvres in the
woods. If only this gives promise of the fight in the open! A little
alarm—several shells fell on our position. A kitchen was destroyed and a
cook wounded. It is very unpleasant to be bombarded when you are off
duty. In the trenches, it is part of the day’s work, and for that reason
swallowed down cheerfully. Besides, the trench is a protection, but in
encampment where, by the very definition of the word, one has a right to
feel secure, it is annoying. Those Boches have no manners.
_March 23._ Last night I was detailed with half my section to bury the
dead. The task was not a pleasant one, but it was accomplished without
reluctance or hesitation. Having to do the work at night made it a shade
more lugubrious. A guide conducted us to a little thicket all laid bare
by grapeshot, south of Perthes and about three kilometres from the first
lines. There was no moon, and it was very nearly pitch dark. Trench
rockets streaked the sky here and there, and from the distance came the
crack of musketry. Shells went laboring by with the heavy breathing of
wild beasts in a rage. A little trench was made into a large one to
receive the bodies, and then we set out in search of them. They had been
lying there for a very long time, and it was only the recent advance of
our lines that made it possible to bury them. With some difficulty we
managed to make out these motionless heaps on the ground. It was
necessary to search the pockets and take out papers, money, etc., also
to unfasten the identification badges that are worn on the arm like a
bracelet. It was not an easy thing to do. In this, also, I was obliged
to set the example. I had to put my hand into the pockets of a foul mass
that fell to pieces at a touch. I found nothing but a pocket-book and
diary. The men then took courage and overcame their aversion. The bodies
were not offensive until they were disturbed, but the least jar brought
forth an odor that choked you and took you by the throat.
Among them were three Germans. They were all carried in a tent-sheet to
the trench and laid side by side. The articles found on them were kept
carefully in separate packets. Out of twenty-seven, we succeeded in
identifying all but three.
When our task was finished, the _abbé-infirmier_, who had accompanied us
of his own accord, stepped to the edge of the grave and said a blessing.
And that priest, standing out against the darkness, lifting his voice
above the noise of battle in a last solemn duty to those pitiful
fragments, was truly very fine. Every man of us, whether moved by
religious conviction or not, felt the impressiveness of the moment, and
knelt to hear the words of forgiveness and of life.
This evening I went to S. S. by the little train to have the death
certificates made out. The tiny mementoes had to be sent to the
families—letters, purses, notebooks, watches. On one of the bodies was a
letter bearing the inscription: “Will the person who finds my body have
the kindness to send this letter, together with the exact description of
my grave, to the following address....” I took the letter, and wrote a
few words to the family. I did my best to make a drawing of the spot
where the poor fellow was buried, and told them about the blessing that
had been said over his grave. And into the same envelope I put that
sacred letter, bloody, smeared with mud, ill-smelling,—a letter from the
dead.
_March 24._ An artillery officer who was at the village with me
yesterday invited me to go and see his battery. After the daily muster
of the company I started out. I had marked on my map the exact position
of the battery and found it without difficulty.
The captain received me in his dug-out, a regular palace compared to the
squalid quarters of us poor infantrymen. Twenty feet under ground, well
supported by planks, it contained all sorts of modern comforts—a real
bed, a table, chairs, besides a quantity of knick-knacks that indicated
a prolonged stay. Pinned up on the walls were the delicious women of
Fabiano, of Nam and of Préjelan, taken from “La Vie Parisienne”; a
violin was hanging in one corner, and on a table lay the sonatas of
Bach. There were a number of little objects on the shelves made from
fragments of shells. My host gave me tea in china cups. All this luxury
enchanted me. A telephone on the table connected the dug-out with the
battery, the first line, and the colonel’s headquarters. I could not
resist asking him to play, and this pupil of the Polytechnic executed
for me, and executed well, the famous saraband.
“Now, after the chamber-music,” said he, “I’m going to let you hear the
grand orchestra.” And he conducted me to his battery. The four pieces,
all draped in foliage and well covered with earth, were silent. But they
remained fixedly aimed at their invisible objective, a trench some three
kilometres ahead. Thanks to the hydro-pneumatic brake, the 75 does not
need to be re-aimed after firing. To please me, the captain ordered
three shells fired from each piece. I even fired a shot myself. Finally
I saw the little valve that has only to be manipulated in a certain way
to render the piece useless in case it falls into the hands of the
enemy. The gunners are under orders to attend to this.
I took leave, with many thanks to my host for his kindness. I was
gratified to have penetrated a little into the sumptuous domain of the
artillery.
On arriving in camp I learned that the captain had sent in my name for
promotion to the rank of second lieutenant, because of what happened
last week. I am very much pleased.
_March 25._ This morning to our great surprise we were told to return to
S. S. We reached there toward six o’clock. Same quarters as before. I
noticed in passing how rapidly the cemetery has been growing of late.
_March 26._ Review of our brigade this morning. The two regiments
assembled by sections in columns of four, with flags and music. The
general passed along our front at a gallop. Then we defiled. The
impression of strength is immense when one stands in the midst of all
these glittering bayonets above which float the bright colors of our
flag—the wall of steel that is holding back the enemy and will crush him
when the hour strikes. With it all comes the consciousness of one’s own
rôle, which is humble and yet great. For that wall of steel is made of
glittering, separate points, and I am one of them. It is joy untold to
be able to say to one’s self, “All my struggles and all my sufferings
count for something in the great action of the whole.”
The general then went along by the different companies. He stopped to
speak to me, and told me that from to-day I shall rank in the army as
second lieutenant.
Naturally, this event had to be celebrated. I treated my colleagues to
champagne. Just as festivities were well under way, orders came to start
at once for the trenches. Here is the programme for the next few days:—
Two days in the first line.
Two days in reserve, Hill 181.
Two days in the second line.
It is rumored that this army corps is to be laid off a whole month to
recuperate.
Lots of rumors float about, fantastic and otherwise. It’s what they call
“kitchen gossip.” But this one is perhaps true. Meanwhile we are
buckling on our things, and in two hours, off we go.
I am going to write to all my people to announce my promotion.
CHAPTER VII
IN THE FRONT LINES—THE TRENCH CANNON—GAS BOMBS—CAPTURE OF A BOCHE
TRENCH—GRENADES—HILL 181—IN THE SECOND LINE—OUR LAST DAYS IN CHAMPAGNE
_March 27._ I am writing my journal in a big underground shelter,
comfortably stretched out in a hammock that someone has rigged up of two
old tent-sheets. We are in an ugly sector, and are using the mine
galleries as dug-outs, for grenades are falling thick and fast.
We are in the same trench as the enemy,—next-door neighbors in fact, and
not a bit civil. Nothing but a barricade of bags of earth separates us
from the Boches. Near the barricade stand the sentries, attentive and
silent. No sound is heard on either side except for the whizzing of
grenades that are continually being tossed back and forth. But the
sentries are well protected in the sides of the trench, like saints in
niches, and they defy the German “turtles.”
The first German and French lines are in immediate contact. The reason
is that our side has not been able to seize the whole of the trench, of
which the enemy still occupies the eastern end. But this situation will
not last, I think, and we shall increase our gains.
The trench is clean, except for bodies imperfectly buried here and
there. We no longer pay any attention to them, but the really deplorable
thing is that many corpses fell in the mud, the mud has hardened, and
the trench is less than five feet deep. It is impossible to make it
deeper, for the least stroke of a pick brings up a piece of cloth or a
bit of flesh. To move about, we have to bend like hunchbacks. It is both
painful and dangerous, so the men don’t move around much but stay in the
shelters.
There is something very amusing here—a trench cannon, a little one such
as people fire during popular celebrations. You put powder in it, then a
77 shell (German projectiles that get sent back to them), then a fuse
that is lighted with a tinder—noise—smoke—the shell goes off in one
direction, the cannon in the other. The little fiend ought to take
lessons of the 75’s to cure it of going on its dance after each shot.
But there is plenty of time to reaim, and a man especially detailed for
the work takes charge of it. Of course, I couldn’t resist firing it a
few times. The pedestal is gruesome. It is a corpse, a body well encased
in mud, except that the feet are sticking out. It is a Boche. The soles
of his shoes are shod with iron just like horseshoes. This fact has
caused a good deal of merriment. The shells are sent to the trenches
over opposite. For the German trench at our side we use hand grenades,
and not stingily either. They too, of course, are making the best of
their opportunities, though up to now we have no wounded. But we have
had some unpleasant escapes from being overcome by gas. The Germans vary
the monotony of the missiles that come over the barricade by sending gas
bombs. These bombs in bursting emit an acrid smoke that smells of
sulphur and fills the whole trench. We discovered that we could ward off
the worst of the danger by putting handkerchiefs before our mouths. When
these bombs burst against the wall of the trench, they leave a yellow
splotch.
I remain quiet very little in the trench. I have a horror of inactivity,
and I don’t seem to want to read, so I wander back and forth a good deal
from one end of my sector to the other, keeping an eye on everything.
A little while ago one of my _poilus_ came to me and said: “I think,
Lieutenant, the Boches are busy mining our trench.” I listened but heard
nothing. Then I went into his shelter and I did, for a fact, hear
muffled blows, struck regularly. Evidently they were working underneath
us. It is very disagreeable when you are already underground to feel
this hidden, slow work, impossible to prevent, that may blow you up at
any minute. And the tiresome part of it is that since that moment, every
one is convinced that he hears the strokes that are digging the abyss
underneath him. Such is the power of imagination, O Pascal. But the
captain was notified and telephoned in turn to headquarters. An officer
of the engineering corps came and listened with a microphone, and said
we were in no danger; in the trench beside us a French mine gallery has
already been pierced underneath that mine. In front of all the network
of trenches there are underground listening-posts where the sappers
listen with their microphones and register the least sound. This officer
told me that two days before he had blown up a Boche mine. In order to
do that, the exact location of the enemy’s gallery must be ascertained,
then a hole is bored toward it with a drill similar to the one used in
boring wells. When the right spot is reached, it is packed and blown up
with a bickford. The explosion chamber of the German mine goes into the
air along with its inhabitants. The same fate awaits the mine we have
been worrying about. In mine warfare, the essential thing in the
conflict is just the opposite of the war in the air, where it is a
question of getting above the enemy aviator. The counter-mine, on the
contrary, must go beneath the enemy mine; when it reaches it at the same
height, they blow it up. It sometimes happens that the miners suddenly
find themselves face to face with the enemy. Then they kill one another
as best they can, with hammers if they have no revolvers.
It is not very edifying, this kind of warfare. I am going to console
myself by inviting my sergeants to tea.
For the fun of it, I have concocted a letter and thrown it into the
Boche trench beside us. In my most polite German I invited those who
were tired of waging war to come and surrender. They would be well
treated by the French. They would simply need to present themselves,
_unarmed_, in front of the barricade of bags of earth and whistle the
first measures of a tune known to all Germans, “_Ich hatt’ einen
Kameraden._” In a little while the sentry brought me a paper. It was the
answer. Here is the translation: “We shall be relieved to-night about
one o’clock. We will take advantage of the confusion to come, three of
us together, and surrender. At midnight we shall be on sentry duty near
the barricade. We count on your promise to treat us well.” I carried
this paper to the captain and translated it to him. The information as
to changing troops was interesting; he is going to telephone it to
headquarters.
_March 28._ What a riotous night! And by the same token, what a good
piece of work we did! We took all the trench beside us, about fifty
metres, and a machine gun.
The first part of the night was uneventful, except for an abominable
shower of grenades the Boches kept basting at us. Three of my men were
wounded, slightly, I think, for they were able to walk to the
dressing-station. About half-past ten the captain came to look over the
situation, and I suggested that it might be a good idea to attack the
trench at the moment they were changing. The various possibilities were
considered, and finally my superior officer told me to do as I saw fit,
leaving me the entire initiative in the matter. All I asked of him was
to forbid the second line to fire. I sent for my friend H. and entrusted
to him the command of my section after carefully discussing the various
contingencies. The most devoted and intelligent of my corporals was to
go with me, and I called for volunteers from the squads to help in an
undertaking that might prove dangerous. Almost all the men offered. I
chose six, who armed themselves with their bayonets, and took ten
grenades apiece. Then I went to the barricade and, with the aid of a
periscope and trench rockets, was able to get an exact idea of the
German trench. One thing bothered me—a machine gun placed not far from
us. I ordered a score or so of grenades thrown at it. Men were hit, but
the gun seemed intact.
Shortly after eleven o’clock I heard them whistling the popular air of
the Uhlans. I whistled it in turn, when presently three great gawks
appeared on the barricade with their arms raised above their heads, and
jumped into our trench. I put them under strong guard and questioned
them. It seems their comrades were leaving at that very moment; they
were being sent away before the arrival of the other troops. These three
had managed to be put on sentry duty and at that moment no one was
guarding the entrance to the trench. For a second the idea flashed
through my head that this was a trap, and I threatened to have them shot
if they were lying. But I went to the barricade and saw that the trench
was for a fact empty, except for the machine gunners who were on duty
beside their gun. I quickly gave orders to tear down the barricade and
we ran into the Boche trench. The men of my section, according to my
instructions, set up a furious fire in order to distract the attention
of the enemy from the sector we were trying to take. As we ran, we threw
grenades at the machine gunners, who sank down before being able to turn
their guns against us. In a twinkling we reached the end of the trench,
intersected at right angles by a communication trench. A few grenades
went after the last Boches who were going off to recuperate. Like
lightning we piled up four or five bodies and rolled down several bags
of earth from the parapet, brought up the machine gun, and from behind
the barricade of dead men and earth fired three rounds into the
retreating Germans. They were thrown into a panic. A good many must have
been killed, for daylight disclosed to our gaze that trench piled with
dead. The whole thing had not lasted more than two minutes. We were
deluged with grenades, a continuous _zip_, _zip_; one of our men was
killed, three or four wounded. Everything was in a wild tumult,—trench
rockets going up, guns firing at the double-quick, a hasty report to the
captain who came to shake hands with me. Barbed wire was rushed into
place, and the trench reversed—minutes of mad excitement and insane
activity. We were without consciousness of danger, hypnotized by the
work to be done.
We expected a counter-attack, but the German machine gun we had put at
the entrance to the communication trench defended it too well for a
Boche to be able to venture in that direction. Toward the trench
opposite all the soldiers had their loopholes and were on the watch
ready to fire.
We waited. There were false alarms. A man who is a little nervous begins
to fire rapidly, his neighbor follows his example, then the squad, then
the section, then the whole company gets on the rampage. The machine
guns begin to clatter, the second-line troops take alarm, the artillery
steps in with a few shells and—the Boches over opposite, bewildered by
the hubbub, send up into the sky large interrogation points in the shape
of trench rockets, whose rays illumine the grass growing green in the
spring, the tangle of wire and several poor dead bodies lying with hands
outstretched toward the opposite trench, as if pointing the path of duty
to the ones behind.
The counter-attack did not come, but shells upon shells were rained upon
us. I gave my canteen of wine to my prisoners, for, after all, they were
somewhat to be thanked for our success. It is nothing at all, fifty
metres of trench, and yet, it is a few feet of France won back again.
I received my reward; two packages and five letters. In one of the
packages was a big April Fool’s day fish made of chocolate, all stuffed
with candy. I divided the candy among my men, by way of thanks for their
splendid conduct, and then I feasted on the letters. Oh, the comfort of
letters and words of affection that come to find us out in the midst of
our barbarous days!
_March 29._ Hill 181, in reserve. Shelters deep underground. From the
northern crest of this hill can be seen the whole system of trenches,
both French and German, in the basin of Perthes. I posted myself with my
field-glass between two clumps of bushes: a maze of white lines, much
twisted and tangled; from time to time rise blackish clouds. The ruins
of Perthes become every day more mournful. I was driven from my post by
shells.
Every hour, exactly and methodically, two batteries fire their twelve
shells. Forewarned, forearmed. When the moment is past, there is nothing
more to fear for one hour. Unfortunately, one of the lieutenants was
killed by a shell that was so very unmindful of usage as to seek him in
his dug-out.
I had the honor this morning to be shaved under fire. The barber of the
company was busy relieving me of a two days’ growth of beard when shells
began to fall not far from us. “Go on,” I cried; and though my barber’s
hand shook, he cut off neither my nose nor my ears.
I have discovered a stove with some stovepipe. The infirmary didn’t want
it, and simply threw it away. I had it set up in my dug-out where the
air is decidedly chilly. With the pine boughs from the woods roundabout
which my orderly stuffs in, it keeps me warm and enables me to make some
good chocolate.
It is cold. To-night we shall have to go to the first line to take
planks and wire. But what a good cup of tea I shall have when I come
back!
_March 30._ Last night a blizzard came down upon us. It was doubtless
due to the violent displacement of air caused by the terrible
bombardment that never for a moment ceases.
I came in late—about three o’clock. We had to do a lot of trotting
about; the communication trenches took up the snow and were beginning to
be muddy again. Oh, this abominable Champagne mud!
To-day we were bombarded even more than usual. Several men imprudently
went to walk in full view of the enemy. Naturally shells came after
them, so now the men are forbidden to go out of the shelters.
I slept all the morning in front of my snoring little stove. Played
cards this evening. I feel as if I were rapidly sinking to the level of
the brute. For variety we go to the trenches to-night.
_March 31._ Our last days in Champagne. It seems we are to be laid off
to recuperate and will change sectors afterward. One would say that
before we go the authorities want us to become profoundly familiar with
the landscape of this desolate region. We are in the second line, and in
front of us stretches the panorama of all the trenches we have held,
beginning with Hill 181. The weather is clear. The snow did not last. We
can see the woods, stripped bare by shells, as well as the whole
labyrinth of trenches and communications, then the ruins of the stricken
village of Perthes. With my glass I can make out the first trench I
occupied. I recognize it from certain little details, but we have gone a
long way ahead since then, more than a kilometre.
Day comparatively calm. Nothing to do except be ready to sustain a
possible attack. We sleep, read, or play cards.
The Boches are still bombarding Perthes and Hill 181. The big _marmites_
send up into the night splendid luminous volcanoes, or else burst above
the trenches in clouds that whirl off down the wind. The curious thing
is that you see the explosion long before you hear it, and the hiss of
the bomb sounds directly overhead at the very moment when it is bursting
in the distance. I had to explain this phenomenon to my men, whose
knowledge of acoustics is not very extensive.
I have just witnessed a magnificent and terrible sight—a German attack
in close formation crushed in less time than it takes to tell it. To the
east, in the direction of Beausé-jour, was an intense bombardment; then
through my glass I could see gray masses emerge, gesticulating and
densely crowded together. This attack was caught between two curtains of
fire. The raging 75’s hurled a curtain of fire in front of them, keeping
them from advancing, and one behind them that made it impossible for
them to get back to their trenches. They were wiped out to the very last
man. There was a mad dance in the air of scattered limbs, mingled with
clouds of dirt and smoke. The incredible part of it is that nothing was
left on the ground, or next to nothing. It was as if the bodies of those
men had been volatilized and made one with the air. We were transfixed
with horror and filled with rapturous hope. May the fight in the open be
not delayed! Our 75’s will quickly give us the victory.
_Holy Thursday._ Our aviators are floating gracefully about in the
twilight—a twilight divinely calm. It is Holy Week. The strains of the
great Johann Sebastian and of “Parsifal” keep running through my head.
Orders have come. We are to be relieved this evening. We are going to
recuperate and then, they say, to Alsace. I shall be so happy to have a
chance to fight on the soil we have won back.
This is our last day in Champagne. I am leaving without regret this land
of desolation where I have known difficult hours and a few splendid
moments. What tried me most sorely was this mole-like existence, I who
am always longing for large action and open and intense fighting with an
enemy who is before your eyes.
The Boches have been bombarding rather violently. That is to be expected
since it is Holy Thursday. But in spite of everything, there has been
something religious in the calm of the elements these latter days.
Nature is at her devotions. This evening is superb. Shells are bursting
in great numbers, and the little church of Perthes totters as if it were
about to fall. Through the loopholes comes the mew of spent bullets, but
these noises disturb but little the heavenly serenity of the twilight.
Larks are singing, full-throated, a sublime pæan of life and joy. In the
distance lie the dead, and the frightful, mangled corpse of the village
of Perthes.
CHAPTER VIII
A MONTH AWAY FROM THE TRENCHES
(For a month our life is spent in marches and more or less prolonged
stays in various encampments in the region of the Meuse—a calm
existence, without many events of interest. My journal relates only a
few scattered incidents.)
_April 3._ First stage. Left Cabane-Puits this morning at three, and
reached here at eight.
Little village partly destroyed by the Boches, barbarously, when they
were obliged to fall back at the time of the battle of the Marne. I am
billeted in the house of a peasant woman who has told us many tales of
their atrocities. The church is in ruins. It seems they locked up in it
a very old grandmother and then set fire to it. A striking thing in the
midst of the ruins of this church is a statue, still standing,—the only
one,—a statue of Joan of Arc made of plaster, her sword broken, her face
blackened with smoke, her banner half gone, but proud and erect, truly a
stirring sight. What a fine subject for an article for Maurice Barrès!
That virgin symbolizing our will to conquer, France wounded and
bleeding, but still valiant and undaunted and full of faith. I am told
the statue of Joan of Arc at the entrance to the Cathedral of Rheims has
not been touched by shells either. It is as if the soul of our country,
incarnated in our superb heroine, wished to manifest itself thus to its
defenders.
There is a rumor that we shall go to the Dardanelles. What luck that
would be! Perhaps I could rejoin my brother who enlisted at eighteen and
has just started with the expeditionary force.
_April 6._ We have been on the march for three days. I cannot quite make
out the reason for all this marching. Certainly we are not on the way to
fight, for then we should go by rail. It isn’t rest, either, thirty
kilometres a day of rather hard marching. And then we march in broad
daylight. Perhaps it is to throw the enemy off the scent and simulate
extensive shifting of troops.
We have crossed the rich pasture lands of the Argonne and the deep,
thick forests to the north of which the fighting is in progress. The
sight of all this wonderful vegetation has suddenly made me realize that
spring is here. The desolation of Champagne—a real desert, with a few
clumps of mutilated pines—had given scarcely a hint of its coming. Here
there are perfumes and flowers, gayety, pleasant sunshine, birds. But
not everything is gay. We have come through many a wrecked and
desecrated village—one especially in which not a single house was left
standing. It happened that a sort of wooden shed just outside the
village hid the ruins. The band was marching with our battalion that
day. The band-master, as usual, had them play a march, and we prepared
to file into the village at attention. Then, in our proudest trim, with
clarions and flourish of trumpets, we entered suddenly upon a blackened,
blasted street between two long heaps of rubbish,—not a house, not a
living soul, only chaos and emptiness. A strange contrast—that sparkling
music with those ruins. But was not this also an act of faith—a promise?
As a rule we set out about eight in the morning and at one o’clock make
a long halt. A rolling kitchen for each company has been included in our
regimental train since our departure from the trenches. When we arrive,
generally rather tired, we have hot coffee and soup. In the evening on
reaching encampment we salute the flag and every one gets settled in his
quarters. Villages in ruins for the most part. There has been no
fighting here, but, when they left, the Germans set fire to things
everywhere.
At B.-sur-A. is a marvellous Gothic church in the purest style very
nearly wrecked. Oh, destroyers of cathedrals! It brings freshly to my
mind the great grief I felt on learning of the burning of Notre Dame de
Rheims. Since that moment I have sworn hatred to the Germans. To kill
men is, after all, the business of war and it can be explained, even if
it cannot be excused. But to try to kill the soul of a whole epoch, the
sublime and imposing spirit of the Middle Ages, which had put into its
cathedrals all its faith, all its aspirations, all its life!—The Germans
are jealous of the splendor of our country, and they who have raised
their Gothic monuments only in the school of France—for Gothic was born
in the Île de France—they who have had the wit only to imitate are
determined to be first and foremost in the art of destruction. And they
know very well that the French will not make reprisals and that
Nuremberg and the Wartburg will still be standing after our victory.
_April 9._ On the banks of the Meuse between Verdun and Saint-Mihiel.
The taking of Éparges has just been announced to us. It is a great
success, and great in consequences I think. We have been brought here as
an army of reinforcements to be used in case of need. But our comrades
took the mountain without us.
We rest, we exercise mildly. I have been boating a little on the Meuse.
At night I like to climb the heights above the village, where one can
see the search-lights of Verdun sweeping the sky.
I play a while at the church every day. The band of our regiment gives a
daily concert at four.
Much bustle and stir. Endless convoys pass; Boche ’planes come along
from time to time and are driven off by our artillery.
_April 14._ We are kept continually on the move. Now we are headed
south.
A splendid ceremony yesterday—the decoration of our flag. Our regiment
received the _Croix d’Honneur_ for its conduct in Champagne.
The whole army corps was massed in a vast area of untilled fields.
Bluecoats everywhere. It was very beautiful. The generals arrived and
passed along our front, while we all presented arms. Then the flags of
all the regiments were placed side by side, with their escort of honor.
Three of the number were to be decorated, and were set a little in
advance of this splendid group of shimmering rags floating triumphantly
in the wind. All the bands together played the Marseillaise. I could not
see much, I was so far away, but I did see the general kiss the flags
which seemed to droop toward him, and I clearly heard the swelling notes
of our national hymn flung to the sky by the bands and by our hearts.
Then the whole army corps, bayonets and sabres bared, defiled.
With our beloved standard we returned to cantonment. The colonel made us
march before it once more. The glory of our flag was reflected on each
one of us and we were very proud.
_April 20._ Continual marches. Springtime. Rest.
Very uniform life. On reaching a village, after lodging my men, I always
sally forth to find the church and play the organ. It is my great joy.
The other day we had execution parade. Two soldiers of the regiment were
courtmartialed for refusing to go to the trenches and hiding while the
others were fighting. They were condemned to hard labor.
In the morning the regiment assembled in a hollow square. Three
battalions formed three sides; the fourth was made up of the machine-gun
corps, the sanitary corps, and the band. On the arrival of the condemned
men, who were dressed in the chestnut brown costume of the convict,
their heads shaved, without the slightest vestige of anything military,
the colonel ordered us to fix bayonets and shoulder arms. The prisoners
were brought into the middle of the square under the conduct of four
soldiers with fixed bayonets. The drums beat a ruffle—a long, low roll
followed by complete silence. Then a sergeant-major read the sentence.
The drums rolled once more, after which the two men passed along in
front of the ranks—supreme ignominy for those who are unworthy to bear
arms. Then they were handed over to the gendarmes and we all dispersed.
_April 22._ Reached the banks of the Marne-Rhine Canal, along which I
have had so many beautiful walks near Nancy in the old days. We are
going to entrain. For what point? For Alsace, perhaps, or the
Dardanelles.
_April 25._ Neither Alsace nor the Dardanelles. The secret was well
kept. We did not know where we were going until we actually arrived. To
the Somme, not far from Amiens.
Our journey was a long one. Leaving Bar-le-Duc at 3 A.M. we did not get
out of the train until 11 at night. It was a bitter disappointment when
I found I was turning my back on Alsace. I began to follow on my map the
branch lines leading toward the south. There were two. We passed them
by. We were going in the direction of Paris. We followed the
battle-field of the Marne—Cézanne, Terte-Gauche, La Fère-Champenoise,
Coulommiers. Along the railroad tracks were trenches, and individual
shelters, shell holes, and graves,—graves everywhere, either big, common
graves decorated with flowers and inscriptions, many-colored, or else
separate graves. But over them all waves the bright tricolor, joyously.
They lie in the midst of a veritable flower-garden of flags, those who
have died for our country.
We met an armored train run by marine fusiliers. The big guns are graced
by the names of women: La Joconde, Josephine, etc. The marines made
friendly signals to us as we passed.
And then, toward evening, we reached the outskirts of Paris, in all the
adorable beauty of springtime and blossoming trees, to say nothing of
its houses, real ones, big, beautiful, luxurious. We had come so near
forgetting what they looked like. And the women smiled, and waved to the
soldiers who were going off to defend them.
Very near Paris we stopped for two hours, so near that half an hour in
an omnibus would have brought us out at the Opéra. We stayed there a
long time, with our eyes fixed upon the Capital, and many of us were sad
at being so close to those who were dear to us when they so little
suspected it. The bugle for departure brought me back from my reveries,
and we plunged once more into the night.
At 11 o’clock we detrained and marched until about 2 A.M. Before
daybreak we were under shelter. Orders had arrived. We were forbidden to
go out in the daytime except when it was possible to keep out of sight.
It was essential for the enemy to remain in ignorance of our presence. A
very strict watch was instituted against enemy aviators. Patrols
provided with field-glasses were stationed on the heights; beside each
patrol was a bugler. As soon as an aeroplane was sighted, long, slow
bugle notes indicated that every one must hide. Staccato notes meant
that the danger was over. There were numerous alarms,—Boche ’planes
going to throw bombs on Amiens, also several French ’planes. By way of
precaution, the bugle is sounded for every kind of air-craft and the
short notes indicating “danger past” reëcho as soon as the sentry spies
on the wings of the ’plane the tricolor cockade.
I am billeted at the house of a cheery and charming peasant woman who is
kindness itself. She dotes on officers and treats us royally. I wish it
might last, this life of peace and comfort. But something is brewing.
The storm will burst before long. Of that much I am certain.
_April 27._ Delicious _far niente_. I am enthroned in idleness like a
pasha. We are not allowed to show ourselves, so our rest is absolute.
But we are well taken care of, and I am not complaining. Meanwhile the
commander calls us together each day to expound the principles of the
new tactics. There are not to be any more little local attacks, like
those in Champagne, but big attacks, and the unit of combat will be the
company and no longer the section. The goal we must aim at is to take at
a single blow all the enemy’s trenches, so as to push him back into the
open. First, the artillery will hammer the Boche trenches; then we shall
have to jump over them, while crews of “trench-cleaners” follow in our
wake to put in order the trenches thus conquered. The men of the crews
are armed with revolvers and knives.
Decidedly the war is daily growing more terrible.
There are other principles, too, that have reference to working in
concert with the artillery. But I think it is lunch time.
_April 30._ We start this evening. There is to be a grand offensive.
Some great stroke is being prepared. Will it be the decisive one? I
still dream the same dream that haunted me in the training-camp; the
grand entry into Berlin, Unter den Linden, but especially the triumphal
return to Paris, under the Arc de l’Étoile, down the Champs-Elysées.
I am rather sorry to leave the life of comfort and good cheer I have
been leading these days. But thanks to this respite I shall be all the
more ready for work, I think.
It is a month since I left Champagne. For a month we have been going
about from village to village, from Champagne to the Meuse, from the
Meuse to Lorraine, from Lorraine to Flanders. I have seen many
countrysides. I have lodged in many villages. Everywhere we have had a
marvellous reception, of a kind to make us forget the hardships that are
past, and grow strong for those to come.
CHAPTER IX
BEFORE THE GRAND OFFENSIVE (ARTOIS, MAY 1–8, 1915)
_May 1._ Here we are near Arras, on the eve of returning to the
trenches.
We have had a long journey, in order to travel a very few miles; we left
at night, of course, and arrived late at night at Saint-Pol. On coming
out of the station we found before us a long train of autobuses waiting
to transport us to the front. They were big goods trucks, very powerful,
arranged with four seats each, on which there was room for twenty men.
Then the companies were divided by turns into groups of twenty, and the
men took their places. The officers had a very comfortable motor car. It
did not take more than half an hour to get everybody settled; the
swiftness was marvellous. Then this train that bore nearly a thousand
men set out into the darkness. Not a light was lighted. Every effort was
made to maintain secrecy.
For two solid hours we jolted along at a lively clip over roads that
were torn to pieces by the countless convoys which pass every minute of
the day and night. We were literally shrouded in dust when we arrived at
daybreak at Agnez-les-Duisans. There we got out, the companies formed
once more, and we took a bite of breakfast by the side of the road while
the quartermasters went ahead to look after billets. Ours was roomy and
well supplied with straw; unfortunately, in the course of the day it was
discovered that the straw was full of fleas, and the men had to move out
and take refuge in cramped quarters.
We are forbidden to go out in groups. A vigilance service has been
organized as before. We have been watching the manœuvring of a captive
“sausage” balloon, a kind of balloon that is shaped and ballasted in
such a way as to prevent its being driven about at the mercy of every
wind, like the spherical balloons.
Our mess is well installed. My colleague R. always bestirs himself to
find the right place, and he is lucky.
To-morrow we return to the trenches. There is great massing of troops in
this region. So this is where the great stroke will be delivered.
_May 3._ Once more we take up the life of war. We have been in the
trenches since last night. We had nearly lost the wont of shot and
shell, though we are managing to keep up a good face. But how different
this is from Champagne! Here it is comfortable, almost to the point of
luxury, and the sector is as calm as calm—a few isolated cannon shots
now and then just to let each other know we are here.
Two of the four sections of my company are in the first line; the two
others are in the support trenches. Between the two groups is the
captain in a strongly sheltered dug-out, with the telephone near by. In
front of the trench are two listening-posts, where two men and a
corporal are continually on the watch, protected by a net from the
enemy’s grenades. I am in a trench about eighty metres from the German
lines. This trench is admirably arranged.
A bench dug in the wall serves at once as a seat and as a place to fire
from; the soldier who is about to fire mounts on it and fires through an
improved loophole—large on the inside and smaller toward the enemy, so
that the Boches cannot easily get a line on the person who is firing.
The trench is about eight feet deep and in the sides have been hollowed
out roomy individual shelters, a sort of niche with plenty of room for
one man.
There are two mines sunk between us and the enemy. I intend to go and
see them. My dug-out has two stories, a bedroom containing a couch of
earth covered with straw, and some planks for shelves; underneath, at a
depth of eight or ten metres, is a dug-out containing cartridges and
grenades. The main store of munitions is near the captain.
The men, too, are comfortably installed. Each one has his own hole which
he can make bigger or arrange to suit himself. Besides, in case of a
heavy bombardment, it is possible to take refuge in the big mine
galleries. Finally, two machine guns, carefully protected, guard the
space that separates us from the Boches.
And then, there are casks of water in the trench itself. Could anything
be more unlike the trench at Perthes? The fatigues fill them daily from
the well not far distant, and we can drink as much as we please. In
order to keep the water cool, the casks are put deep in the ground.
There are a number of round-bottomed metal bowls in the trench, the use
of which was explained to us in the daily bulletin. On account of the
great number of head wounds, it has been found advisable to adopt
helmets in the French army. Meanwhile, these little bowls can be put
inside the cap to protect the head. I tried one and found it heavy. But
I shall certainly use it if there is any need. Our ingenious _poilus_
discover all sorts of uses for these bowls. They empty their pockets
into them, put into them the supply of cartridges that every man is
obliged to have by him at his loophole, thus keeping the cartridges free
of the mud which clogs and spoils the guns. And I used one for a
wash-basin, and helped myself to a little of the drinking-water to wash
in.
Although the sector was quiet, I did not sleep. The orders were that one
man out of two was to be allowed to sleep. The arrangement of the trench
did not permit taking one half-section for a certain time and then the
other. That would have required awkward shifting about, so I hit upon
another plan. I paired off the men according to the old principle of
putting chums to work together. Either one or the other was to be always
awake. They were allowed to arrange the details to suit themselves.
Sometimes the one who was least tired good-naturedly kept watch and let
the other sleep as long as he wished. I like to leave a certain amount
of liberty and initiative to my men. It always pleases them, and the
service is much better attended to. During the night we keep up a good
deal of firing. This bothers the German workers or their
listening-patrols and prevents our men from getting drowsy.
I went to the listening-post, about sixty metres from the German
trenches. It is hazardous to look out except with a periscope. The
landscape is very nearly as monotonous as in Champagne: barbed wire,
gray lines, and a few dead bodies lying between the lines, but the
vegetation is richer and more luxuriant. In front of the listening-post
is a mine. In case of attack the earth can be blown up twenty metres in
advance, simply by lighting a bickford fuse.
So the sector is perfectly clean, comfortable, and quiet. Very little
work is done except at night, and even then, not much.
At noon we are going into the support trench.
_Evening._ In the second line. We are in deep dug-outs, well protected,
regular cellars, abundantly provided with straw. I have been sleeping a
little. Our food is brought to us at the captain’s. A warming apparatus
makes it possible for us to have excellent hot meals. The men are well
treated, too. The kitchens are much easier of access than in Champagne.
We have been warned by telephone to be on the lookout for a probable
German attack. It seems they have been throwing to the English numerous
proclamations, all ending with:—
“When is that French attack coming?”
So they are expecting to be attacked, and perhaps they will forestall
our offensive. In case of an alarm I am to betake myself with my men to
the first line. Our position, of course, is settled in advance. At five
o’clock there was a sort of commotion, a false alarm, cooked up by the
enemy, doubtless, and we all hurried to our fighting posts in the first
line, and then—marched back again.
To-night we shall have to keep our eyes and ears open, and all the
officers are to take turns in going the rounds. My hours are nine and
two.
_May 4._ Two more false alarms last night. A soldier thinks he hears
suspicious noises, gets excited, and fires like mad. The panic goes
churning down the line and raises a regular hurricane in its trail.
In making the rounds, I went over the whole ground occupied by the
company. From time to time a flash from my electric lamp showed me the
way through the deserted communication trenches. Every one was at his
post. The enemy could come on if he wished. To tell the truth, not a
single shell was sent our way. The Boches had never been less
troublesome.
To-day it is raining, and I regret to see that the soil of Artois gets
muddy easily too. Having nothing else to do, I asked an officer of the
engineering corps for permission to go into the mine. He consented most
willingly, and went down with me into the gallery. It is solidly built,
and supported by heavy planks, for the brittle earth might easily stop
up this narrow space. I had to crawl on all fours a long time before
reaching the end, where the listening-post was. Two men were on duty
there, standing with their ears close to the wall, in the yellowish
light of a single candle. We were under the German trench. On listening
carefully I made out a faint murmur of voices, very indistinct and
muffled. I should not have objected to overhearing the conversation of
those men who were in all likelihood to die before many days were spent.
The large explosion chamber of the mine was to be stuffed with cheddite,
and at the given moment, an electric spark would send that trench and
its inhabitants on a journey in the air. It wasn’t at all pleasant down
in that hole. The air was stifling, and I was glad enough, after another
long crawl, to find myself in the open again, if the trench maybe called
the open.
In order to guard against gas bombs we have been given horrible,
nightmarish masks, goggles set in a kind of pig jowl or snout made of
rubber and containing a solution of ammonia. They make you look like a
wild animal, and as soon as I got mine I put it on for the benefit of my
_poilus_. They nearly laughed themselves into fits.
But life in general is calm, too calm even. I am reading “Anna
Karenina,” that came by mail yesterday, and smoking endless pipes. The
men make lots of aluminum rings. As soon as a shell lands they start out
to look for the fuse, of which they fashion very artistic little rings.
My soldiers have given me several. I am on most friendly terms with them
all. At odd times I have bought them little extras in the way of wine or
sweets, and then I manage things so that they get their letters before
any of the other sections. The letters come toward midnight, with the
fatigue who brings rations. I am always on hand, and along with my own
correspondence I take that of my men. It is the one great joy of the
day, so why should it be deferred? To be sure, it is because I am so
keen on letters myself that I like the men to share my pleasure. And if
they have no light, they have permission to come to my dug-out, which is
always lighted. They insist on my taking some of all their good things,
candies, cigarettes, or what not, when a package comes. But I can find a
way to even things up.
I think I have my men well in hand. I shall be able to do some good work
with them when the time comes.
_May 5._ At noon, returned to the first line. After that the day was
eventful. It was decided, by way of preparation for future offensives,
to furnish the attacking sections with red and white pennons, which were
to serve as signals to the artillery, and mark the first French lines.
By this means the artillery will not risk peppering its compatriots in
the course of an advance. To-day the order came to raise the pennons
over our first lines, so that our artillery can get the range of the
enemy’s positions. At two o’clock, therefore, they were hoisted. The
astonishment of the Boches was promptly made manifest by a whirlwind of
bullets which converted these common bits of cloth into glorious
trophies. Then our artillery turned loose. It was our duty to observe
the range and rectify it by telephone. One by one, with mathematical
precision, big shells lighted on the German positions. There must be a
formidable number of batteries, for without a moment’s pause or
cessation shells poured on the Boche trench for three full hours.
Meanwhile, very naturally, our friends across the way began to get
peevish and sent off a few blasts of little 77’s, which afforded great
satisfaction to the makers of rings. One could hear them coming very
distinctly; first, the six reports of the battery, then a hiss, then a
detonation, not very terrifying. I was in the middle of the trench with
my eye glued to a periscope. Several shells landed near; one fell on a
decaying corpse in the midst of the wire, spreading about for several
minutes the horrible heavy odor that reminded me of the night we buried
the dead in Champagne. Another stupid shell chose to fall in the passage
that led to my dug-out. The bags of sand were tumbled all about and it
took more than half an hour’s work before I could get into my quarters.
My things were not at all damaged. And yet, at one moment explosive
shells rained thick and fast, two or three on the parapet, blowing to
bits several loopholes. The machine gunners, who were playing cards near
their gun, shut their dug-out with a tent-sheet. It is a thing I have
often noticed and proves that, after all, man is not so different from
the ostrich. One has the illusion of being secure behind the most flimsy
barrier, if only it keeps out the sight of the danger—a hedge, a plank,
a tent-sheet. It is an insult to reason, but that doesn’t matter. Brute
instinct knows no reason.
So the sector that on our arrival seemed asleep has had a rude
awakening. Everything points to a coming offensive. I certainly hope we
shall have a share in it.
_May 6._ Night calm. The Boches seemed non-existent. Our artillery
quieted down. I was wakeful notwithstanding. The responsibility is too
great.
It is raining hard. There is water in the bottom of the trench, and it
is impossible to move without taking a disagreeable foot-bath.
But the aviators give signs of great activity. Since morning we have had
the joy of watching several reconnaissances. The ’planes were hotly
bombarded, but to no purpose.
Their flight must have been successful, for no sooner had they returned
than our artillery set up a terrible spitting at the German trenches. It
was not hurried, but was a slow, continuous, methodical fire which must
have been very deadly. From the second line we sent off the little
winged bombs, the “cauliflowers” whose acquaintance we made in
Champagne. They leap up, not very high, then hesitate an instant before
they swoop down upon the Boches, exploding with a muffled thud which
makes the ground tremble clear to our trench, while a spout of black
smoke rises and floats a long time. In all the sectors where I have
been, the superiority of our artillery becomes every day more evident.
After dinner the question was telephoned: “What are the special points
the different section commanders would like to see battered by the
artillery in case of a drive?” I asked for the collaboration of all my
men. I had the corporals explain to them the signs by which they could
recognize the machine-gun positions: better defenses, loopholes bigger,
bags of sand more numerous and more carefully arranged. I took my glass
and observed minutely all the points of the German trench. I went to the
listening-post, and with the help of a much-perfected field-glass
periscope, which magnifies in addition to giving a view over the edge, I
probed the German position. At the end of more than an hour’s work,
utilizing the observations of my men, I was able to fix almost to a
certainty the positions of four machine guns. I marked on the plan of
the trenches that had been given us the exact points to be hammered, and
the document was sent along the hierarchical paths and in due time
reached the artillery.
Then we indulged in a little distraction. As the rain had stopped, I
went to two of my best marksmen and proposed a match. It is very amusing
to try one’s skill in shooting. The objective point is a Boche loophole,
that is to say, a piece of steel plate. If the balls touch, one hears a
metallic ring and the hum of the ricochet. I made a good score, but I
placed only nine balls out of ten, and was beaten by P. who got in all
ten. The prize was a package of cigarettes.
Everybody is in a good humor to-day. There is a great buzz of
conversation. Some of the men are playing checkers, others cards. One
man who is the happy recipient of an accordion is favoring us with
popular tunes which everybody catches up in chorus. Really, it is very
festive.
This evening we go to the second line, in the shelters. Three of the
four companies of our battalion are on the firing line, the fourth is in
reserve. It is our turn now to be in reserve.
_May 7._ We are in marvellous shelters, where we laugh defiance to
missiles of all sorts and kinds, even the 420’s. Behind the second
lines, galleries have been sunk, to which broad staircases give access.
Around them is a sort of ditch which serves as a yard, on which the
entrances open. They are vast tunnels, fifty feet underground, made by
the engineers,—broad, supported by huge beams, and furnished with plank
floors. They are about a hundred feet long, ten feet broad, and ten feet
high, and are in every way comfortable. There are beds of straw, bags
for pillows and candles for light. In the yard are supplies: grenades,
wire, trench shells, and casks of water. We officers have a special
gallery with two compartments, a living-room and a sleeping-room. The
living-room is provided with a huge fireplace, a big table, several
stools, and a superb lamp. The bedroom is less sumptuous—a large space
covered with a thick bed of straw where we shall sleep soundly.
There has been unusual activity along the front these two days. Staff
officers keep coming and going. Men have been carrying to the first
lines quantities of hand grenades, wire, and ladders. Aeroplanes are
circling busily through the air. The artillery sounds like an orchestra
tuning its instruments before the symphony. Important events are afoot.
_Evening._ It’s coming! The grand offensive is to be launched over a
wide area. In the whole of Flanders the attempt is to be made to pierce
the Boche front. We are going to try to get out of these accursed
trenches and fight superbly, face to face.
About five o’clock, just as we were sitting down at table, I was called
to the commandant. My colleagues had also been summoned and we received
our orders. To-morrow, at an hour not yet indicated, the regiment is to
attack, in concert with those of the nine army corps that are massed in
this region. It is the grand offensive—victory, perhaps. We are to go
forward and jump over four enemy trenches, previously battered by the
artillery, not stopping until we reach a ravine that can be seen through
the glass eight hundred metres from our first line. We pore over the
maps, and make sure of our exact goal. My company is to march at the
head in open formation and lead the drive. The commandant thereupon
shook hands with each of us in turn, and told us that he counted on
every man to do his duty.
I went back to my soldiers to issue the command to get ready. Each man
was to have two hundred cartridges, six grenades, and three days’
rations, and was to carry his blanket slung crosswise over his shoulder.
But while I was consulting with my colleagues the plan of the German
positions, a message came that all orders were cancelled. The sudden let
down was not entirely pleasant, but we all shared somewhat the feeling
of the sorry jester who said: “All right, that gives us one more day to
live.”
We count on coming out alive. But the nearness of danger is not without
its anguish.
We have been having a fine game of poker. I lost, so I shall be lucky.
I am tired. My fellow officers have been asleep this long time. I am
going to imitate them. The boom of our big guns is heavy and deep.
_May 8. 10_ P.M. It is for to-night. We are to take positions in the
first line at 3 A.M. The time of the attack is not yet fixed. I have
written a great many letters. Perhaps I have given way to my feelings in
some of them. I did not tell my mother. I wrote her that new movements
of troops are predicted for the near future, and that she is not to
worry if she has no news of me for awhile. But I told the truth to my
little godmother and to my old friend * * *
But sadness and farewells I have put behind me. Now I am all a soldier,
and a soldier filled with the determination to fight and to conquer, and
exalted by the work that is before him. If I die, and these are the last
words I am destined to write, I want them to be
_Vive—Vive la France._
CHAPTER X
THE ATTACK
_June 9._ In the silence and quiet of a little hospital room, near a
window where pink and white thorn-trees make a fragrant screen, I am
going to recall the nightmare of a month ago, and finish the record of
my first campaign.
As I read over the last few pages, the enthusiasm I felt when they were
written comes surging back. Neither time nor suffering can take it away
from me. But the horror of the hours that followed our offensive on the
terrible ninth of May is very nearly a thing of the past. It has been
lifted and smoothed away in this peaceful white hospital by the angels
who dwell in it—the sublime women of the French Red Cross. Not that I
have forgotten any part of the events of that day. The account I shall
give of them will be exact.
On the night before the attack, then, we were awakened about midnight by
the beginning of the bombardment. Unable to sleep, we arose and got
ready ahead of time. At last came the order to go forward to our
fighting posts. One by one we moved along the dark, narrow trenches
leading to the first lines. Above our head was the constant hissing of
our big shells on their way to the Boches. Once in the first line, we
spent the long hours of waiting as comfortably as we could.
Dawn came slowly. Through our loopholes we could discern the gray line
of the trenches we were to take, ploughed up by our artillery volcanoes.
Regularly, almost mathematically, our heavy shells dropped on the enemy,
demolishing their dug-outs, smashing their wire entanglements,
shattering their trenches. At times, through my field-glass, I could
distinctly see human limbs scattered in the air along with the earth of
the explosions.
Meanwhile coffee was brought, and it was welcome in the chill of early
morning. I went to each of my men in turn and spoke of that which was
nearest his heart. I knew them well, my _poilus_. I tried to make them
feel the confidence I felt, and in doing so, my own faith grew stronger
and the last faint doubt that oppressed me was driven from my mind.
The bombardment kept growing in intensity. It was seven o’clock. Several
artillery officers came into my trench to control the precision of the
fire, which was to clear our way of all outside obstacles—wire
entanglements, _chevaux-de-frise_, the enemy trenches. The observation
post was at a distance from the telephone, and the rectifications given
by the officers were repeated down the line from man to man. In a short
time, all was regulated and the storm began. It is impossible to realize
the din of this firing. Guns of all calibres spit forth their shells
with the maximum of rapidity. This lasted three hours, three deafening,
maddening hours. In the midst of the storm of steel and fire the
brigadier-general arrived. He said a few words to me. I told him I was
as sure of my men as of myself. He seemed satisfied and gave me the hour
of attack, ten o’clock.
Ten o’clock! Every one looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. So in an hour
then. It is an hour tense with emotion. Faces that are near give place
to other faces. The hand seeks some loved token, the eye lingers on a
letter, a photograph, or is fixed upon the Book of Prayer.
Five minutes to ten! I take my place at the foot of my ladder. In those
last moments thoughts come rapidly. On this ladder hangs our destiny. In
the trench there is relative security. What will become of us at the top
of those four rounds? But no one thinks of hesitating. We seem to be in
the grasp of some unknown and mighty force.
I seize my revolver and make sure of my grenades. One minute to ten. At
this instant comes a rumbling detonation which causes the ground to
tremble as if shaken by an earthquake. Our mines have exploded. This is
the time.
“Attention! Forward, _mes petits_, and _Vive la France!_”
This cry burst from every throat, and I sprang up my ladder, followed by
my men. From that moment I was carried forward by the intoxication of
the assault. I ran, gesticulating and yelling. I did not see, but rather
felt, my men close to me, running by my side, and, like myself, drunk
with a sublime madness. We reached the first German trench. We threw
hand grenades. But no living thing was there. Confusedly in my onward
rush I saw heaps of earth and corpses. The bombardment had almost
levelled the trench. Forward, still forward. We kept running
breathlessly, carried away by the strange fascination of victory and by
the joy of treading the soil we were giving back to France. I went
ahead, unconscious of those who were falling by the way. My intelligence
was numbed. A greater force was urging me on.
After passing the second trench, I noticed that our ranks had thinned,
but we went on and plunged into the third trench. A furious hand-to-hand
fight followed. I unloaded my revolver almost instinctively on a German
who was aiming at me. By this time our second wave of assault was coming
up to us. I quickly decided to join it and push forward. I was covered
with sweat and blood—with the blood of the Boche I had killed. I was in
a frenzy. I ran toward the fourth trench, the last one to be captured
before reaching our goal. I went on, hypnotized by that trench which
seemed to be running to meet me. I wanted it. It belonged to me. I could
see the enemy through the gaps our artillery had made in their defenses.
Suddenly I fell. I was alone. Above my head was the constant whizzing of
bullets; near by, the significant snorting of a machine gun. At first I
was a little stunned, then I attempted to rise and felt that my right
arm moved with difficulty. My coat was covered with blood. My arm hung
limp. I felt it. I tried to understand. Wounded, of course. But what of
my soldiers? I raised my head; a bullet struck the ground very near. I
fell back, but I had had time enough to see. Nobody in front of me.
Nobody behind me. Corpses all around. I was alone, ten yards from the
enemy’s trench. I could see the Boches moving in it. With my left hand I
got hold of my revolver that was still hanging to the fingers of my
other hand. But what was the use of firing left-handed? I should miss
and they would make an end of me.
To advance was impossible. To go back was equally impossible. The least
move would be my death. The bullets above my head kept up a fearful hum.
It seemed as if I could not possibly get out of this, and passive,
resigned, I flattened myself against the ground and remained motionless.
This situation could not last. If I did not get under shelter, one of
those bullets would surely find me out. Near by, within a few yards, a
slight rise in the ground indicated a possible cavity. With great care,
without apparent motion, inch by inch, I dragged myself to it. Think of
my joy. It was a large funnel, dug out by a German mine, and a score of
wounded had taken refuge in it. Still another effort and I found myself
among them. The cavity was five or six yards deep, and very wide at the
top. A few dead lay prone upon the edge, poor fellows, killed at the
moment when, like myself, they saw salvation in that hole.
I recognized in the crater three of my own men. One of them, wounded in
the thigh, was applying a bandage with the help of a comrade. When this
was done he cut the sleeve of my coat, then my jacket sleeve, and
finally my shirt sleeve. He poured a little tincture of iodine on the
wound. The elbow was pierced through and through. He dressed it with
bandages from the package every soldier carries, and made a sling with a
piece of tent-sheet. And then, profoundly moved to find ourselves there
after that mad race, officer and man met in a silent embrace, expressing
by that gesture what words failed to voice.
The captain of the company which marched immediately behind us was also
there, downcast, raging like the rest of us at being in this stupid and
terrible situation. Some of the men were slightly wounded, but one man
had a big hole in his stomach. The poor wretch lay panting and moaning.
At times he screamed in spite of our efforts to keep him still. The
cries were heard by the Boches whose trench was scarcely ten yards away,
and in accordance with their noble custom of killing the wounded, they
threw grenades in our direction. Fortunately, they fell short of us, but
they increased our anxiety, as well as our disgust and hatred.
Above our heads the air was lashed with a terrible cross-fire. The sad
truth began to come home to me that our advance had been checked after
the third trench. And what of my men, my _poilus_ whom I so loved? Dead?
Meanwhile our own plight was extremely critical. Our lives hung by a
very slender thread. For the present, the unceasing fire of machine guns
prevented our escape. Sooner or later the Germans would launch a
counter-attack and put an end to us with their hand grenades. And again,
if the French pursued the offensive, they would renew the bombardment,
and in all probability we should be struck by our own shells. As for
surrendering to the Boches,—they were near enough—every man of us would
rather starve in that hole. These thoughts and the pain from my wound
prostrated me for a moment. I felt myself losing consciousness and I
took a few drops from a flask of cordial that happened to be in my bag,
and I revived.
Then came a brief lull. Time dragged along slowly, very slowly. Toward
noon a fusillade broke forth in the enemy’s trench. A ray of hope. Were
the French carrying their attack to the fourth line? A man suddenly
stumbled into our crater. He was one of my own soldiers. He was without
his equipment. He saw me and, weeping and laughing, embraced me. I asked
him where he came from and why he had no gun, no bayonet, no grenades.
In a distracted voice he told me his story.
After I had been wounded and knocked down, my soldiers kept on running
forward and jumped into the fourth German trench. But their ranks had
thinned, and they were too few. Some were killed, others disarmed. The
latter were told by the Boches after a time: “You are not wanted. Get
out of here.” My men were bewildered. They could not understand. Again
they were ordered to leave, and finally they leaped out of the trench
and began running back to the French position. The brutes then fired
upon them from behind. All were killed evidently, with the exception of
this soldier, who owed his life to the crater into which he had
providentially fallen.
My grief was intense. I had lost all my brave men, and I was powerless
to avenge them. To this mental torture was added the suffering from my
wound. The hot rays of the sun came directly upon us. Hand grenades fell
again into the crater. We crouched close to the ground.
Presently French 75’s and 105’s began to burst over the German trench.
We watched the shells. They were very, very near us. One 75 exploded
just above our heads and the impact threw the body of a dead soldier
almost on top of me. It was a terrible feeling to be under the fire of
our own guns. Another shell burst and blew to pieces that very soldier
of mine who had escaped the odious massacre. We quickly threw a
tent-sheet over this abomination. We were fully conscious of the horror
of our situation. Another explosion cut off the foot of a sergeant, and
in spite of his screams I poured a flask of iodine on his wound. Then,
for the first time, I gave up all hope. We had made a sacrifice of our
lives and motionless, resigned, we sat silently waiting.
But an idea came to me. There were heavy planks in the bottom of the
crater, which had been used to prop the explosion chamber of the mine.
With much difficulty we moved them together, leaning them against the
side of the crater. Under this shelter we all huddled. Several times our
wooden structure was violently shaken by explosions, and our wounds were
racked at each shock, but more than that we were not hurt. This lasted a
long time, an infinitely long time. The hours do not seem to move under
such circumstances.
Finally the captain, the only man in the crater who was not wounded,
declared that he was going to the French trench to have the firing
stopped. In spite of our protests, for we knew that he would meet death
on the way; he went out under the bombardment.
A long time afterward the firing from our side ceased. Could the captain
have reached our trenches? And hope revived in us again. We all wanted
to leave this inferno at once. But the German machine guns started in
afresh. We must wait for the night.
The sun was getting low. The bombardment ceased and we came out from
under the protection of our planks. We stretched out on the ground,
which was all furrowed by shells. The wounded were moaning, some had the
death rattle. I was exhausted, and somehow I fell asleep. When I awoke
it was already dusk. The hour of deliverance was near. But as soon as
night came, rockets flashed from the German trench and a fusillade burst
forth. Possibly some of the wounded had tried to return to our lines and
were being shot from behind. Our hope grew dim, and we wondered if we
should ever get away. We were horrified to think we might have to spend
another day in that hole. Better die at once, die in an effort to get
back, die with hope in our hearts.
About nine o’clock the man least wounded among us decided to venture
forth. His plan was, on reaching the French line, to request that a
trench be dug out in our direction so that we could return in safety. We
agreed upon a signal to be given by our machine guns: twice four sharp
shots to establish the communication; three times three slow shots would
indicate that we must wait until they came for us; three times three
rapid shots that we should have to escape by our own means.
Half an hour or more elapsed. Rockets kept flashing in the night and the
machine guns never stopped. We began to fear for the fate of our
comrade. Yet at last came the signal—three times three rapid shots.
_Come back, come back, come back_, said the French guns. We had to count
on ourselves alone. Then we decided to crawl to our lines.
One by one, at long intervals, we left. Only one could not leave, the
man wounded in the stomach. “So you forsake me,” he moaned. I spread my
blanket over him and promised to send for him. I knew this was
impossible, but my deception might help him to die in hope. I also knew
the terror of dying there slowly, and alone, all alone. But he was
beyond our help.
The German guns were firing violently on the French positions. We did
not realize this during the day, as our anguish and pain kept us from
studying the battle. It was foolhardy to go forth under the bombardment,
but we were really crazed. A single idea, a fixed idea, remained with
us—to go back, to go back by all means, or die. For my own part, I was
not quite conscious of what I was doing.
I could not crawl on my stomach. I was obliged to lie on my back, and
advance head first toward the French trench. The rockets gave me a
glimpse of our lines. They were several hundred yards distant. I pushed
myself along with my feet as does a man when swimming on his back. As
soon as a rocket flashed its light, I remained motionless, feigning
death among the dead. And in those few instants of immobility, I could
hear my heart beat, and a vague horrible murmur made up of moans and
cries of men dying, and of wounded calling for help. I passed by a
soldier who was groaning feebly. I recognized him and tried to drag him
with me. With great difficulty I managed to pull him a few feet. And
then I saw that I was dragging a corpse.
This Calvary lasted long, frightfully long. Several times I bumped my
head into dead bodies. Crawling backward I could not see these
obstacles. At one moment, I found myself under a corpse. The body was in
a kneeling position and leaning forward. I had its face against my face,
and its open eyes seemed to stare at me. The magnesium light of a rocket
made that face appear still more livid. I worked myself free and went on
over that rough, chaotic ground, falling into shell holes, jostling the
dead. But my whole being was strained to the one idea—to go back, to
reach the French trench to which I was drawing nearer and nearer. I
began talking out loud. Without knowing it, I must have talked a good
deal. I found myself saying over half-forgotten snatches of Virgil:—
“Est in conspectu Tenedos, notissima fama
Insula, dives opum....”
It was indeed “in conspectu,” that trench, and likewise “dives
opum”—richer than any Island of the Blest.
Meanwhile German shells kept falling in rapid succession. I was covered
with earth several times, and once roughly shaken up. But now the goal
was very near. I shouted with all my might: “France, France, I am a
lieutenant of the Eleventh Company.” I dimly heard voices saying: “This
way, this way.” I directed myself by those voices. My strength was
almost gone. I got entangled in wire defenses. My arm hurt unbearably. A
shell that fell near stunned me. I felt myself being seized and pulled.
I fell into the trench—the French trench. Then I fainted.
CHAPTER XI
EVACUATION—THE SANITARY TRAIN—THE HOSPITAL
When I regained consciousness I was in the dug-out of an officer of the
machine-gun section. He gave me some brandy, and I revived. Almost
immediately afterward came the Boche counter-attack. It was met by the
fire from their own machine guns, and was quickly beaten back. With my
left hand I unloaded the six bullets of my revolver into the dark
shadows advancing toward us. This much I could do for my soldiers.
But when the danger was over, my nerve suddenly left me, and I was
frightened, as frightened as a child in the dark. I was afraid to go
alone to the dressing-station, and waited to walk along with the
stretcher-bearers. We had to go a long distance. I realized that we had
covered a good deal of ground in the morning, and I was filled with
hope. Why should not our men do the same thing the next day, and then
the next, until we could raise our heads and say: “Ours the victory!”
When the surgeons had dressed my wound, I was placed on a stretcher and
lifted into an ambulance. Then began the journey to the rear.
A day and a half later, after a chaotic ride through the darkness, I
reached the hospital of the beautiful little town of Arras, where the
wounded are collected from the various dressing-stations. I was taken
into a vast ward and undressed by two orderlies, who cut away my coat
and jacket and put me to bed between clean sheets. In spite of a battery
that was booming right beside the hospital, and in spite of the pain in
my arm, I went to sleep, utterly worn out.
The next morning I was helped into my clothes and put almost immediately
into an automobile to be taken toward the rear, ever farther and farther
from the din of battle, which was still going on. We met a great number
of convoys of troops on their way to reinforce the front, infantry
transported in heavy trucks, as we had been ten days before, artillery
drawn by caterpillar tractors, and masses of cavalry waiting for the
forward dash. Truly, everything seemed ready for pushing far ahead. And
I was enraged at being wounded at such a moment, for the thought of our
advance was magnificent and inspiring.
The motor came to a stop in a little village of this luxuriant region of
Artois. The hospital where we were cared for momentarily was in the
schoolhouse. I was given a hypodermic of serum to prevent tetanus. The
schoolmistress, who still kept a single room for her classes, learning
that I belonged to the University, asked me to go home to lunch with
her. She was exquisitely kind and thoughtful, waiting on me, preparing
my food and helping me to eat. Then I lay down on her bed. I was at the
end of my strength.
Toward evening I was again put into an automobile, and again came a
confused ride over torn-up roads. My arm was very painful. I felt my
hand swelling and growing heavy and feverish. It was late when we
reached the evacuation hospital, where I once more went to bed. I found
there one of my companions in misery, an adjutant wounded in the thigh.
The next morning very early we were awakened by violent detonations. It
was German aeroplanes throwing bombs on the station and the hospital.
One of them fell very near the building where we poor wretches were
lying. Could the barbarians attack even us?
In that immense hospital ward was every sort of horrible wound. No part
of the body had been spared. But what impressed me most was an officer
in the bed next to mine, totally disfigured by a shell—a repulsive
monster, ignoble, with neither nose nor lips. I saw him plainly when
they were dressing his wound. And it hurt me.
At noon I got into an automobile again, this time to go only as far as
the station, where the sanitary train was waiting for us. There were two
kinds of coaches, one with comfortable swinging stretchers for wounded
who were not able to sit up, and for the rest of us ordinary first and
second-class coaches. I was in a first-class compartment with a
lieutenant who was ill, a second lieutenant wounded in the hand, and a
colonel who had a quantity of little shell splinters in his leg. I
happened to be the worst off of any of them, and it was touching the way
they all tried to do some little thing to make me comfortable. The
colonel helped me get settled, cut my meat, almost fed me. He was like a
father, and it was very affecting to see this old colonel, all covered
with medals, waiting upon a little lieutenant who was scarcely out of
his teens.
At the big stations, Amiens particularly, they took off the wounded who
were suffering most. But in spite of the pain and fever in my arm, I
wanted to stay on the train. I kept thinking it was going to take me to
the South, to the Riviera, where my family was at that moment.
At nightfall we arrived just outside of Paris, and there the train
waited until morning. It was the same station where we had stopped
nearly twenty days before, on returning from the Meuse. In the morning
the faithful ladies of the Red Cross came with cheerful smiles to bring
us cups of hot coffee. Then the train steamed slowly out. We met some
Boche prisoners who were also being evacuated. Be it said to the honor
of the French wounded, no cry against the barbarians went up from our
train; France knows the respect that is due a vanquished enemy.
After that the train sauntered along all day in the direction of the
Loire. We stopped at many stations in peaceful, shaded countrysides, and
at each of these havens a few of the wounded got out. At every station
young girls came to bring us flowers, fresh eggs, illustrated papers,
and likewise their smiles, admiring, a little tender too, and grateful.
I was especially touched by the flowers. They brought them by armfuls
and loaded us down. We suddenly began to have a glimmering of our lofty
estate as wounded. The attentions of those exquisite women made us
almost imagine we had done something worth while. But this did not
lessen the deep gratitude with which we accepted their gifts.
The debt of gratitude that I vowed from that moment to the women of
France has been growing daily greater since I have been in this
hospital. I reached here late at night. At the station the wounded were
divided among the different hospitals of the town and I was assigned to
the hospital of _l’Union des Femmes de France_, a private institution,
housed in the buildings of the Girls’ Normal School. At the entrance,
white figures stood out against the dim light. When I went in, I was met
by smiling faces, and two of the ladies accompanied me to my room. There
they took off my clothes and gave me my first bath in many days, doing
all this simply, gently, tenderly, laughing at me a little if I was
embarrassed, as can well be imagined. Could anything be more wonderful
than to see the devotion with which these delicately reared women
perform all kinds of unpleasant and unwonted tasks? And always with the
same cheerfulness, the same gentleness, the same patience, for wounded
soldiers are far from being agreeable at times. If there is any virtue
in the soldiers of France, a thousand times more worth are its women,
whose very presence and smile brings healing. I fell under the charm of
it at once, and my first night was a good one. But after that, fever
came on. The violent shocks I had been through brought on cerebral
congestion, and I knew nothing further for some days. When I came to
myself, I found my mother at my bedside. She had been with me for a
week, though I had not known her.
After that my arm was treated to more purpose. It was necessary to
operate several times. As soon as I was able to be out, I was loaded
with invitations. All my nurses asked me to their homes, likewise the
doctor, whom I had completely won over, it seems, by the very learned
character of my divagations when I was off my head. I have come back to
a life of perpetual pampering, sweet, active, calm, and unspeakably
happy.
My arm is in a plaster cast. I am writing with my left hand. My room
opens out on a large garden, full of flowers and fragrance. I have got
back to my books again, and I am growing stronger. To be alive is
infinitely good.
_June 25_. This morning I was decorated with the _Croix de Guerre_. For
several days back my nurses have been going around with an air of
mystery. They looked at me and whispered, and for all answer to my
questions, did nothing but smile. They had become perfectly inscrutable.
Even the doctor, who plied me with his usual volley of jokes, refused to
enlighten me. Not until his visit of this morning did he deign to inform
me that the general in charge of this section was going to take the
trouble to bring me something.
In the courtyard of the hospital, with its chestnut trees in blossom,
and its decorations of flags, were assembled all the wounded who were
able to be about, some seated, others lying in reclining-chairs. The
ladies in charge of the hospital and all the nurses in their fresh white
uniforms were laughing and talking. I was talking to a comrade and
feeling not a little embarrassed.
Finally the General arrived, together with several staff officers. The
doctor presented the hospital staff to him and then he presented me. By
way of a right arm, I had a big bundle of plaster and bandages which
prevented me from being properly clad in my regimentals. The General
unfolded a large paper and read in the midst of complete silence:—
“Second Lieutenant R. N., the Army cites you in the Order of the Day for
the following reasons:—
“Lieutenant N., under a very deadly fire, led forward his section to the
charge upon the German positions. With great gallantry, he pushed on
with his men to a point in advance of the third German line, where he
was wounded.”
And the General came toward me as I stood there trembling a little, and
pinned to my jacket the _Croix de Guerre_. Then he took my left hand and
pressed it silently. I felt that everybody was looking at me. I was very
much overcome. I must have looked foolish.
The doctor, a sort of demi-god whom we all adore, began to say
something. It was about me, doubtless, but I had not the least idea
what. I longed for the whole thing to be over. He came up to me and
embraced me.
After that we went to the house of the directress and drank champagne.
It all seemed endless, and my one wish was to be alone, quite alone, so
as to give myself up to the immense, prodigious joy that was mine, the
joy that came as a reward for doing my duty. How can I endure this
waiting to get well? I must get back to the front. I will prove to my
country that not in vain does she reward her children.
THE END
=The Riverside Press=
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
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● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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