EN ROUTE
_Wednesday, 9th September._
The order to leave came this evening. Our detachment is to join up with
the 352nd.
Final preparations: all the tins of preserves we had piled up in
Girardot's loft are divided out amongst the men of the squadron; these
tins--_foies gras_, tongue, knuckle of ham, corned beef--are called
_Rimailhos_, because of their calibre.
At seven in the morning we leave Humes. The entire depot is present,
and the people of the district bring us flowers with which we adorn
our rifles. Roll-call. A short address by the commander of the depot.
Shouts of "Vive la France!" _En route_ as we thunder forth the
_Marseillaise_.
At Langres station we pile up our rifles. A few innocent fellows
scribble postcards, whilst we poke fun at them.
"Do you mean to say you're writing? You know it will never reach its
destination!"
There is a sense of satisfaction, however, in sending a thought to
those at home.
The train is ready. Our haversacks are strapped on and we line up on
the platform. The regulations order silence, but each man is shouting
with all his might. When the train begins to move, there are ten heads
and shoulders pressing out at the windows. We again shriek out the
_Marseillaise_. In point of fact, where are we going? Where is the
352nd? No one knows, not even Roberty.
He has chosen our squadron to supply a police guard for the train. This
is a sign of favouritism: the police guard fills three first-class
compartments, whilst the other poor fellows are piled in tens in
third-class carriages, or even in vans. At each station the guard jump
down on to the platform, bayonet fixed, and helmet strapped round the
chin. Theoretically they must see to it that no one leaves the station.
In reality they say to their comrades, who disperse in every direction--
"Fetch me a quart, old man! See, here's my can! You understand I cannot
go myself as it is my business to prevent any one leaving."
Belin, our corporal, has served nine years in the Foreign Legion, and
so he knows the ropes. The gentlest and pleasantest of companions. In
the two first-class carriages, besides Roberty, are Reymond and myself,
Maxence, whom I have already mentioned, a handsome fellow from the
Franche-Comté, head taller than the rest of us, a lawyer and big landed
proprietor, who knows Verlaine by heart, and lastly, Jacquard, Varlet
and Charensac.
The day is spent in eating preserved food, smoking pipes, playing
cards, and roaring out songs and jokes.
Sometimes the train stops for a couple of hours in the open country.
Men go off into the fields for the sheer pleasure of disobeying orders
and stretching their limbs; when they see the train once again on the
move they come running up like madmen and soon overtake it, for the
driver carries us along at a jog-trot pace.
A comic alarm during the night: sudden firing in the neighbourhood
of Troyes. Is the train being attacked, in the way we read about
in a schoolboy's romance? Our valiant men, leaping up from sleep,
immediately cram cartridges in their rifles and jump out on to the
track. Simply a few petards exploded on the rails. Now we can sleep.
_Thursday, 10th September._
Corbeil. Six hours' forced inactivity! We make some coffee along
the track. A train full of wounded enters the station. We hurry to
the doors of the vans and find that they are packed with soldiers
of all sorts, lying _pêle-mêle_ on the floor, arms, legs and heads
intertwined. The uniforms are unrecognizable and in rags, covered with
dust and blood.
And we, who are proceeding to the firing line, gaze open-mouthed on
those who have just come back from it. Evidently there is terrible
fighting going on, but the wounded have little to say. With a shake of
the head they remark--
"Yes, yes, things are progressing ... but it's a tough business!"
"We are winning, are we not?"
"Yes, but it takes time!"
Bayonet charges, frightful whirling gusts of shot and shell, fields and
woods strewn with dead, the moaning of the wounded; such is a summary
of what each man has witnessed, just a tiny corner of the battle. No
clear general impression. Unshaken confidence in the final result,
along with a consciousness of the difficulty of the task.
A carriage filled with German prisoners. We elbow one another to catch
a glimpse of them. One of them, his shoulder and arm all twisted up,
asks--
"Are you reservists?"
Some one nods assent.
Thereupon he says--
"I, too, am a reservist like you."
Anxious to create a feeling of sympathy, he exhibits his wound.
I say to him--
"_Mon garçon_, you shouldn't have gone to war."
No sooner has one train left the station than another steams up; for
several hours the wounded file past without a break.
At five in the evening the lieutenant, after a long conversation with
the station-master, announces that the detachment is to cross Paris.
Delirious joy.
We reach the Gare de Lyons and, shouldering arms, proceed in columns of
fours to the Gare Saint-Lazare.
Our men hail every taxi-cab driver they see.
"I say, old man, just go and tell my wife ... or my mother ... or my
sister, will you? She lives in such a street, such a number. Hurry up
and bring her along."
"All right!"
Off goes the chauffeur. Half an hour after he is back with the whole
family, and, amid the emotion and excitement of so unexpected a
reunion, slips away without a thought of payment.
Halt in front of the Cirque d'Hiver. We pile our rifles and take off
our haversacks. The crowd collects around and proves very emotional.
Useless to say to one's friends or relatives--
"Don't carry things too far, we are not coming back, we are only going!"
The good-natured public will listen to nothing; they give us credit and
treat us as heroes just the same.
A second halt at Rue Auber. The crowd around grows larger and larger.
It appears that Paris has been really threatened. This morning's
communiqué, however, states that the enemy has retired a distance of
forty kilometres.
At the Gare Saint-Lazare more than two hundred out of the five hundred
men belonging to the detachment have their family around them.
At nine the train is waiting and we have to leave. We embrace and
shout, laugh and cry, promise to return soon and to write.
Roberty, Reymond and I have made up our mind to travel first-class. In
one of the compartments a very stylish, gentlemanly-looking individual
has installed himself. Strapping my helmet under my chin, I assume a
tone of voice at once firm and courteous, and say--
"I beg pardon, monsieur, but you are occupying a seat reserved for the
chief."
The gentleman, abashed, vaguely stammers some excuse or other,
hurriedly snatches up his valise and travelling rug and looks for
another seat.
When he has gone, I remark--
"What a bouncer!"
The three of us sprawl at our ease over the six seats, posing as
well-to-do persons off on a holiday.
We walk along the passage. A wounded corporal, belonging to Class 12,
promises us victory, and is intoxicated at the prospect.
In reply to our questions, he says--
"You ask if we have got them? We're simply sweeping the ground with
them! I killed one this afternoon, a sergeant. Here's his shoulder tab
and his belt clasp. Read the words on it: _Gott mit uns_. What brazen
effrontery!
"Just think, he was running away. I caught him up and gave him a dig
with my bayonet between the shoulders. Then, do you know what the cur
did? He actually turned round and wounded me. I gave him another thrust
and finished him off.
"I could never have thought it would give one so jolly a feeling to
kill a man."
After a moment's reflection--
"After all, this is an ugly cut in the thigh. He might have maimed me
for life."
"That's perhaps what he wanted to do."
The wounded man sinks into a meditative mood. All through the night we
roll along until we reach our station, when we descend and march away
for the front.
_Friday, 11th September._
About noon we enter the devastated zone at Dammartin: the telegraph
lines have been torn down. Right and left of the road trees lie
stretched on the ground; heaps of ashes are all that remains of the
hayricks. In a ditch lies a corpse in red trousers and blue coat. Most
of the men of the detachment have not yet been in the fighting line,
and this is the first dead man, left lying on the ground, that they
have seen. They are considerably moved, and even surprised.
We reach Nanteuil-le-Haudouin. The station has been destroyed. A convoy
of provisions and supplies passes, escorted by cuirassiers. A glorious
sunset.
A prolonged halt in front of the _mairie_. The place is full of troops
and the mayor is at loss where to put us up.
"Go to Wattebled's farm," he says to the lieutenant.
This is a fine farm, though situated at the farther end of the town.
The farmer is serving. Officers of the enemy have lodged in the
building and have left the place in a dreadful condition. All the
cupboards and wardrobes have been ransacked, and the contents flung
about the rooms. The cellar is empty; broken bottles lie in every
corner.
The beds, however, have been left intact. We quickly stretch ourselves
at full length, delighted to rest after travelling for two nights and
three days. The dinner has been nothing to boast of--neither bread nor
wine, and scarcely any light.
_Saturday, 12th September._
Whilst awaiting fresh supplies, which postpone our departure several
hours, we explore the district. Those stores whose proprietors were
absent have been methodically pillaged; whatever could not be carried
away has been broken to pieces. In the wine and tobacco shops nothing
but the walls are left standing.
On the doors, chalk inscriptions indicate which German troops were
quartered there. The inhabitants are still somewhat scared; they can
hardly believe in their good fortune at finding themselves safe.
We obtain as much rum and wine as we want from a wholesale wine dealer!
The Germans had had time neither to remove nor to destroy his barrels
and hogsheads. The news spreads like wildfire through the quarters.
Each squadron delegates a man laden with cans slung over his shoulder.
They press around the barrels in an endless file. An artillery officer
wishes to prevent the infantry from approaching the wine store,
especially his own men. Howls and protests. Lieutenant Roberty has to
intervene before we can enter the place.
Meanwhile, the stores have arrived. Whilst the pots are boiling we
improvise a lunch for twenty-five in the large dining-room. The manager
lends us napkins and a tablecloth, plates and glasses, and even a
_jardinière_ for putting flowers on the table. Our ordinary fare
includes a fillet of beef and we have bought three fowls. Each man
brings his own wine and bread.
This sybaritic life, however, cannot last indefinitely. At two o'clock
we make our way through a district which has witnessed terrible
battles. Arms and equipments, _képis_ and helmets and cloaks strew
the ground. The smell of decomposing bodies passes in whiffs; it
proceeds mainly from dead horses, still unburied, rotting away, their
bodies all swollen and their legs rigid. By the side of a stack of
hay three German corpses await the services of a grave-digger. Their
greyish-green uniform seems to harmonize with the colour of the hay.
At the halt, in a carriage left behind by the enemy, we find Berlin
journals telling of victories in Belgium, along with a confused mass
of note-books, night-lights--very convenient articles, these,--a
broken phonograph, and German postcards all containing wishes that the
recipients may have a good time in Paris, etc.
Peasants come along with tales that uhlans are lurking in the
neighbourhood. We waste a couple of hours in sending patrols to scour
the woods. Not a single uhlan to be seen. We are caught in a shower
of rain and reach Lévignen at nightfall, wet through. The silence and
solitude are intense. Enormous gaps in the houses have been made by
shells. The gamekeeper--perhaps the only inhabitant--proposes to the
lieutenant that the detachment be lodged in the church. By the light of
candles which are speedily lit, the men make the best of the situation,
only too pleased to be out of the rain. The church, however, is too
small. Half the detachment wanders about the abandoned village as the
downpour continues.
At all hazards we enter a house. No one is there, but we find beds, a
stove and wood. There is no water, however, for making coffee, so I
fill a large bowl with the rain streaming from a spout. A few tins of
preserved meat and some wine have been left behind, so the lieutenant,
Belin, Reymond, Maxence and myself easily manage to make a good meal
and to sleep under a sheltering roof.
_Sunday, 13th September._
It appears that there is a dead German at the _mairie_. We go to look
at him. There the fellow lies, stretched on the floor. His head is
concealed beneath his arms; his sides, back and legs have been stripped
bare by a shell explosion and he has evidently dragged himself here to
die. A smell of decomposing flesh puts us to flight.
The detachment again starts off early across a devastated land. We are
gaily received by the inhabitants of Villers-Cotterets, who, delivered
from the enemy a couple of nights previously, fête the French troops
incessantly marching into the town.
We quarter ourselves in the goods station, already partly occupied by
wounded soldiers awaiting evacuation. Two Red Cross ladies, who had
remained during the occupation, are kept busily employed. One of them
appears behind a huge pot filled with coffee, from which the wounded
help themselves. A German, his field-grey uniform in tatters, his jaws
contracted and arms and legs all twisted up, is dying in a corner
between two men attendants who do their best to relieve his agony.
Other Germans, more or less wounded, lie _pêle-mêle_ on the straw near
our own men. No disputes or quarrels, victors and vanquished are alike
exhausted.
The town gives more than ever the impression of a grand review. This is
the headquarters of the Sixth Army; motor-cars rush up and down; in the
streets are soldiers of every description, staff officers, generals. A
40-h.p. motor-car, flying the Stars and Stripes, stops in front of the
_mairie_: immediately we imagine that the United States ambassador has
come to offer peace on behalf of Germany, and we discuss the terms and
conditions we must lay down.
Flanked by gendarmes, a knot of prisoners files past. They are in rags,
covered with dust, and appear worn out. Soldiers and civilians line
the road and watch them intently; not an exclamation is uttered; on
every face is a look of radiant gaiety, forming a striking contrast
with the surly expressions of the beaten Germans. Some of the latter
have humble-looking, sensitive, fresh-complexioned countenances; these
are the ones who must have committed the worst atrocities of all.
We profit by the general confusion and good humour to slip into a hotel
reserved for officers and indulge in a luxurious repast.
It is also by dint of cunning and astuteness that Reymond, Maxence and
myself manage to find lodging with some honest people who place at our
disposal two bedrooms and a dressing-room. Only the previous week they
had boarded a Prussian colonel who daily explained the mathematical
reasons which would ensure the triumph of Germany. And then, only two
days ago, he galloped off without finishing his demonstration. He was
so hurried that he kicked down his bedroom door. He was daily in the
habit of locking it himself, but in his excitement he had forgotten
where he had put the key ... perhaps even where the lock was! My host
points to the broken panels, quite pleased to have such a proof of
German disorder and confusion.
_Monday, 14th September._
When shall we see white bed-sheets again? Such luxury has turned our
heads, and Villers-Cotterets, intact and full of life, in the midst
of a scene of ruin and desolation, seems to us the very capital of the
world! The dull growl of the cannon is heard away in the distance.
An abundant supply of fresh meat, preserves and wine. _En route_ for
the headquarters of the Army Corps, where directions will be given us
for joining the regiment.
A long march through the forest. More dead horses and that intolerable
stench of decomposing flesh which strikes one brutally full in the face
like a lash.
The roar of cannon draws nearer. We halt in a field. A detachment of
prisoners passes along the road.
Still the wounded come; in groups of twos, threes and fours they make
their way, after a summary dressing of their wounds, in the direction
of the ambulance, hobbling along, leaning on sticks or on a comrade's
shoulder.
They ask--
"Is it far to Villers-Cotterets?"
"Fifteen kilometres."
"_Ah! Là là!_"
Amongst them are men of the 352nd. Having met at the depot we recognize
one another, and ask--
"Are the enemy retreating?"
"No, it seems as though they were determined to halt by the river."
We also learn that shells are beginning to fall a few hundred yards
distant.
At the entrance to Ambleny, near the Aisne, a staff captain stops
Roberty: it is impossible to cross the bridge in the daytime; the
headquarters have been transferred to Vic-sur-Aisne, which place it is
too late to reach to-day. We are quartered in an abandoned saw-mill.
Our last _Rimailhos_ supply us with a solid meal. There comes a knock
at the door--a lost soldier in search of food and lodging. We invite
him in. On seeing our repast, a broad smile illumines his face, and he
remarks--
"How lucky I fell in with you!"
As the lieutenant gives him a copious portion and pours out a generous
bumper of wine, the man says, his mouth full of food--
"_Merci_, Monsieur Roberty."
"What! Do you know me?"
"A little. And you also (indicating myself). I am a waiter in Lavenue's
restaurant. I served you at lunch the day following the mobilization."
Greatly moved, we grasp his hand effusively, and say--
"Excuse us, old man, we did not recognize you."
He quite understands, whereupon Roberty adds--
"Now just remain seated; I'm going to serve you myself."
Dinner over, we offer him the corner containing the most abundant
supply of straw, and fall off to sleep.
_Tuesday, 15th September._
A long detour to reach Vic-sur-Aisne. Halt in front of the keep by
the castle moat. The lieutenant goes for orders to the staff at
headquarters. Whilst awaiting his return we watch German prisoners as
they come and go in the enclosure.
A hostile aeroplane is hovering above the town. Received with a brisk
fusillade and exploding shrapnel, it disappears. The general in command
of the corps passes by on horseback, followed by a numerous staff.
Lined up, behind our piles of arms, we salute. A fine subject for an
Academy picture.
Roberty returns; the regiment is in the first line, between Fontenoy
and Port-Fontenoy. _En route_ to join it.
We proceed along the Aisne in Indian file over a bombarded road. On our
left, behind the hill, fighting is taking place; always the same sound,
as of carpets being beaten or planks being nailed down. Here comes a
battalion of our regiment; the other is in the trenches. A bivouac is
installed on the side of a hillock in a meadow surrounded by trees.
Evening descends. We build huts made of trusses of straw, torn from a
neighbouring stack. The stack melts away and finally disappears, having
been transformed into a little negro village. The fire needed for the
cooking of our meal sets up great flares of light, ... too great, in
all probability, for a hail of bullets whistles about our ears. Where
does it come from? Mystery!
"Put out the fires and lie flat on the ground!" shout the officers.
The bullets continue; some strike the ground with a sharp, cracking
sound, others ricochet and glance off! _Piou! Piou!_
I lie there and wait until this storm of iron, more irritating than
dangerous, has passed. The thought enters my mind--
"How bothering! It has even lost the attraction of novelty for me now."
As one who has already seen fire, I feel impelled to address a few
words to my neighbours, Maxence and Sergeant Chaboy. Curious to gather
their impressions, I crawl up to them and slyly ask--
"Well, raw ones, what do you think of the stew?"
They are both asleep. As I receive nothing but a snore for an answer, I
do not insist.
Firing ceases as suddenly as it began. We rise to our feet; one man is
wounded and a _gamelle_ shot through. That's all.
After fire comes water; an implacable shower beats down upon our poor
straw shelters, penetrating right through and laying them flat on the
ground. The place must be left.
At the foot of the hill, the village of Port-Fontenoy. Every house is
full of troops. Not the tiniest shed or loft is available. And here
stands the colonel, buried beneath his hood, his face lit up by the
intermittent lights coming from his pipe.
"Those who have just come from the depot," he says, "had better make
shift in the yard here."
We make shift.
Reymond and Roberty slip away under a cart; I follow suit. Two others
join us. Here, at all events, we are somewhat sheltered from the
rain. I feel the ground: it is a bed of dung, and soft to the touch.
Somebody's muddy shoe is pressed against my face; my back is being used
as a pillow by the lieutenant. Huddling together, we feel the cold
less. We have had no dinner, merely some _pâté de foie gras_ spread
between biscuits as hard as wood. There is a strange odour about our
hands, and the dining-room is anything but comfortable.
_Wednesday, 16th September._
The night has been a long one, rain falling all the time. We burst out
laughing when we discover how dirty we look.
The order comes to cross the wood and reach the crest of the hill,
beyond which something is happening--something serious, to judge by the
noise. On the other bank of the Aisne, scarcely a kilometre distant,
the small station of Ambleny-Fontenoy is being bombarded. The volleys
pass over our heads, making a noise like that of a tram skidding over
the rails. A flaky patch of white smoke indicates where the explosion
takes place.
We make wagers as to where the next shell will fall.
That one--looking in the air to see the snorting projectile pass--will
be for the station.
_Pan!_ The red roof crumbles in. At that moment a train enters the
station. The Germans see it; a projectile falls twenty yards in front
of the engine; another, ten yards in front; a third, well aimed, but a
little short. The engine-driver does not lose his head; he reverses the
engine. Four consecutive explosions on the very spot the locomotive has
just left.
Applause and shrieks of joy.
Both train and station seem very much like Nuremberg toys. One must
reflect if emotion is to be genuine.
The sun's rays speedily dry our coats on our backs. Some of the men
sleep, whilst the artillery duel redoubles in intensity.
Varlet has gone into the village to make lunch. He returns, furious,
with dishevelled hair and empty hands.
"Well! Where's lunch?"
Varlet vociferates--
"Lunch, indeed, _Zut!_ You'll have to tighten your belts a little more.
A _marmite_ fell right in the middle of it all."
Varlet tells his tale: he heard the whistling sound, and knew that
he was in for it. He had just time to plunge head first into a dog's
kennel.
"When the thing exploded," explains our cook, "there was only my head
inside, the dog prevented me from entering farther."
Good-bye to lunch and the toothsome dishes. Belin is exasperated.
"How will my squadron manage for meals now?" he wonders.
Prowling about, we discover a little grotto, a comfortable shelter in
case of bombardment. Meanwhile, each man makes his own conjectures.
Shall we attack this evening or to-morrow? Manifestly we have not been
brought here to take an afternoon nap in the sun.
Suddenly an order comes that we are to be quartered at Port-Fontenoy.
The deuce! This is the point of impact, the magnet that draws all the
shells of the district.
A barn full of hay and straw. We fling ourselves on to the ground and
sleep comes instantaneously.
About two in the morning Jacquard, whose turn it is to stand sentry
before the door, shakes Roberty, who is soundly sleeping.
"_Mon lieutenant_, shells are falling in the yard, we shall all be
blown to pieces if we stay here!"
Roberty, whose capacity for sleep is quite out of the common, turns
over on to his side and growls--
"All right! don't disturb me. To-morrow I will look into the matter."
Jacquard, offended, returns to his post.
_Thursday, 17th September._
Standing on a slight eminence, we watch the shells, from early dawn,
falling on to the station.
In the evening we return to Port-Fontenoy. This time the squadron
lodges in a goat-shed. It is very warm and intimate.
_Friday, 18th September._
The 6th battalion comes down from the outposts. What a state they
are in! They have just spent four days and nights in the first line,
in trenches improvised and devoid of shelter. And yet _we_ thought
ourselves dirty!
They look haggard and dazed, and are covered with mud from head to
foot. We crowd around. Their first words are--
"Have you any tobacco? All ours is finished."
We supply them with tobacco, even with a superior brand of cigarette.
Thereupon interest in life returns, and they consent to talk.
"And what of Verrier? Is he alive?"
"Yes."
"Which company?"
"The 23rd."
Reymond and I run off in the direction indicated.
In front of a grotto some men are lying on the ground.
"Is this the 23rd?"
"It is."
"Is there any one here named Verrier?"
Then Verrier himself, pale, emaciated and in rags, rises from the
grotto, like Lazarus from the tomb. A Mephistophelean goat-beard, which
he has grown, makes his long face appear longer than ever. He sees us
holding out our hands to him, but he bursts out, without the slightest
greeting--
"Tell me, a war like this can't last a fortnight longer, surely, can
it?"
This question puts us into a jovial mood.
"The war, old fellow? It will last a couple of years," we assure him.
"Well, then," sighs Verrier, "let me sit down."
We carry him off to Lieutenant Roberty. Then we place him in the
sunshine, bring him coffee and tobacco, and lend him a brush. He feels
better.
This evening the men of our detachment are distributed out amongst the
various companies. The whole of our squadron becomes the first squadron
of the 24th. Roberty is in command of the first section. He obtains
permission for Verrier to be transferred from the 23rd to the 24th. How
fortunate to be shoulder to shoulder again! It is so much easier to
fight with one's friends by one's side.