Four medals hung round his neck, and he held them out for me to kiss
them.
They tasted of blood, and I still have the strange taste on my lips of
those medals which had lain over the wound, which bled above his heart.
"That one, the biggest, was given me by a priest down there in the
ambulance, which was an old farm once, and whose walls are riddled with
shells. What a night it was! and what an amount of blood there was
about!"
My young Marseillais writhed, not with the pain from his wounds,
but with the fearful remembrance of that night. The horror of that
superhuman agony took possession of his mind. I wanted him to sleep,
but words poured from his lips, in his fever. It was useless to try to
stop him, so I let him tell me his sad tale.
"We had been fighting all day long, and felt death stalking beside us
all day too. It was like a frightful tempest, like hell let loose.
Bullets fell round us like hail, and I saw my comrades fall at my side
cut in half or blown into bits by shell fire. They uttered no cries,
they were wiped out instantaneously. But the others ... those who were
still alive.... I can tell you it was enough to make your blood run
cold. It was enough to make one go raving mad."
He stopped to drink a little. I thought he was exhausted with the
effort of recalling the awful scene.
"Try to rest now, my child. You shall tell me the rest to-morrow."
But he would not listen to me. Up to now, it was the man who had been
speaking, now suddenly the soldier awoke, the lover of his country, the
French trooper fascinated by the glory of it all.
"It was so sad, yet so fine. War may kill you, but it makes you drunk;
in spite of everything one had to laugh. I don't know what makes one
laugh at such times.... Something great and splendid passes before
one's eyes.... There is danger, but there is excitement, and it's that
which attracts us.... The captain was standing, we were lying down.
From time to time he would say: 'It's all right, boys.... We're making
a fine mess of the Huns! Can you hear the 75's singing?'
"So well were they singing that, over there, helmets were falling like
nuts which one shells when they're ripe. Their voices shook the ground,
and each of their cries went to our hearts and made them beat the
higher. Then we sprang up to rush forward, and then we flung ourselves
down again flat, as above us the bullets whistled in their thousands."
He squeezed my hand tighter then, as if to drive home the truth of his
story.
"You see, it was fine in spite of everything. Even when a bullet laid
you low.... It happened to me about six o'clock, just as the captain
fell, shouting 'Forward, men, and at them with the bayonets!' We went
forward to the attack. In front of us we saw nothing but the flames
from the cannons ... our ears were deafened with the cry of the shells.
I took ten steps. We were walking in flames. It was red everywhere, as
far as one could see. Suddenly a thunderbolt burst in the middle of
us.... I fell near a comrade, brought down at the same time as I was.
"It was the chaplain of the division, a reservist, aged twenty-eight,
who called out to me, laughing: 'You've got it in the leg, old man,
I've got it in my shoulder!'
"He was drenched with blood, and still he went on joking. Then,
suddenly, he became serious, and he began speaking like a priest speaks
to the dying.
"'Now, my children, make an act of contrition. Repeat after me with
your whole heart, 'My God, I am sorry for my sins; forgive me!'
"I can see him now, half raised on his elbow; his unwounded hand was
raised, while the poor fellow blessed us all, as we prayed God to have
mercy on those who would never rise again.
"I saw him again in the field hospital, half an hour later. He was
breathing with difficulty, but he kept on smiling. It was then that he
gave me his medal.
"He died, with his rosary in his hands, and I looked at him for a long
time when he had breathed his last. His face was like an angel's, and
the blood went on flowing....
"I remember that the doctor stopped at this moment, and bent over him.
Then standing upright he called the other orderlies round and pointed
to the dead man:
"'There's a man who knew how to die finely. The poor devils who die
before us so often, are sometimes sorry for themselves. This poor
fellow has had no thought but for others for the last two hours. Look
at him, he is still smiling.'"
The wounded boy stopped, his heart was torn at the thought of his
friend. He, too, forgot his suffering in thinking of the priest whose
absolution had strengthened and consoled him in his torture. I gave him
something to drink; he kissed his medals, especially the big one, his
precious legacy, and went off to sleep without dreaming that he had
told me a sublime story.
There were twenty-four like him in the ward, and seeing them stretched
out there overcome by pain, I told myself that the humblest among them,
the most illiterate peasant even, had his share of glory, and that they
were all transfigured by the halo round their heads.
Somehow, that first evening in the wards, I felt that I too had my
share of courage and of usefulness.
Down there, in the firing line, they had found wherewith to feed their
pride; here, the young heroes would be able to unburden their souls. At
the front they had seen the living France. In this hospital, perhaps,
they would come face to face with God--forgotten, misunderstood,
abandoned--God who is so good to those who fall.
The major gave us his recommendations and the last orders. He was
struck at seeing so many budding moustaches, and beards.
"Heavens! I only see priests to the fore!"
"Priests to the fore!" That is indeed our motto. Our comrades say we
are rash. All the same, they are as rash as we are. _They_ go to the
bloody business laughing, _we_ go praying.