OUR FIRST TRENCHES
_Tuesday, 6th October._
The commander of the company announces that the regiment is to take the
first line, to relieve the English in the trenches of Bucy-le-Long. We
set off gaily at seven in the evening, after taking an affectionate
leave of Girard.
Out in the open, the order comes to fling away our cigarettes. Things
are becoming serious. We pass through the suburbs of Soissons; the
cathedral appears dimly in the moonlight. At the corner of a street
lies a dead horse. All along the main road are the bivouacs of Alpine
troops. Vénizel. Here the English are guarding a level-crossing;
strapping fellows in khaki, who smoke pipes and shout "Good-night!"
to us. Then a bridge, the crossing of the Aisne, an open plain, a
village, a steep hill, a wood as dark as Hades. In spite of the cold
wind we are perspiring freely. It is nearly midnight. We reach a sort
of semi-circle dotted with sheds or huts made of the branches of trees.
The Germans, it appears, are six hundred yards distant. Not a shot is
fired. The night is very clear.
The company halts, and the men immediately lie down flat, with rifles
ready, awaiting orders.
Roberty calls for two volunteers from each squadron to go on post duty.
Reymond and I stand up, and Belin goes with us. The English officer,
who appoints us our places, looks very elegant in his cloak, which
falls behind in broad folds; he leans on a large stick, walks briskly,
and gives his orders and directions with the utmost courtesy and
consideration.
Several hundred yards forward, in the direction of the enemy. Here is
the post line; every two hundred yards a group of six English soldiers
is lying flat on the ground amongst the beetroots, alongside of the
road. They stand erect and we take their places. We admire these
fine-looking soldiers, so well-equipped and under perfect discipline.
In a low tone of voice the officer gives the order to fire upon
everything that passes before us.
Yesterday the English captured a German patrol.
To take post duty at night, in an unfamiliar sector, is a novel
experience. For the first time you have the impression that you are
waging war: war such as your imagination depicted it, war according to
the story-books of your boyhood.
Corporal Belin explains that we must be careful not to take the waving
of a beetroot leaf for the advance of an enemy.
Every two minutes he counts off: one! and each man must answer in file:
two, three, four, five, six.
Thus he makes sure that no one is asleep. The prolonged whistle of the
bullets as they pass makes us open our eyes. We can hear dull sounds in
front of us: the Germans are camping, cutting down trees. A dog barks.
Carts rumble along: the German supplies, no doubt. The roar of cannon
in the distance.
It is bitterly cold. Hoar-frost shows itself on our coats and on the
beetroots. My jacket is in my haversack: I take it out and tie it round
my neck by the sleeves. Impossible to keep warm.
Reymond passes me a small bottle.
"Taste. This must be something especially good; it comes from home."
I take a good drink.
"Gracious! How strong it is! And what a strange taste!"
It is Reymond's turn to drink, he smacks his lips and reflects. Finally
he says--
"I believe it's arnica."
We do our best to keep awake. Belin counts: One! I answer: Two, and a
snore escapes me. A dig in the ribs brings me back to the reality of
things.
"Well! Didn't I say: 'Two'?"
"You did," whispers Belin ironically; "but you said it with a snore."
"Even if I snore, I don't fall asleep."
"That's news to me," affirms Belin with all the authority of his nine
years' campaigns.
The better to keep awake, we begin to talk. Reymond asks a question.
"I say, Belin, this is a real outpost, is it not?"
"Certainly."
"In case of attack, what becomes of the outposts?"
"In case of attack, the outposts are invariably sacrificed," answers
Belin with calm assurance.
_Wednesday, 7th October._
At five o'clock Belin takes us back to the rear. We are dreadfully cold
and our teeth are chattering. A good drink of hot coffee, followed by a
mouthful of brandy, and we fall asleep.
The position dominating Bucy-le-Long and the plain of Vénizel was
carried last month by the English and a body of Zouaves. They drove the
Germans from the valley back to the heights and only halted on reaching
a plain which extends to the horizon, a vast field of beetroots cut by
the main road between Maubeuge and Paris.
The English trenches lay between the hill and the wood. Here and there
are large shelters for seven or eight men, a sort of rabbit-hutch; the
roofs, made of the trunk's of trees, are covered with a thick layer of
earth.
In front of the road, pickets planted in the field in quincunx form and
connected together by wire.
Here and there on the wires hang empty preserve tins, which strike
against each other at the slightest movement. If a hostile patrol
reaches the wire-work, it starts the warning tins, and the alarm is
given. This system of defence we look upon as both formidable and
ingenious.
Everywhere we find evidences of English comfort: the road leading
to the verge of the wood is swept and kept in perfect order; the
descending footpaths are improved with wooden stairs and balustrades,
signposts indicate the direction of the village, of lavatories, etc.
On the slope of the hill are numerous sheds made of boughs, for the
men of the reserve company. Half-way up is a wash-house, surrounded by
flat stones and shaded by oaks. The English have brought spring water,
emptying it into large wooden buckets, so that it is possible to have a
bath whenever one pleases.
We explore this negro "exhibition" sort of village. The enemy is a few
hundred yards distant, though nothing makes us anticipate an attack. A
dead calm, magnificent weather, a soft light gilding the oaks, beeches
and the birch-trees now reddening with the autumn tints.
Our allies and predecessors have left behind quantities of provisions,
tins of corned beef, gallons of whisky and cigarettes. The discovery of
such wealth fills us with childish joy. Decidedly the first line is an
abode of delight, a peaceful haven of rest.
The shelters assigned to Roberty's section are large and substantial,
if not very airy. You enter on all-fours through an opening less than
thirty inches square. This opening serves both as door and window; it
is closed by a screen made of leafy twigs.
"I believe we've struck the vein," says some one, signifying that we
have found a veritable mine of prosperity and happiness.
Guard duty is not very tiring: a couple of hours by day, and the same
number by night.
_Thursday, 8th October._
The very last thing we expected was a holiday. Nothing to do but sleep
and dream, rise late, prattle to one another and write letters. We
lounge about, chatting with the cooks who have lit their fires in some
secluded glade; or else, lying smoking on the grass, gaze upon the
smiling village. In the background, at the other end of the valley,
hills ascending into the grey-blue of the sky. The landscape somewhat
commonplace; though charming, there is nothing theatrical about it.
It is so mild that I take a tub in the open air. To crown our
happiness, the postman brings us a number of letters and parcels.
The German shells pass high above our heads and come crashing down all
over Bucy.
Even night sentry duty is a pleasure, consisting as it does of a stroll
along the road, with some one to talk to all the while. This is the
only time in the day when one can chat at one's ease, talk of Paris and
one's family, exchange ideas which have no bearing on the next meal or
the state of one's stomach. Our safety is assured by the outposts. A
glorious moonlight night, the peace of which is but emphasized by the
firing of the sentries.
_Friday, 9th October._
We have not yet received our coverings; the consequence being that
we awake with frozen limbs. This morning, the country is white with
hoar-frost. Belin makes us chocolate in the morning, a rice pudding
at noon, and tea at four. Considerable freedom is allowed in the
composition of the meals, which last three hours. At lunch we begin
with sardines and eggs, followed by apple marmalade. Then Jules arrives
from Bucy, bringing with him a roasted fowl, every morsel of which we
eat. Lastly, the cooks of the squadron bring soup and coffee.
War is full of unexpected incidents: a month of the second line had
utterly exhausted us; whereas the close proximity of the enemy now
gives us the impression of a picnic.... All the same, one of the
outpost men has just been killed.
At ten in the evening, the 352nd is relieved and leaves the first
line for a three days' rest in the rear. We are broken-hearted at the
prospect.
The battalion is quartered at Acy-le-Haut, on the left bank of the
Aisne.
_Saturday, 10th; Sunday, 11th; and Monday, 12th October._
Jules has found for Roberty, Maxence, Reymond, Verrier and myself,
a house where the mistress consents to cook for us and lend us
mattresses. Varlet, who is to remain at the official quarters in his
capacity as cook, promises to warn us in case of alarm. Our landlady
looks after us like a mother; for lunch she serves us with roast veal,
and for dinner with beef stewed in _daube_. These we shall look back
upon amongst our souvenirs of the war....
On Sunday morning, Gabriel, a sergeant of the 21st, former
quartermaster of the 27th at Humes, was killed at drill! Whilst
rectifying the position of one of his men, he shook the rifle which was
still loaded. The shot went off without the trigger, which was very
loose, being touched. The poor fellow received the bullet full in the
mouth.
The interment takes place in the afternoon. The coffin is carried
through the streets of Acy. All the women of the village have brought
flowers. Behind the body walks Belin, holding up the cross, his
Moroccan and Algerian medals on his breast. Gabriel was head of the
section: his men follow with hastily prepared wreaths. The 21st company
renders the usual funeral honours.
Absolution is pronounced in the church. The windows are broken to
pieces; their debris still hang from the bays.
The silence is profound. Gabriel was much loved and willingly obeyed.
This very week he was to have been appointed sub-lieutenant. Nothing is
more heart-breaking than to die by accident in war.
On Monday evening we return to the trenches. There is a rumour that the
Germans have taken Antwerp.
_Tuesday, 13th October._
When it rains, the first line loses its charm. The whole day must be
spent lying flat on the ground, for the ceiling of the dug-out is too
low to allow of a sitting posture. In wet weather the hours spent on
sentry duty pass very slowly.
This evening, at seven, whilst quietly chattering away by
lantern-light, firing is heard on the left. We look at one another. The
firing draws nearer.
Roberty orders us to pick up our rifles. We are soon running along the
road, slightly crouching forward, for the bullets strike branches of
trees on a level with our heads.
We rejoin the rest of the section and take aim. Belin hesitates before
ordering us to fire.
"Wait until we see the lights of the enemy's fire."
But no light appears, and after half an hour the firing inexplicably
ceases. We return. At midnight another alarm, as incomprehensible as
the former. Three or four men are wounded. The utmost calm throughout
the rest of the night.
_Wednesday, 14th; Thursday, 15th; Friday, 16th; Saturday, 17th October._
We are evidently carrying on a siege war, though of course no one
expected that it would be a ride over. Apart from the four hours'
sentry duty, we have nothing to do. Jules continues to go backwards and
forwards between the trenches and Bucy for supplies. The fire for our
own private cooking is not allowed to die out.
Last night Reymond and myself were up from one till three. A terrible
artillery duel was being fought in the right sector, towards Vailly.
The sky was streaked with great flashes of light. No firing on our side.
We are sitting close to our dug-out, discussing Wagner, rifle in hand.
The conversation, which began on a low key, quickly grows animated,
and the hum of our voices goes out upon the night air. Suddenly the
leafy screen, which serves as a door, divides, and Roberty appears on
all-fours. His head is enveloped in a _passe-montagne_ and the little
we see of his face expresses annoyance and irritation.
"Aren't you two going to hold your tongues?"
"Well, we are only having a word or two. Cannot one talk in war-time?"
"You've been preventing me from sleeping the last quarter of an hour,
with your intellectual...."
"Intellectual, indeed! Didn't you go to the _Ecole Normale_ as a boy?"
"You're a couple of idiots. If I hear another word, you must take the
consequences."
He disappears into his kennel. We resume our conversation, though
almost in a whisper.
_Sunday, 18th October._
The regiment quarters on the other bank of the Aisne, at Billy. Jules
has gone on in advance with some of the men, to make preparations. He
finds a suitable house. We take advantage of the darkness to slip away
without a sound, after telling the rest of the squadron where to find
us in case of alarm. The house is comfortable, and there are beds in
it. Roberty, feeling unwell, rests on one of them.
_Monday, 19th October._
What an extraordinary war! We have had nothing to do for three weeks!
To-day: more "labour" to ensure bodily cleanliness.
At night we loiter slipshod about the house and try to read. We are
bored to death.
_Tuesday, 20th; Wednesday, 21st; Thursday, 22nd; Friday, 23rd October._
The same monotonous idle life in quarters. A couple of hours' exercise
in the morning. Review in the afternoon: hair review, for instance.
Before the men, bare-headed and standing at attention, passes the
lieutenant, who judges whether or not each individual's hair is of the
regulation length. With certain dishevelled shocks facing him, he makes
a gesture indicative of despair, as though he would conjure them away.
The barber follows, note-book in hand, jotting down the names of those
who are to pass through his hands.
What is the reason of this aversion for the clipper? And why does the
soldier insist on being long-haired? Is it because the ancient Gauls
were long-haired? Anyhow, there is an eternal struggle between the
officers, solicitous of the men's health, and the _poilus_, who think
more of the esthetic side of the matter--generally a debatable one.
There is again a rumour that our regiment is to be sent for a rest
into the centre of France. The cooks of the first squadron mention
Bourges; those of the ninth, Tours.
Another rumour is that Germany is proposing peace to Russia.
_Saturday, 24th October._
As we see from letters and newspapers, civilians share in all the
agitation and excitement of the war. We are out of all this. By the
aid of successive communiqués, those left behind follow the various
incidents of the great war on all the fronts at once. Perhaps, too,
they receive the _Bulletin des Armées_, not a single number of which we
have yet seen....
They will not have lost a crumb of information! Whereas for a month and
a half we have been moving from quarters to outposts and back again,
thinking of nothing but eating and drinking, sleeping and resisting
cold. At bottom, nothing more resembles the army on a peace footing
than the army on a war footing: fatigue duty, reviews, cleaning and
polishing arms, sentry duty, and musters. Nor can the soldier be said
to be more serious.... To-morrow, it may be, we shall have to leave the
trenches and fight. Good, that is our business, the thing we are here
to do. When the moment comes, shall we feel ourselves carried away in
a whirl of excitement, as civilians do? Nothing of the kind. We shall
crawl along the ground, make a few rushes, perhaps have a fall, though
without seeing or understanding anything. And on the morrow, unless we
are dead, we shall return to oblivion.
Even courage--and there _is_ such a thing--is but a matter of habit,
one might almost say of negligence. We do not excite ourselves about
shells; if we did, life would be altogether impossible; the French
soldier will not admit that anything should make a complete change in
his existence. Accordingly, he comes and goes, gets into and out of
scrapes and difficulties as though nothing mattered.
But we _do_ get bored, because present-day warfare is colourless and
dull, like our uniforms. Those at home, however, suppose us to be in
the thick of it all the time, standing with bayonet fixed and head
flung back, ferocious and hirsute, blood-stained and sublime. Is it in
this light that history will depict us? I hope not, both for its own
sake and for our own.
Now I must be off to clean some potatoes. The battalion is returning to
the trenches shortly.