BEFORE FONTENOY
_Saturday, 19th September._
The regiment is appointed to be an Army Corps reserve. We cross
the Aisne early in the morning and prepare support trenches three
kilometres in the rear. This is the first time we play at digging holes
in the ground. It appears that the Germans dig them, and that they
prove useful. Navvies' picks and shovels are distributed. We work in
twos; one digging hard and the other clearing away the earth whilst the
first man is resting. By the end of the day the section has dug up a
trench deep enough for one to walk in without being seen.
This evening we are quartered at Ressons-le-Long, in an old round
tower, of venerable aspect, adjoining a farm.
The regiment has left the east and proceeded northwards, before coming
down in the direction of Paris. Then it took part in the battle of the
Marne, and finally stopped on the banks of the Aisne. Still no letters!
The battalion claims the services of a postman, a busy,
anxious-looking man. From time to time he stops and opens his bags in
some quiet corner and blurts out about a hundred names, which he reads
from envelopes chosen indiscriminately. A few of the men are there.
Sometimes there is a Dubois who answers: "Present."
The postman looks up sternly.
"Dubois what. What's your other name?"
"Dubois, Charles."
With a scornful shrug of the shoulders--
"The letter I have here is for Dubois, Emile. Why do you make me lose
my time?"
The same thing happens with the Duponts, the Durands, and the Martins.
The one present never possesses the right Christian name.
The postman throws back the letters into his big bag and continues his
round.
"They're always asking for letters," he grumbles, "but when I bring any
they never come for them."
"They" frequently have a good reason for not coming, they may well have
met their death between two posts.
The postman finds his bags swelling in bulk a little more every day; he
becomes more anxious and careworn than ever.
Sinister rumours are spread regarding his intentions.
"He says that if the men are not there when he calls out the names
to-morrow, he will burn everything left in the bag."
"The deuce! But did he mention where the distribution was to take
place?"
He has done nothing of the kind; the hour and place of distribution are
the postman's secret.
_Sunday, 20th September._
We are up at three in the morning. The guns begin to boom. Gradually
day appears. Returning to our trenches we see flashes leaping from the
cannons' mouth along with tiny puffs of smoke.
The view extends over the valley of the Aisne. The Germans are making
desperate efforts to cross the river.
From our position in reserve we watch cyclists rushing along the road.
The colonel comes and goes, and gives orders, smoking his huge pipe the
while. A telephone has been fitted up in a haystack, from which he does
not wander far, as the tinkling call is continually being heard. It is
raining. We cover our trenches with sheaves of straw gathered from the
neighbouring field and await events, crouching deep in our holes.
Roberty keeps us posted in what is taking place. Being a lieutenant, he
is privileged to apply for the latest information from the colonel. At
two o'clock the enemy takes Fontenoy, and his vanguard has descended
right to the bridge of boats. He is stopped short by a company of
engineers. The Germans are decimated by a well-directed fire; those who
are not killed return in disorder. Our regiment is charged with the
task of recapturing Fontenoy.
We fix our haversacks, take in a supply of provisions and _en route_.
The descent into the valley is through a wood. Roberty roguishly
declares--
"Boys, our chances of death have gone up ninety per cent."
Halt at a crossing, near the Aisne, as we await the order to attack. We
place our haversacks on the ground, rest our rifles against them and
sit down. An hour passes. Two batteries of 75's are firing away behind
us without a pause. The rain continues.
The lieutenant is summoned to the colonel. He returns with a smile and
announces--
"Our chances of death are down; Fontenoy has been recaptured without
our help. The artillery have compelled the Germans to evacuate. We
shall spend the night at Gorgny."
_Monday, 21st; Tuesday, 22nd; and Wednesday, 23rd September._
Three days well occupied. We are quartered in a wretched-looking farm,
reeking with manure and filth of every kind.
We rise at a quarter to three. It is quite cold. We hurry to the
kitchen, where Varlet and Charensac, the cooks of our section, are
preparing coffee and cooking beefsteaks. They have not slept at all; in
fact, they only received supplies about ten at night, for revictualment
carts can approach the line only in the dark. The fire flames up in the
vast country chimney, lighting up the whole room. The farmer and his
wife, grumbling and blink-eyed, are seated in a corner.
The coffee is very hot; already we feel better. It is followed by a
quart of broth. Then Varlet portions out to each man a small piece of
calcined meat: the beefsteak for the noon meal. _En route_. And now
begins what Reymond calls the "noble game of the beetroot field."
I am fully convinced that in times of peace beetroots are extremely
useful. This year, however, they poison the very existence of the
foot-soldier, already sufficiently embittered. Ploughing one's way
through fields of beetroots is enough to make one hate the war. Your
foot twists and slips about in all directions. Hurled forward, you
bruise your nose against the haversack of the man in front. Pulled
backward, you receive from the man behind a blow in your ribs with
the butt-end of his rifle. The night air is filled with groans and
complaints. Where are we going? How can the officers find their way in
the dark? One after another, feeling our way, each man runs in the wake
of a fugitive shadow. On reaching the edge of the wood, we lose the
path. The column is broken. Which direction are we to take? The wrong
one, of course. Then heart-breaking rushes to and fro; we find every
company except our own. Finally, day appears.
Arrival at the trenches. Distribution of shovels and picks, and
quick--to work. A very pleasant form of exercise: if it is raining you
wallow about in mud; if it is dry you swallow sand all the time.
Close by us belch forth our 75's, which the Germans would fain
dislodge. Gradually the enemy's artillery riddles the entire plain with
shot of every calibre.
Nothing lessens that noisy good-humour peculiar to ourselves. The
only thing that troubles us is with reference to eating and drinking.
At such times as these, this is no easy problem to solve in the case
of persons endowed with a good appetite. Only a few days ago we had
scruples about cleanliness, and seized every opportunity of washing
ourselves. Now we never think of it. It takes an effort to imagine
what life must have been like in the good old times of peace and
civilization--forty days ago!
I have not had my shoes off since we left Villers-Cotterets.
Roberty dispatches Jules, his orderly, to hunt about for something fit
to eat. Off goes Jules; he is a man of poaching instincts, and being of
seductive manners, receives unlimited credit. Along difficult paths,
known to none but himself, he reaches Ambleny, or Ressons, or Gorgny.
After several hours' absence he returns in triumph, bringing a large
pot filled with an abominable cold stew which the squadron tastes.
"It is made of a rabbit and an old hen," he explains. "I had them
cooked together, along with some potatoes to make it more consistent."
In a huge _musette_, Jules has also brought some white bread just
baked, a number of pears, two pots of preserves, and a few bottles of
wine. "This is good cheer!" we say.
And so the day passes. If there is nothing to do we carve fantastic
animals out of beetroots: one way of obtaining our revenge on that
odious vegetable.
At twilight we give up our picks and shovels and go down towards the
village. A second edition of the noble game of the beetroot field.
It is nine o'clock before we reach the farm. We receive our provision
supplies, have them cooked, and eat our supper; it is nearly midnight
before we are asleep. And we have to be up before three in the morning!
During the night of the 23rd, Roberty awakes us to give news of the
war. In the first place--and this explains the French retreat after
Charleroi--the enemy attacked us with no fewer than thirty-three corps.
Then again, it appears that the Germans have recaptured oriental
Prussia.... Consequently, we cannot trust too confidently in the
Russian steam-roller.
We drop off to sleep again.
_Thursday, 24th September._
The regiment crosses the Aisne along the bridge of boats, and passes
through Port-Fontenoy, which the recent bombardments have severely
tested. Those killed last Sunday have been removed by our engineers.
Our goat stable is in ruins. It was indeed time for us to remove.
We reach a ravine close to the first line. The cannonade is more
violent than ever.
The most recent news brought by the cooks state that Generals Castelnau
and Maunoury, to be precise, have decided on a general offensive. The
regiment is to take part in it.
What kind of special wire is it that connects a kitchen with
headquarters? It is round the fires on which dinner is being cooked
that we receive the most minute information regarding the slightest
intentions of the heads of the army. This is due not only to the
power of divination possessed by cooks, but also to the fact that
these latter, when they go every evening to the train for a supply of
eatables, are brought in contact with the drivers who have come from
the rear.
Milliard, the postman of the company, arrives with two bags full of
letters. Everybody rushes up to him. These are the first letters that
have reached us since we left Humes. Milliard calls out the names. All
round him are the chief corporals of the squadron who answer "Present!"
for the men, and often, alas! "Dead!" "Wounded!" or "Missing!"
Regarding the letters, a brilliant idea has at last entered Roberty's
brain. He says: "If each company's letters are called out before the
men of the company, instead of shouting them before an indiscriminate
mass or before nobody at all, the letters themselves and those for
whom they are destined would have a better chance of being brought
together." The commander has sanctioned a trial of the system.
Sergeant Milliard, of the 24th, searches in the bags. Knowing us well
by name, he finds our letters. Wonderful! Some of the men burst into
tears; others slip away, their trembling hands grasping the precious
missives on which the familiar handwriting is seen.
Such excess of happiness emboldens one, and Milliard is asked, though
in somewhat hesitating accents--
"Suppose I entrust you with a letter, what will become of it?"
"I will take it to the postman's van for you."
The deuce!
"And you think it will reach its destination?"
"Certainly; I can promise you that."
Thereupon the letter is timidly placed in Milliard's hands.
About five in the afternoon, Charensac assures us with a knowing air--
"Castelnau has put off the attack."
_Friday, 25th; Saturday, 26th; Sunday, 27th September._
We recross the Aisne and again begin to dig holes. The trenches are
soon deep enough, covered with foliage. We rest, surrounded by picks
and shovels. It is very hot. Some write or talk; others roll about on
the grass.
The shells mostly pass far above our heads. Of a sudden, however, three
of them burst too near to be pleasant. Quickly returning to our holes,
we form a carapace. Is it over? No, a fourth explosion is heard. But no
harm is done.
_Monday, 28th September._
The night is spent guarding the bridge of boats so heroically defended
on the 20th by a company of engineers. No incident worth mentioning; a
few spent bullets fall near the sentry-box.
In the morning we mount to the trenches and the day is spent idling
about the grass. We have surrounded a corner of the meadow with
branches of trees, sharpened and driven into the ground. No enemy,
however excellent his observation glasses, could possibly discover our
whereabouts. It is almost as peaceful as under the apple-tree of _Père
Achille_. A fencing match, with sticks for swords.
Whenever the hum of an aeroplane is heard, the usual cry is raised--
"An aeroplane! Quick! To earth!"
Like rabbits we run and hide in our holes.
Jules appears, carrying a hen which he has come across somewhere and
which Varlet has cooked without drawing or eviscerating it. The mistake
is regrettable. All the same, Corporal Belin goes too far in refusing
his share, protesting he will not eat a morsel of "that filth." Varlet
gets vexed. Being accustomed to speak at public meetings, he has a
tongue. But Belin, who has served nine years in the Foreign Legion, has
principles of his own.
"I have served in Morocco and Western Algeria," he says, "and have
often gone without food altogether, but I have never seen any one cook
a hen undrawn."
And he sticks to his opinion.
Thereupon Varlet calls him a savage.
"A savage!" shrieks Belin, "a savage because I refuse to eat a hen's
entrails!"
The dispute becomes embittered. Varlet forgets his position. Belin
points to his red stripes and furiously sputters out threats.
The lieutenant intervenes and peace is made. Varlet acknowledges that
it would have been better to draw the fowl, whilst Belin consents to
eat a wing without making a wry face about it.
_Tuesday, 29th; Wednesday, 30th September._
For the time being, at all events, the sector is to be organized for
the defensive. The positions held by the enemy before Fontenoy can only
be taken, we are informed, by siege. The Germans have constructed very
strong trenches and lodged their reserves in grottoes sheltered from
all possible bombardment, i.e. in subterranean quarries of which there
are several in these parts.
On the other hand, the Russians are neither in Berlin nor anywhere near
it.... _Allons!_ The war will not come to an end next month.
Evidently in Paris they are considering the possibility of a winter
campaign. Ladies are knitting woollen vests for us!
We shall see. In a soldier's life one must not dwell too much on the
future, seeing that the entire situation may change from day to day.
_Thursday, 1st October._
At dawn we leave for Le Châtelet, a hamlet perched on the heights
overlooking the left bank of the Aisne, in front of Vic. A magnificent
view over the valley. The company is to remain quartered here several
weeks, to organize the position. The farm in which we are to lodge is
surrounded by beautiful meadows.
We sleep on mattresses in a loft. If our stay here is to be prolonged,
I feel that I shall resume my old habits of cleanliness.
_Friday, 2nd October._
Alas! Réveillé at two in the morning. The situation has changed. The
24th goes down to Gorgny, and with arms piled and haversacks on the
ground, is waiting in the enclosure of the château. At five comes the
order to depart. _En route_ for Courmelles, somewhere to the south of
Soissons.
A forced march of thirty kilometres through the night. At eleven
o'clock we reach Courmelles, utterly worn out. Whilst waiting until our
quarters are ready, we lie down _pêle-mêle_ on the road alongside the
houses. A Moroccan brigade crosses the village. The moonlight projects
a bluish light on to the rapid and silent march of these men, wrapped
in great hoods and with enormous haversacks towering above their heads:
Mâtho's mercenaries. They are going in a northerly direction.
The squadron sleeps in a loft abounding in straw. To cover my body I
have a potato sack, which I use as a hood in the daytime.
_Saturday, 3rd October._
At ten in the morning we are still asleep, snugly ensconced in the
straw. For a month we have not once had a sufficiency of sleep.
Lieutenant Roberty summons us: Reymond, Maxence, Verrier and myself.
His room is at our disposal for a wash and a change of linen. For this
evening he converts his bed into two and shares it with us.
I receive a wire from Paris, which was dispatched on the 18th of
September. A fortnight on the way! Evidently letters take less time: a
good thing, too!
Many of the houses in Courmelles have been abandoned. In one of them
the squadron makes arrangements for meals, a corporal--in ordinary
life a mountebank--acting as cook. He whistles a number of popular
airs whilst making a fricassee of three rabbits in an iron foot-pan.
It is dinner-time. The rabbits are not fit to eat; they are burnt, and
have an after-taste of soap. We turn up our noses, and I am the only
one willing to taste the stew. I become nicknamed "the eater of filthy
food," but this does not trouble me in the slightest. Luckily there is
an enormous dish of fried potatoes, and the baker has consented to sell
us some hot white bread.
Varlet and Charensac have gone for a stroll to Soissons. They had
to cut across fields to escape the gendarmes, who pursued them a
considerable distance. They return hot and perspiring, greatly excited,
and laden with rare dainties: any quantity of tobacco, chocolate,
preserves, dubbing, writing-paper, couch grass brushes and pipes.
Soissons is filled with English soldiers and business seems very
thriving. The town is exceedingly animated. Every one is overjoyed at
the thought that the place is free of the enemy.
_Sunday, 4th October._
Still resting. Optimists assure us that the regiment is to stay a month
at Courmelles.
Letters long overdue now arrive along with the first parcels. One of
them contains butter!
Roberty's orderly, Jules, is nothing if not bold. Under the pretext
that it is Sunday, he offers to shave us and cut our hair. He has not
the faintest idea of the hair-dresser's art, though he is delighted
at his prospective occupation. I am his first victim. The villain
manages to convert my hair into a miniature staircase. Then he shaves
me, and to the accompaniment of such remarks as "That's right!" "I'm
improving!" he tears away the skin along with the hair. Terrified, I
have not even the courage to request him to stop. The operation ended,
I press little pads of wadding on to my bleeding chin and make my
escape. My comrades hold their sides with laughter, Jules chuckles with
pride and vanity as he asks--
"Next one?"
The lieutenant sends for me--
"Guess who's here?"
"A civilian?"
"Come down and see."
Girard! Maxime Girard of the _Figaro_. I press his hands with mingled
affection and violence. After repeating a dozen times: "How small the
world is, after all! To think of seeing you here!" we plunge at once
into intimate conversation.
Girard is even dirtier than I am. His face is entirely covered with a
thick layer of dust. Nose and trousers are of the same greyish tint.
Cheeks and chin are covered with a downy beard. His coat possesses only
one row of buttons, but he is just as much a gentleman as ever he was.
The mountebank corporal has promised to provide a good dinner; we may
therefore invite Girard. He visits the kitchen. On seeing that we have
at our disposal glasses and plates, dishes and a soup-tureen, a table
and chairs, he slips away and only returns at the dinner-hour, shaven,
brushed and washed, a man of the world.
After coffee, benedictine, cigars and pipes. Girard relates his
campaigns, which resemble our own: bullets and shells, marches,
orders and counter-orders, dust and mud; wounded men passing to the
rear and comrades falling dead. Then the precipitate falling back of
the Germans, the welcome halting-places where you shake off all your
troubles and worries so successfully that you actually think the war is
over!
_Monday, 5th October._
On to the plain from which one gains a sight of Soissons, the battalion
mounts to visit some old German trenches. There is a fine view of the
town and of the cathedral of Saint-Jean-des-Vignes, one tower of which
has been shot away. Firing continues away towards the north.
Three English companies are drilling: array in skirmish line, advance
against hostile fire, muster in two rows. The various movements are
carried through with all the regularity and precision of a ballet dance.
The thirteenth-century church at Courmelles is delightful to behold;
the apse being pure Roman. We visit it as tourists.