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BATTLES AND BIVOUACS
_OTHER NEW WAR BOOKS_
THE DIARY OF A
FRENCH PRIVATE
1914-1915
By GASTON RIOU
Translated by C. and E. PAUL
_Large Crown 8vo, Cloth._ _5s. net._
"M. Riou is rather more than a simple soldier. He is a writer of great
gifts--narrative power, humour, tenderness, and philosophical insight.
Moreover, his exceptional knowledge of Germany gives special value
to his account of his experiences as a prisoner of war."--_Literary
Supplement of the Times._
MY EXPERIENCES
ON THREE FRONTS
By
SISTER MARTIN-NICHOLSON
_Crown 8vo._ _4s. 6d. net._
A vivid account of the author's experiences in Belgium and Russia and
afterwards with the French and English troops.
LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.
BATTLES & BIVOUACS
A FRENCH SOLDIER'S NOTE-BOOK
BY
JACQUES ROUJON
Translated by
FRED ROTHWELL
[Illustration]
LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.
RUSKIN HOUSE 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C.
_First published in 1916_
(_All rights reserved_)
_I' leur semble qu'i'faut parler de la Ramée, grenadier de Champagne,
comme d'un prince dont auquel on ne risque rien de vanter toujours. I'
vous lui mettent l'épée à la main qu'ça doit lui fatiguer le poignet
furieusement et qu'on dirait qu'la Ramée n'a jamais fait autre chose
d'aussi meilleur ... I'n'faut pas se battre tous les jours: i' n'y
aurait plus de plaisir._
(LE CONTE DE LA RAMÉE.)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. HUMES 9
II. IN LORRAINE 28
III. AT THE DEPOT 51
IV. EN ROUTE 58
V. A BACKWARD GLANCE--THE BATTLE OF THE MARNE 79
VI. BEFORE FONTENOY 88
VII. OUR FIRST TRENCHES 104
VIII. TWENTY-TWO DAYS IN THE TRENCHES 117
IX. A LULL 158
X. BOMBARDMENTS 196
XI. CHRISTMAS 208
XII. THE CROUY AFFAIR 229
BATTLES AND BIVOUACS
CHAPTER I
HUMES
_Tuesday, 11th August, 1914._
Five o'clock in the morning. _En route_ for the Gare de l'Est. All the
same, as I turn the corner of the street in which I live, I experience
a feeling of heartrending distress. I stop and glance back. Then I wave
my hand to the window. Bah! I shall come back.
It is a fine, sunny day. There are crowds of people in front of the
station--men of every description, most of them wearing caps, but no
shirt-collar, some with _musettes_[1] slung over the shoulder, others
carrying a valise. A few belonging to the ranks are wearing uniforms
quite out of date. Any amount of bustle and noise but no shrieks. Those
who stay behind remain with cheeks glued to the iron railings, their
eyes fixed on some particular individual until he is out of sight.
On the platform I come across Verrier, a friend I have known all my
life: at school, in the Latin Quarter, and during my military service.
He is a tall, light-complexioned fellow, thin and pallid, very cool and
self-possessed.
We find that we are both to be sent to the same depot.
As there are some seats unoccupied in a second-class carriage,
we quickly take possession of them, delighted at the prospect of
travelling elsewhere than on the floor.
The train begins to move. We look at each other.
"This time things are serious," remarks Verrier.
Indeed, we have something more to think of than passing exams, at
school or college, or being reviewed by the colonel.
We spring to the window like the rest and shout out, "Vive la France!"
Henceforward all our thoughts must be directed towards peace--peace
along the path of victory.
Our compartment is stiflingly hot. There are eight of us, belonging
to every division of the service: artillery, cavalry, and infantry.
Plunged suddenly into military life, we revive old memories and listen
to interminable stories of stern adjutants and good-natured captains.
A spirit of cordiality is immediately set up and at the same time a
special brand of courtesy, for you have no idea to whom you may be
talking; it is quite likely that the man in front of you will to-morrow
be your corporal or your sergeant.
Every one of us is determined to do his duty; this is so manifestly
taken for granted that no one mentions the matter. William II comes in
for severe criticism.
"The whole thing's impossible. The Germans themselves will rise in
revolt."
"They will do nothing of the kind," interrupts one who has lived in
Germany. "They will do their best to kill us all."
"Whether they rise in revolt or not, they have Russia and England to
deal with, and we also intend to do our share."
General approval. No one doubts but that the victory will be
speedy--within three months, or before Christmas at the latest.
Provisions are distributed; we eat and drink. Toasts are passed.
The train rumbles gently along; by noon we have only reached
Villiers-sur-Marne. Along the whole length of the line stand people
waving their handkerchiefs and wishing us good luck.
Our stops are frequent and prolonged. From time to time we jump down to
stretch our legs a little. A red disc bars the way. Behind our train
waits another, which sets up a loud strident whistle. The engine starts
afresh. A few kilometres farther along, another stop. At the stations
they offer us fresh, clear water in pails; they even offer us wine.
Everything is very welcome.
It is sultry. Conversation begins to languish. Those who have a
photograph of their children pass it round. We look at these portraits
with the utmost sympathy and return them to the father, who apologizes
for the fact that his eyes are brimming with tears.
Night descends. The men, half asleep, drowsily nod their heads or drop
them gently on to their neighbours' shoulders.
_Wednesday, 12th August._
About three in the morning we reach Langres. In the dimly lit station
a thousand men are moving to and fro, asking questions. At the exit
stand sub-officers, holding above their heads, at the end of a pole,
large boards stating the numbers of the regiments. They collect their
reservists and carry them off.
Is there no placard containing our number? What are we to do? I show my
paper to an adjutant.
"The 352nd, 27th company? You must go to Humes."
"Humes! Where is that?"
"Have you come here for me to give you a lesson in geography? Find your
way there as best you can."
A few paces away a detachment is forming: it is that of the 352nd.
There are a hundred of us, and we are started along the road. Dawn
appears. An hour and a half's march in silence. The men stagger along
drowsily.
We reach Humes, a village five or six kilometres distant from Langres,
situated in the valley of the Marne. The houses are low, with thatched
roofs. The sergeant calls a halt in one of the streets.
Shortly we hear a commanding voice say--
"Second section, muster!"
Men issue from a shed near by, elbowing one another, some with and
others without arms: this is the second section. They fall into line,
form fours, and march off to drill, to the repeated call of one, two,
one, two!
"Suppose we try to find the post-office?" says Verrier.
On reaching it, we each scribble a postcard and return to the street,
wondering what to do next.
Before the sputtering tap of a street fountain stands a soldier at
his ablutions, with bare breast, his red-trousered legs far apart. Of
a sudden he gives a snort. I notice his closely cropped hair and his
unshaven chin.
"Reymond!"
Reymond is a bosom friend of Janson's.
"I believe you're right," drawled Verrier. "We have not met for about a
dozen years, so I don't suppose he'll recognize us."
Meanwhile, I call out--
"Hello, Reymond!"
The soldier stares at us from head to foot hesitatingly. We look like a
pair of tramps, dirty and dishevelled, capless and collarless. Verrier
affects a smoked eyeglass. Nevertheless, Reymond recognizes us.
"Ah! It's you, is it? _Chouette!_"
He has been here five days. Having been called up by mistake on the
second day of mobilization, he was sent from Bernay to Langres, and
then on to Humes.
"Come along, let's have a talk over a bottle," he says.
"What! Is there drink to be had at Humes?"
"Rather! The beer they drink in these parts will take a lot of beating."
Ten minutes afterwards one would think we had been the closest friends
all our life. How fortunate to have come across Reymond! He is a
painter, quite a gay companion, and possessed of that kind of assurance
and self-confidence peculiar to certain bashful individuals. He is
quite at home in the village, and carries us off to the office of our
company. There he introduces us to the corporal, has our names enrolled
in his squad, and supplies us with _gamelles_.
"I suppose you have had nothing to eat?" he asks.
"No."
"Come along with me."
He takes us to the cook.
"Here are a couple of men who feel peckish."
Our _gamelles_ are filled and we sit down on the ground. We mess
together and eat our share of the grub.
We are to receive our uniform to-morrow at the latest. Meanwhile, there
is nothing left to do but wander about Humes. The Mouche is a pretty
stream entering the Marne just on the outskirts of the village. There
is a pool, a windmill, giant trees, and dung all over the place; cows
and geese, poultry of every description, but few inhabitants. Soldiers
abound.
At nine o'clock, Verrier, Reymond and myself make our bed in the hay.
All around may be heard the usual jokes and pleasantries of the mess,
just as in times of peace. One may distinguish the thick, rolling
voices of those from Burgundy and the Franche-Comté, the accent of
the Lyons silk-weavers, and the peculiar intonations of men from
the various provinces. Bursts of laughter, then snoring followed by
silence. Down below, in a stable, the plaintive lowing of a calf.
_Thursday, 13th August._
Four in the morning.
"Time to get up!"
We shake and stretch ourselves. It is rather chilly.
The men come down from the loft on a tottering ladder which has one out
of every two rungs missing.
In the street, the army cook, who has long been up and about, ladles
coffee from a huge pot and fills the tins held out. In the tumult each
man retires into a corner to avoid spilling the precious liquid.
Six o'clock. We are marched out of the village in columns of fours.
The country is charming; the meadows through which flows the Marne are
lined with poplars.
We return to quarters at ten o'clock. The sun's rays are beating down
upon us. We baptize our street Dung Avenue.
Fortunately for us, the impossibility of isolating ourselves prevents
us from thinking of what we have left behind. Here solitude and silence
are unknown.
_Friday, 14th August_.
This morning we march twenty kilometres. The company collects in a
meadow which a bend of the Marne has converted into a peninsula. During
the tropical hours about noontime we indulge in a siesta beneath the
faint shade of the poplars.
This life is an extremely healthy one; it constitutes a regular
camping-out cure.
We now take our meals at the Hôtel du Commerce, kept by M. Girardot,
nicknamed _Père Achille_. It is a large building on the main road
between Paris and Belfort. Out in the yard and in both dining-rooms
every table is engaged. Just as in the canteen, there is shouting and
smoking, whilst the men call for drinks by hammering vigorously with
their fists on the table.
Every evening amateur singers give us proof of their talent. The song
relating the story of Suzette is a very popular one. No sooner is the
last verse ended than "_Bis! bis!_" is roared out, and a willing encore
is forthcoming. The artist raises his hand to his mouth and coughs,
before recommencing, and every one joins in the chorus. The smoke
rising from the pipes casts a dim mist over the lamps which hang from
the ceiling.
_Saturday, 15th August_.
_Père Achille_ places his loft at our disposal, at the farther end of
the yard, above the stable. Climbing a ladder, you find bundles of hay
to right and left. In the centre is a large open space containing a
folding-bed occupied by Vitrier, of the 28th company, a neighbour and
friend of the proprietor.
Here we shall get along quite comfortably, all the more so as we have
also the run of a garden. There is an apple-tree, beneath whose shade
we spend our leisure hours. Four stone steps enable us to go down to
the river to wash our clothes or our persons. After all, cleanliness is
a very simple matter, so far as we are concerned.
I have just seen the lieutenant in command of our company, and have
given him my name. I am to leave with the next detachment which joins
up, either with the regiment in reserve or with that in the field,
according as the one or the other is the first to need reinforcements.
This war will certainly not last long; we must hasten to reach the
firing line if we could see anything of it.
What can be the matter? Letters take five or six days to arrive from
Paris. The only journals we see are those of Langres: the _Petit
Haut-Marnais_ and the _Spectateur_, nicknamed at Humes _Le Secateur_.
We crowd around the cyclists who bring them and clear off their
supplies in a few moments.
The Paris journals have altogether stopped.
_Sunday, 16th August_.
The company musters at seven in the morning; the four sections, each in
two rows, forming a square around the lieutenants and sub-officers.
The lieutenant in command is a kind-hearted man, on whom the gravity of
the situation weighs heavily. This morning he declares curtly--
"The musters take far too long!"
Profound silence.
"Far too long. And I don't wish to speak of the matter again...."
Gabriel reads the daily orders: "Every morning, drill and marching.
Tuesdays and Thursdays, rifle practice. Afternoons, lectures in
quarters from one to three; afterwards, Swedish gymnastics."
This existence in the depot, a blend between barrack-life and drill,
will not be so very pleasant every day. May the powers that be send us
speedily to battle!
This morning, at nine o'clock, military mass.
The church is situated on an eminence above Humes. Once the threshold
is crossed, profound silence. Silence in broad daylight! Well, well! It
rather puts one out!
There are flags around the walls. All the seats are occupied by
soldiers and officers, _pêle-mêle_. A few peasant women are present,
their sombre garments clashing with the blue and red uniforms.
It is a musical mass, and the music is worthy of a cathedral: all the
instrumentalists and singers of the depot have had their services
requisitioned. How striking the contrast between this grave ritual and
ceremonial, the successive chants and breaks of silence, and the rough,
stirring military life we have been spending for several days past,
made up of shouts and hay, of cattle and dung.
A young priest has passed a surplice over his soldier's coat. His words
are mild and kind, his sermon straight to the point, as he pleads the
claims of family and country. The listeners weave their own dreams
around his simple words as they fall upon the attentive and thoughtful
assembly.
The end of the mass brings with it a change; these men, who have
suddenly been unexpectedly moved in spite of themselves, make up for
an hour's silence and immobility by shouting aloud and hustling one
another.
Back at the hotel, with the aid of pipe and beer, they laud to the
skies the priest's eloquence.
Big Albert, for whom it has been impossible to find a pair of pants
large enough in the stores, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand
after he has emptied his glass, and says--
"Believe me or not, as you please, but when that little priest spoke of
our mothers and wives and children, well! I could no more keep back the
tears than a woman!"
And there he stands, with legs outspread and hands in pockets, his vest
unbuttoned over his protruding paunch. Evidently _he_ is not subject
to nervous attacks.
Reymond, Verrier and myself have obtained a pass for Langres. Lunch
at the hotel; napkins and tablecloth. What luxury! The young lady who
serves us is very polite. We enter various shops to purchase chocolate,
wax candles, writing-paper, blacking, a lantern and some of Molière's
plays to read aloud in the loft.
We return to Humes at six o'clock, shouting out songs at the top of our
voice as the rain comes pouring down.
_Monday, 17th August_.
Five hundred men have been appointed to make up a detachment which
is to hold itself in readiness to leave for the front at a minute's
notice. My name is on the list, which includes men of the youngest
classes and volunteers. It forms the contingent complement.
We are fitted out from head to foot. First, we receive a blue muff with
which each man immediately covers his _képi_. This is the rallying
sign. Out in the streets, comrades who see us wearing a blue _képi_
say--
"Ah! So you are one of the complement?"
We answer, "Yes," in a tone of modest indifference ill concealed by a
big dose of vanity.
A score of times every day we receive the order: "Those belonging to
the contingent complement are wanted with everything they have at the
office."
There we receive small packets of provisions, such as coffee, sugar,
condensed soup; on another occasion, a _musette_; then again a can,
leathern straps, cartridges; for each separate article of our equipment
a special journey is necessary.
Such incidents as the following are quite common.
A man enters the office of the company, salutes, and says--
"Beg pardon, sergeant, but I have no sling for my rifle"; or, "I have
no strap for my can"; or, "I have no suspension hooks."
The sergeant, busy writing, answers his interrupter--
"Will you go away! And quick, too!"
The man disappears, as the sergeant remarks to the company generally--
"Silly fellow, to come and ask me for straps whilst I am distributing
_musettes_!"
You are asked for the number of your rifle, your full name and address.
Then you go to the bureau for your identification disc, your first
field-dressing, and lastly you are called upon to give the names and
addresses of those to whom information must be sent in case of death.
Ah! This is something we had never thought of.
Three legal functionaries and five sergeants, without counting the
quartermaster, scribble away as fast as they can.
Again we are mustered, and the lieutenant sees us arrive one by one.
With a despairing gesture, he asks--
"You call this a muster, do you?"
The contingent complement gathers round the door, waiting. At first
whispering goes on, then voices are raised, there is jest and laughter.
Suddenly a sub-officer leaves the sanctum.
"Stop this awful noise, will you! One can't hear oneself speak.
Besides, what do you want here, lounging about the door? Off you go!"
We disappear, though not for long. Within a very few minutes an orderly
is seen hurrying about and shouting--
"Quick! You are wanted at the office."
The sub-officer who has just dismissed us from the doorstep greets us
with the words--
"Come, now, how is it that the men of the contingent complement are
never to be found? Has some one to come and take you by the hand?"
Rain has been falling ever since the previous day. Humes is now a
marsh; the river overflows its banks.
_Tuesday, 18th August._
It is again fine. The contingent complement is back from march and
drill, and I am resting on a form. All around is a regiment of hens and
geese, geese with blue eyes just like those of a lady I once met and
whom I suddenly call to mind.
The ducklings waddle along in twos, plunge their beaks and roll about
in the liquid manure, and when they have become transformed into little
balls of filth, they march away with the utmost gravity to gargle and
clean themselves in the river. Farther away are cows, sheep, and dirty
children. In front of me lie heaps of dung, two on my right and one on
my left; it is quite unnecessary for me to turn round, for I am certain
there is another behind me. The glorious sun, however, compensates for
everything, and the scenery is very picturesque.
I spring to my feet as I hear the words: "The contingent complement is
wanted at the office."
I cross the meadow, pass the river by the narrow drawbridge, and
ascend the pebbly road leading to the shed euphemistically called "the
office." A gift: ninety-six cartridges; a piece of news: the contingent
complement is expected to leave for the front at any moment.
Both the gift and the piece of news are very welcome.
Then follow musters upon musters; reviews by corporal, sergeant, chief
of section; review by the lieutenant in command of the company.
That evening, in the loft, Verrier and Reymond, who are to stay behind
at Humes, minutely check the contents of my haversack and _musette_.
They add a tin of preserves and complete my first field-dressing and
sewing materials. Evidently they think that those in the fighting line
run considerable risks. My own thoughts are all of home, after the war,
of the peace and quiet of daily existence once this task is over.
Vitrier, the fortunate possessor of a folding-bed, returns at nine
o'clock. The lucky fellow evades all the drills and marches, and spends
his days at home in the neighbourhood. He is a charming person, whom we
have affectionately nicknamed "the Spy," because he is to be met with
only after twilight or before dawn. "The Spy" has brought young Raoul
up to the loft; a gentle, light-complexioned, pallid-looking youth. He
talks like a book and is full of such aphorisms as--
"For a man who, like me, is horrified at the very thought of death, a
soldier's life is quite a mistake."
As he removes his foot-gear, Raoul tells us that he has been this
afternoon watching the trains full of wounded pass by.
"My walk had a definite purpose, you see," he adds.
Down below, we hear the faint tinkling of a bell, suspended from
the neck of an enormous dog, which we have nicknamed the _chien à
sonnettes_.
In spite of his manifestly gentle disposition, this animal fills us
with terror. He is always lying stretched at the foot of the ladder,
and frequently in the dark we step on his head. To our amazement, he
has bitten no one, so far.
_Thursday, 20th August_.
Is this the last réveillé in the loft? It has become a very comfortable
spot. In the hay, where I lie wrapped up in a quilt, with a cotton
nightcap coming over my ears, I would gladly sleep on into the middle
of the morning. But it is five o'clock, and we must rise.
Drill and march. In the afternoon, siesta and conversation beneath the
apple-tree. The weather is gloriously fine. We wash our socks in the
Mouche.
Reymond has managed to secure an order; the lieutenant says to him--
"Since you are a painter, paint my name on my canteen."
He takes advantage of this diversion to avoid drill. He paints two
white letters every day, and even then....
_Friday, 21st August._
When is the contingent complement to leave? Armed for war, we have seen
nothing but the office. It's not enough.
A change in our existence: the arrival of Lieutenant Roberty at Humes,
and his appearance in our clan.
The other day, at muster, there was a rumour abroad that we were soon
to have a new sub-lieutenant from Alsace. Here he is, in the centre
of the square; of medium height, _papier mâché_ appearance, very dark
moustache, and the half-closed eyes of a myope. He wears red trousers
and an extraordinary black coat, chimney-corner style, with a little
gold lace at the sleeves. I look curiously at him, wondering where the
deuce I can have seen that profile, so reminiscent of a tame jaguar.
A voice calls me; it is that of the new sub-lieutenant.
"Don't you recognize me?" ...
"No, _mon lieutenant_, and yet ... really, I cannot remember your
name...."
"Roberty."
Raising my hands, I say--
"I beg your pardon, I have never seen you except in a dress suit."
And indeed, I remembered on the occasion of more than one general
rehearsal the elegant appearance of my confrère. Comparing to-day's
silhouette with that of former times, I simply remark--
"What a change! You look better in civilian clothes."
Instead of getting angry with me he merely laughs. A few comrades
approach. As Roberty has just come from Alsace, he tells us of the
first attack on Mulhouse, in which he took part.
"They say," remarks some one, "that the Germans scamper off as soon as
they see the French?"
"That's what they say at the depot, is it? Well, since you are about to
leave for the front, you will see for yourselves."
Roberty is bored to death at Humes, though he tolerates the Hôtel
Girardot, with its garden and loft. He forgets his rank, and spends
his leisure time with us. Discipline has already gained such a hold on
us that at first we feel uneasy at such intimacy with a lieutenant.
But really it is impossible to keep one's distance with Roberty. And
now we have an additional comrade under the apple-tree or under the
spiders' webs in the loft.
News at last. The French have had to fall back in Alsace. A big effort,
however, is soon to be made in the north. The Russians have crossed the
Prussian frontiers. In spite of slight impediments, things continue to
go well.
_Saturday, 22nd August._
By flattering the quartermaster I have had my haversack, which was
slightly worn, exchanged for a new one. I put my things in it with the
contented feeling of one who has managed to purchase a glass cupboard
after years of economy.
How calm it is to-day! In the corner where I have taken refuge with my
writing materials geese are gobbling up haricots under my very feet, as
pleased as Punch at their daring.
The youths of Class 14 appear on the scene; they are mostly from the
Vosges.
We tell them--
"Hullo, young ones! The war will be over before your training is
finished."
They agree with the sentiment, though vexed to think it may be true.
And they assure us they would do everything required of them, if called
upon, just as well as the older men.
"All the same," we reply, "you can't expect us to want the war to
continue merely to enable you to give an exhibition of your talents!"
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: A _musette_ is a kind of brown cloth satchel worn by a
French soldier over the right shoulder and containing his rations,
etc.--_Translator's Note._]