TWENTY-TWO DAYS IN THE TRENCHES
_Sunday, 25th October._
Roberty, our lieutenant, has been evacuated. We saw him leave in the
ambulance. We are very sorry, as he is the first friend to drop out of
our life so far.
Two months' intimacy, pleasure and pain shared hourly by us all, have
enabled us to appreciate at his true worth this officer with whom
Reymond and myself have been on the most intimate terms, and who
valued his rank only in so far as it enabled him to make the life of
his men more tolerable. I am not speaking merely of ourselves, his
close friends; every soldier of the section did more than obey him.
They dreaded his displeasure, and looked quite discomfited if by
any chance they had made him angry. Roberty slept on straw with the
first squadron, partaking of the same food as the rest. He cheerfully
performed every duty that fell to an officer's lot.
Every evening, in the trenches, he went himself to arrange about the
outposts. His task finished, he would come back to us in our shelter
and engage in a friendly chat and smoke.
"Even in the Foreign Legion," remarked Belin, "I never saw that done."
Raising his index finger, he added--
"But though he made himself one of us, I never respected any officer
more than I respected him."
No, we were not very gay last night as we gathered sorrowfully round
our lieutenant's bed.
"So it's decided that you are to go?" I said to him. "Well, there'll be
precious little fun in fighting with you away!"
He was suffering much, and made no answer. When, however, the
stretcher-bearers came for him, he spoke to us somewhat after the
fashion in which Mazarin, on his death-bed, recommended Colbert to the
youthful Louis XIV--
"My children, though I have done much for you, I crown all my kindness
by leaving you Jules. You have seen him at work; he has every possible
vice. Make use of his virtues as well."
Once more we admired the goodness and generosity of our kind chief,
whom, alas! we were to lose. Our last words were--
"Thanks for everything. You have been a real brother to us, and we will
never forget you."
Then the ambulance carried him off. Immediately afterwards we found
Jules in a corner, looking the picture of despair. The lieutenant's
departure was for him the end of a dream.
"Come here, Jules. The lieutenant has advised us to take you along.
Will you come?"
"Of course," replied Jules. "We shall get along all right. Just now the
adjutant asked me if I would do something for him. He did not even
look at me! And that, after being the lieutenant's orderly! Naturally I
would rather be with you."
With Roberty away, one of the charms of the war has disappeared.
Everybody in the section looks troubled and careworn. Never again shall
we see his like!
Our friend Varlet takes off his apron as a sign of mourning. He has
been the cook of the squadron.
"The lieutenant," he says, "is the first man I ever took pleasure in
obeying. Now that he is gone, I will cook no more!"
_Monday, 26th October._
It may be on account of the departure of the lieutenant, anyhow, the
jovial pleasant life of the past no longer obtains in the first line.
This morning we are told to dig a branch, i.e. a winding passage
between five and six feet in height, which will link up the old English
trenches with the outpost line. The enemy is firing.
A sergeant, who left Humes with the Roberty detachment, receives a
bullet in his head. The stretcher-bearers who carry him off pass
right in front of us. The wounded man looks as lifeless as a log. The
dressing about his forehead is red with blood. We salute, and then dig
away with pick and shovel harder than ever.
At nightfall the company occupies a new sector in a wood, on the top
of a hillock. Here there are no more trenches, but instead, along the
road which ascends and descends between the trees, are huts made of
branches and earth, capable of sheltering three of us at most.
_Tuesday, 27th October._
A day of rest, with the sun shining upon us. We have received blankets
and coverings. They are very welcome.
Artillery duel. The game has its rules. This morning, for instance,
it is the Germans who silence the French artillery; i.e. they cover
with projectiles our supposed emplacements or sites. Whilst this is
happening, our gunners leave their cannons deep buried in the ground
and go away for a quiet pipe in a safe shelter. When the Germans cease
firing the French will begin. Then the maddening crack of the 75's,
the hoarse coughing sound of the 105's, and the 155's will indicate
that the turn of the French artillery has come to reduce the enemy to
silence.
All this firing goes on far above the head of the foot-soldier. Still,
it is to be hoped that no shot, fired too short, may fall on our group
and involve us in the discussion, in spite of ourselves.
Whilst this cannonade is going on we write letters, looking up from
time to time to see where the little puffs of smoke mark the explosions.
_Wednesday, 28th October._
A bad night. Yesterday, at muster, Sergeant Chaboy explains--
"The first and second squadrons are ordered to leave the trenches. You
will advance 150 yards nearer the enemy. There you will dig an advance
trench. You will have your work cut out to be completely underground by
dawn. You understand?"
It is quite clear. At nine o'clock the half-section is mustered. It
has rained, and the road through the wood is muddy and slippery. A few
resounding falls. We reach the entrance of the winding passage. Some
parts are so narrow that we cannot negotiate them either front face or
sideways, because of haversack and _musette_. Thereupon we force our
way through, causing clods of earth to fall to the bottom. The depth
of the branch is not the same throughout; from time to time we have to
proceed on all-fours. A _gamelle_, a bayonet or a can are noisy objects
which respond to the slightest touch.
On reaching the outpost trenches the men scale the parapet. This must
be done quickly and in silence. At the faintest sound the Germans would
begin a hellish fire; the French would return it, and between the two
we should be swept away.
The sergeant says in low tones--
"This is the spot. Crouch down and begin."
Some of the men have shovels, others work with knives and bayonets, but
principally with their hands. In half an hour every man has erected a
small parapet.
Perspiration is pouring from us. At that moment it begins to rain. We
continue to dig.
In front of the workers some of the men keep watch, hidden in the
beetroots. They try to see through the darkness if anything stirs in
front.
About two in the morning my hole is about three feet deep, and is
protected by nearly two feet of earth. I am covered with mud. Utterly
exhausted, I fling myself down by the side of the trench, and, wrapping
my cover over my head to protect me from the rain, I fall into a heavy
sleep and begin to snore. My neighbour wakes me with a crack on the
head from his shovel handle.
"Idiot! do you want them to use us as a target?" he remarks affably.
"I'm too sleepy to care whether they do or not."
Whereupon I turn over on to my side and fall asleep again. An hour
afterwards I awake, quite frozen, and begin to dig with renewed vigour.
The deeper the trench becomes the fewer precautions do we take. At dawn
we chatter and laugh aloud. The Germans make no sign of life; perhaps
they are afraid of the rain.
What luck! We are relieved by two fresh squadrons. We reach the second
line, listening as we go to the good-humoured banter of men who have
spent the night under cover.
A pretty picture we make! For a hood I have flung over my head a
potato-sack, and over my shoulders a wet bed-cover, as our grandmothers
used to do with their cashmere shawls. Hands and coats, _képis_ and
puttees are all covered with sticky yellow mud, whilst our rifles are
useless, owing to the barrel being stopped up and the mechanism filled
with earth.
_Thursday, 29th October._
The 24th have spent the night in the grotto, the paradise of the
trench. The grotto is the name we have given to a deep subterranean
quarry, whose passages, thirty feet in height, penetrate right into the
hillock.
It has three passages. In the right one a room appears as though it had
been specially constructed for our squadron; this we win by main force.
Of course, it is as dark as an oven, so we fix wax candles in the
jutting ledges. A bayonet dug into the ground with a candle tied on to
the handle is used by such as want a light for their own personal use.
Here we are in perfect safety. This is one of the few places on the
front where one is completely sheltered from any kind of projectile. In
these depths we scarcely hear the roar of the cannon at all.
At nightfall the entrance assumes quite a romantic aspect: a Hindu
temple or Egyptian hypogeum, with its blue shadows and vivid lights. By
moonlight it would make a fitting scene for the witches in Macbeth. Not
long ago we should have spoken of Fafner's cave, _Fafner's Höhle_!
In the interior the sharp-edged stone also gives the impression of
theatrical cardboard scenery; the atmosphere is that of the Quarter:
shouts, songs, and laughter, ringing commands echoed by the sonorous
vaults--
"The 24th, get the potatoes ready!"
"Muster for fatigue duty!"
And so on. No need to speak in whispers or to put oneself under the
slightest restraint. This is a real place of refuge, rendered neutral
by nature, and in the direct line of fire. Neither rain nor shot has
any chance at all.
Until further orders the company will spend one night in the trenches
and one in the grotto alternately.
The letters! Milliard the postman's service has become an official one.
Henriot has been appointed to help him. No fear of this latter botching
the correspondence; he passes the whole of his time in writing endless
letters which his wife answers with equal patience and enthusiasm.
Whenever by chance the post brings him nothing, Henriot falls into a
state of grim silence and replies to all questions with an injured
sneer.
_Friday, 30th October._
Since last evening there has been a continuous fusillade in the
direction of the fort of Condé. The Germans are furiously bombarding
the second line of our sector. A convoy of munitions passes along the
road. Two gunners are wounded. We hear them cry out in the night--
"This way, comrades! Help! Ah! ah!"
An aeroplane skims over the lines. We judge by the sound of the motor
that it is flying very low.
At daybreak the bombardment redoubles in intensity, and continues
all day long. Our batteries reply, the 155's, as they pass over the
trenches, making a sound which resembles the rustling of a gigantic
silk dress.
Silence follows. We needed it badly. Fortunately, the company sleeps in
the grotto. At eight o'clock, well wrapped in their bed-covers and with
a muffler round the neck and head resting on haversack, the men sleep
the sleep of perfect security.
_Saturday, 31st October._
The section is on picket. Every time an aeroplane passes and the
lieutenant, armed with his glasses, declares it to belong to the enemy,
we fire at it. From time to time the machine may pitch a little, or
ascend out of reach. Assuredly, this is not the sort of game for
foot-soldiers.
The commander of the company to-day addressed us as follows--
"Above the grotto are buried four Englishmen, killed here last month.
On All Saints' Day you would not like their tombs, which you have seen
so often, to appear neglected. Make some wreaths, and we will all go
together and place them on the graves of those who died in defence of
our soil. It is not your commander, it is your comrade who asks this of
you."
The men silently leave the ranks and set out into the wood. In less
than an hour they have made up beautiful wreaths of ivy and holly.
Chrysanthemums have been found in a garden which the Germans had
forgotten to plunder. The graves, indicated by a couple of crosses,
have become pretty tombs, similar to those one sees in a village
cemetery.
The entire company lined up on the hillock for the simple ceremony. Our
lieutenant saluted in memory of our unknown brothers who have given
their lives for France. We shouted aloud: "_Vive l'Angleterre!_" The
picket rendered the honours due, and each man returned to his post.
These dead heroes are Lieutenant B. MacCuire and Privates H.C. Dover,
R. Byrne, and Ford, of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers.
In offering these flowers to their memory, our thoughts were directed
to the mourning families of the dead soldiers.
_Sunday, 1st November._
A hot sun and a brilliant day, the right weather for a fête. The first
line is calmer than ever. Not a cannon shot is heard.
_Monday, 2nd November._
Three months since mobilization took place. We must allow for another
three months before peace is declared. I have a row with Reymond
because he pushed me and upset my coffee. Quarrel. Reymond is chosen to
go on outpost duty; I ask permission to accompany him. Reconciliation.
Corporal Davor conducts us through the winding passages, comes out in
the field of beetroot, gets lost and makes straight for the German
lines. He discovers his mistake just in time and we beat a retreat.
Sergeant Chaboy, making his round, stops to have a few words with us.
"Expect to be fired upon shortly," he says. "An attack is brewing from
the direction of Condé."
After a silence, he adds--
"If the shells fall in too great numbers you may withdraw."
"When do shells fall in too great numbers for an outpost?" asks the
corporal timidly.
With a vague gesture, the sergeant leaves us to solve the problem
ourselves.
The moon is at the full, and it is so light that Reymond is able to
make a sketch and I to write a letter, as we await the promised attack.
Nothing happens, however. Sleep is our only enemy. Reymond puts on his
poncho, wraps a red silk handkerchief round his head, and, pretending
to strum away on a shovel as though it were a mandolin, softly hums a
_malagueña_.
_Tuesday, 3rd November._
The lieutenant calls out--
"I want some one with his wits about him to act as telephonist at the
artillery observation post."
I modestly step forward.
After a moment's hesitation the lieutenant remarks--
"Good! Off you go."
I reach the first line trench. An emplacement two yards square has
been dug in the trench branch and covered with corrugated sheet-iron.
An artillery captain is seated here on a high stool looking through a
telescope. By his side is the telephone.
The captain explains--
"I am off to inspect my battery. During my absence, sit here and keep
your eyes glued to the telescope. What you see is one of the entrances
of the fort of Condé, about five kilometres distant. If you find the
enemy mustering, telephone immediately. The spot is marked, our guns
will be fired, and you will be able to see what happens."
I take up my post. After a short time small silhouettes begin to
move about within the field of vision. Gradually I make out German
foot-soldiers coming and going unarmed. Evidently they have mustered
for some fatigue duty or other. For the first time there appears before
my eyes the horrifying spectacle of invasion--the enemy's forces moving
about on French territory as though it were their own.
Quitting the telescope, I spring to the telephone.
"Battery number 90!... _Mon capitaine_, a muster is forming.... Yes, at
the very spot you mentioned."
Four almost simultaneous detonations from the battery. Whilst the salvo
is on its way I return to the telescope; the four shells fall right on
the muster, raising into the air enormous columns of earth. The smoke
dissipates. Staring with all my eyes, I see little grey figures scatter
in every direction. Five cavalry, riding just outside the zone of
explosion, dig their spurs into their horses' sides and flee. Not a
living soul to be seen. Looking hard, I imagine I notice dead bodies on
the ground.
Apparently, at the spot under surveillance, there are works to be
completed, for on three occasions that morning fresh musters form. I do
not succeed in making out what they are doing, but on each occasion a
salvo from the battery scatters them.
The captain to whom I wire the results is delighted.
"Don't let them go," he answers. "Any movement in the spot marked will
be dealt with as the others have been. They have no idea where we are."
I return to my watch. A mere foot-soldier in charge of a battery may
well feel proud. How nice to be some one "with his wits about him."
_Wednesday, 4th; Thursday, 5th November._
My rôle as observer is rendered ineffectual by a dense mist.
Alpine infantry from the _Midi_ relieve us. The company goes down
to quarter at Bucy-le-Long. We have now been in the trenches twelve
days. None the less do we receive the order to "be ready for every
eventuality."
_Friday, 6th November._
After a passable night in the cellar of a house in ruins, we send out
Jules, as usual, to find decent lodging for us. He does so and brings
us to see it. It is a large bedroom where it is possible for us to
remove our boots, change our linen, shave, and generally make ourselves
presentable. The luncheon is a substantial one. Seated round the table,
we look almost like normal human beings once more. Besides, our hands
are actually clean!
This night, our undressed carcasses slip into white bed-clothes. It is
two months since we have had such a treat!
_Saturday, 7th November._
At six in the morning Varlet enters like a whirlwind--
"Get up at once, lazy-bones! Muster in half an hour."
"Bah! You're joking!"
"Come now; quick, into your clothes! We are going back to the trenches."
So this is the promised eventuality!
At half-past six the company musters in a farmyard. The order to
leave has not yet come. Seated on our haversacks, we snatch a hasty
breakfast. Fortunately, Reymond has received some good cigars, which he
passes round. He sings us a Spanish song--
_Padre capucino mata su mujer,
La corta en pedazos, la pone a cocer.
Gente que pasaba olia tocino:
Era la mujer del padre capucino._
This means: "The Capuchin monk has killed his wife, cut her in pieces
and set her to cook. The passers-by say there is a smell of burning
fat. That's what is left of the wife of the Capuchin monk."
This absurd song puts us in good humour.
At three o'clock, _en route_ for the trenches. The men say to one
another--
"We are off at last."
For the moment at least the company is to support the batteries
installed in the wood above the road from Bucy to Margival. The 75's
are booming away. What is going to happen? Nothing at all. Night falls.
We sit or lie on the ground along the road awaiting orders, chatting,
smoking, and jesting to kill time. Milliard and Henriot mount the hill.
We prepare to receive them. But how is it that they are armed and
equipped? Above all, why do they come empty-handed? And that, just at
the time we expect our letters? Milliard simply remarks--
"Well, we're here."
Henriot is in one of his silent moods; we can get nothing out of him.
"Where are the letters?"
"Letters, letters," says Milliard, irritated, "you all think of nothing
but your letters."
This reply fills us with consternation. Something serious must have
happened for our postman to speak in this strain.
Some one remarks peevishly--
"The company is to attack this evening or to-morrow morning. If any
one gets a bullet through the head and dies without receiving his
letters it will be all your fault."
Milliard makes a gesture expressive of regret.
"You see," he confesses timidly, "Henriot and I have just heard that
the 24th is to attack, and so we simply left the letters to look after
themselves. We thought you might not be pleased; but then, really, we
had not the heart to remain behind."
Henriot the taciturn screws up his courage to add a final sentence--
"We could not leave our mates to be killed all by themselves."
Then a harsh voice is heard saying--
"It's all very fine to come along and get killed with one's comrades.
But if you fall, there will be no one to attend to the correspondence.
And once more our letters will be left lying about anywhere! You've
thought only of yourselves in the whole matter."
At seven o'clock the 24th retires to the grotto to sleep.
_Sunday, 8th November._
Sabbath rest until five in the evening. Evidently there is to be an
attack. Instead of returning to our huts in the wood, we follow the
path leading to Crouy alongside of our former trenches. At half-past
six firing is heard; our infantry are beginning the assault. Violent
cannonade on both sides. Lights flash through the dark sky. Lying on
our backs, with rifle within reach, we wait for the shells to fall
in our small corner. We chat and laugh to make the time pass more
pleasantly.
I exchange with Reymond a few confidential remarks, justified by the
impending danger. Some one on all-fours pulls me by the sleeve. It
is Belin, and he wears a most serious look. Belin is no longer our
corporal, alas! he was appointed sergeant to the 21st last month.
"Ah! It's you, is it?"
"Well!"
"Listen, I have news for you."
We twist round, and with heads touching one another, Belin continues--
"This is very serious. The captain has just called together the heads
of the sections and explained to them the mission on which he is
sending our two companies. The engineers are going to destroy with
melinite the German barbed-wire; they are to be protected by two
patrols of eight men each."
"Well?"
"Then the 21st and the 24th will attack the trench."
"Not a bad programme," remarks Reymond, filling his pipe.
"I don't consider it one bit reasonable," says Belin gravely. "We shall
all be demolished."
Silence. Reymond lights his pipe, his head buried in the lap of my
coat, so that the flash from his flint may not be seen.
"I came straight away to warn you," adds Belin.
"Very good of you, old fellow, to think of us. But what can we do in
the matter?"
"Nothing at all."
"Shall we tell the others?"
"No, indeed! I mentioned the matter to you because you are old friends.
But you must not utter a word to the rest; it would only make them
uneasy."
This reflection on the part of the sly old fellow makes us quite proud.
A grasp of the hand in the dark, a muttered word of thanks, and Belin
glides away as noiselessly as he came.
"Maxence, Verrier!" we call out softly.
"What is it?"
"Come here!"
On their approach we give them the news. They merit such confidence
just as much as we do.
Then we await the order to attack. Unless.... For, after all, what
is an order? We used to discuss the point with Roberty. It is what
immediately precedes a counter-order.
And, as a matter of fact, the order is countermanded. It is half-past
ten.
The company is put in reserve; swallowed up in a quarry, somewhat
similar to our usual grotto, though the entrance is dangerous.
We gain access to it along a narrow passage, very slippery, steep and
winding; a sort of toboggan covered with pebbles.
A candle, quick! We gather round the flame.
"Boys," says Reymond, "since we are not going to die immediately,
suppose we break into my best _pâté de foie gras_?"
Agreed unanimously. We summon Varlet and Jacquard, and the six of us
devour some famous sandwiches. Unfortunately, there is nothing to drink.
And now to sleep. We unfasten the bed-covers and extinguish the candle.
It is midnight.
Five minutes afterwards, alarm! Everybody is on his feet. The attack is
to take place at dawn. We silently leave the grotto. The two patrols
whose duty it is to crawl to the enemy's barbed-wire are appointed.
They start, escorted by engineers, who carry large white petards nailed
to planks.
The section penetrates into a broad, deep branch, dug by the English a
month ago. Endless zigzags. Finally we reach a path lined with lofty
poplars. It is pitch-dark and very cold. We tumble into holes, and feel
about for corners where we may sit down and take a moment's breath. The
ground is covered with frozen mud. Where are we? Where is the enemy?
An order is whispered round--
"When you hear an explosion, you must jump out of the trench and run
forward as fast as you can. Pass on the order."
We pass it on. What is most troublesome in an attack is the waiting
part. I sit down against a tree and lean on my haversack, which I do
not remove. My feet are in a hole. Maxime and I press against each
other for support and warmth. We fall into a deep sleep. Another Sunday
wasted!
_Monday, 9th November._
We awake at dawn and rub our eyes. Well! What of the attack?
"There has been no attack without us," says Maxence.
It has not taken place, after all. The adjutant at the head of the
patrol recognized the impossibility of reaching the German wires
unseen. Belin was right; the programme could not be realized.... We
must try something else.
We find ourselves in a ravine close to the road leading to Maubeuge;
in front is a field of beetroots, lying amongst which are the bodies
of two Zouaves. The ravine has been converted into a trench by the
English, who have constructed here and there little straw-thatched
huts. Though the rain has stopped, we splash about in the mud; the
mist is icy-cold. We try to keep out the cold with mufflers, gloves,
_passe-montagne_; but--how are we to warm our poor feet? It is useless
to stamp the soles of our boots on the ground, or knock them against
the trunk of a tree. The soup reaches us in a congealed condition.
At three o'clock the infantry come to replace us. Gladly do we give way
to them, and the company retires to Bucy. We sleep at "La Rémoise," a
combined café and grocer's store. The mistress agrees to serve dinner
and allows us to sleep under the tables of the large dining-room, on
the floor. Quite enough to satisfy us this evening.
_Tuesday, 10th November._
At "La Rémoise" we do not feel at home; we must find something better.
On the other side of the street is a house intact. There I find two old
people, brother and sister, and after a little bargaining they consent
to receive Maxime, Verrier, Reymond, myself, and Jules, for Roberty's
former orderly will not leave us. I go off to inform my mates that I
have found a lodging-place.
"Bring all your belongings, I have found a _ratayon_ and a _ratayonne_
willing to provide us with meals and sleeping accommodation."
In the dialect of Soisson, a _ratayon_ is an ancestor.
The house is all on the ground-floor, and is entered by five stone
steps. Two windows and the door in the middle. The kitchen is in a
small building to the right.
Our hosts sleep on mattresses in the cellar. They leave us the two main
rooms, and light a small stove which speedily warms the place.
The brother shows me a shell from a 210 gun, and splinters of the same
calibre. These he has placed on the window-sill, a place where one
would expect to see a petunia.
"I picked up these dirty things in the yard," he explains.
The sister asks us what we do as civilians. Reymond is a painter, to
confess which somewhat worries the old dame. But Maxence is a landed
proprietor, and Verrier a government official....
"I see you are respectable young men," she remarks. "And so I will fry
you some potatoes."
"A good idea, but would you mind--though we don't insist on
this--frying a pailful of them?"
"Very well, and for dinner I will stew a rabbit."
Excellent. We brush our coats and give ourselves a good wash with hot
water. We spend the whole day in the neighbourhood of the stove, and
taste the full delight of being warm and clean.
At twilight the _ratayonne_ brings in an oil-lamp. What a nice pleasant
thing an oil-lamp is! It immediately fills one with a sense of intimacy
and quiet.
The old lady enters with a pot of boiling tea. She sets a bowl before
each of us, brings small teaspoons and powdered sugar, and adds--
"The rabbit will be ready at half-past seven. It is a fine plump one."
We chat away. The war news is good.
"Everything seems to point to peace before long. The whole of Europe
will be exhausted within three months from now."
Such are the declarations I do not hesitate to utter. The rest nod
their heads in approval. Verrier, however, is by nature an enemy to all
joy, and so he adds--
"Then you were making a fool of me when you told me at Fontenoy that
the war would last a couple of years! What true prophets you are!"
A great roar of laughter silences him.
"Better prophesy," says another, "the possible departure of the 352nd
for a town in the centre. This is looked upon as certain, and it would
suit me splendidly."
"If only we could get away from the roar of the guns for a fortnight!"
"Don't be too full of self-pity; life is worth living to-night, at all
events."
And indeed our refuge seems the very abode of peace and quiet.
The door opens noisily, and Varlet, a short, bearded man, smoking a
thick pipe, shouts out--
"We are going back to the trenches."
We all exclaim--
"No, no! We have heard that tale already; you told it us the day before
yesterday."
"Well," jeers Varlet, "it wasn't a joke then, and to-night it's a
serious matter. Muster in twenty minutes. Get ready."
Thereupon we make a rush to our haversacks. Everything is scattered
about: boots and suspenders, bed-clothes and tins of preserves.
Everybody speaks at once.
"You're taking my belongings!"
"Look a little more carefully. Surely I know my own business!"
"We shall meet again in the trenches."
A couple of hours will surely be insufficient to restore order out
of such chaos. All the same, twenty minutes after the arrival of
the messenger of woe, we have rejoined the section, fully armed and
equipped, perspiring and out of breath, though not forgetting a single
pin.
Our hosts are at the door. The old dame is heartbroken. She keeps
repeating--
"You cannot go without dinner, you poor creatures! What of my rabbit?
Since you have paid for it, take it with you. Are you going away on an
empty stomach?"
"We cannot help it! Such are the horrors of war!"
We glance round the little house and take our departure, somewhat
angrily, though we pass it off as though some one had played us a
practical joke.
We muster in the dark.
"Number off in fours!"
Each man barks out his number. Then comes the command--
"Right wheel! Quick march!"
"Where are we going, sergeant?"
"Back to the grotto, to spend the night."
And to think of our poor stew! I now understand why the word "rabbit"
is sometimes used to express a rendez-vous which comes to nothing.
_Wednesday, 11th November._
Distribution of tent canvas to each man. At three o'clock the company
mounts to the outposts. Verrier, who has been unwell for some days
past, remains in the grotto. It rains the first part of the night.
In the first-line trenches there is no cover: two upright walls of mud.
We sit on the ground when we are tired. Maxence says--
"Fling a cover over my head, so that I may smoke a cigarette without
being seen."
Not a shot fired to-day.
_Thursday, 12th November._
A fine, cold day. The morning mist clears away. Absolute calm. At eight
o'clock the cooks, fully equipped and with rifles slung across their
shoulders, bring in the soup. A bad sign. They say--
"The company attacks at a quarter-past ten."
"Ah! Good!"
The chiefs of the section confirm the news. The men whistle in a tone
that is full of meaning. This time it seems to be serious.
Charensac, a big fellow, is particularly lively. Though no longer a
cook, he is in possession of the latest news.
"General attack along the whole front," he explains.
Then he gives forth one of his war-cries--
"_Oh dis!_ _Oh dis!_ _Oh dis!_ _Oh dis!_"
Charensac is fond of uttering cries devoid of meaning.
We walk to and fro in the trench. The artillery are preparing the
attack, and the shells shriek past overhead. The enemy makes no reply.
What a din! Impossible to think at all.
Verrier, who, acknowledged to be ill, had remained in the grotto all
yesterday, comes rushing up, perspiring and out of breath.
"What are you doing here? This is not the time----"
"It is not the time to leave one's mates," he replies.
He seats himself on the ground and waits.
"Suppose we open a few tins of food," remarks Reymond. "I feel terribly
hungry."
Reymond is always ready for a bite or a sup. Nor is he ever
downhearted. The acceptance of the inevitable forms part of his hygiene.
We eat, standing, a piece of tunny with our fingers, after cutting
slices of bread which serve as plates. Impossible to exchange a dozen
words. The explosions of the 75's double in intensity. The roar is
deafening.
Quarter-past ten. Forward. The fourth section leaves the trenches.
The fusillade gives out a ripping sound with almost brutal effect.
The first section, our own, proceeds one by one into a branch, which
gradually becomes less deep, and finally runs out on to the open
ground. The bullets whistle past. We run ahead with bent bodies, one
hand clutching the rifle, the other preventing the bayonet sheath from
beating against the leg. It is our business to reach what seems part of
a trench a hundred yards ahead, where we shall find temporary shelter.
Verrier stumbles. The thought comes to me--
"There! He's hit!"
Running up to him, I call out--
"Wounded?"
He makes a vague sign indicating that he is not hurt, but points to his
panting breast. He has no more breath left.
Here is the trench, into which we leap. Now the bullets pass over our
heads.
Reymond is by my side. The spurt has put us out of breath also. We
smile at each other.
"Things are serious this morning, eh?"
"I should think so!"
The firing becomes more intense. Some one in front cries--
"_Maman!_"
We all give a start and look at each other. Who is the man who uttered
that shriek of distress?
We hear some one say--
"It's Mignard. He is killed."
From eight to ten men of the section engaged crawl towards us, groaning
and moaning.
Little Ramel is amongst them, but he says not a word. His face is
perfectly calm as he advances on all-fours.
"What's the matter with you, Ramel?"
"A ball in the abdomen."
We check our impulse to exclaim "_Diable!_" and help him to come down
into the trench without shaking him. Poor Ramel, the life and soul of
his squadron! He talks quietly to his comrades, and dies in the course
of the night.
Another has been hit a fraction of an inch from his eye; the bullet has
ploughed his cheek and passed out near the cerebellum. A circuit. He
walks sturdily along, and calls out to us--
"Don't I look pretty?"
We hardly dare look at him, the sight is so frightful. One entire
half of his face is streaming with blood, the other half is laughing.
Evidently the poor fellow has not begun to suffer yet, for he remarks
blusteringly--
"This isn't the time to ogle the ladies, is it?" And he points to his
torn eye.
Corporal Buche also drags himself along, making signs that he is in
pain. Through shot and shell his moans reach us.
Poor Buche! When we crossed Paris, as we came from the depot, he sent
for his wife. Mad with joy, she arrived at the Gare Saint-Lazare, and,
in spite of the rush and tumult, immediately found her man. And how she
kissed and embraced him! It lasted half an hour, without a word being
spoken. From time to time they stopped to gaze into each other's eyes
at arm's length. Then the kissing began again.
Finally Madame Buche raised her face towards us and declared stoutly--
"We were married on the 1st of August, 1914. I suppose you think this
very droll?"
"Not at all!"
Certainly it is anything but droll now to see Buche wounded, tortured
by pain. Jestingly we had said to his wife--
"Don't take it so much to heart, Madame Buche; he's sure to come back,
you love him so well."
He comes right up to us, and we question him--
"Is it a bad wound?"
"I should think so. My elbow's completely shattered. It hurts
abominably."
"Only your elbow? Lucky fellow! We were beginning to be afraid it might
be serious."
"What! Isn't it enough?"
"Off you go now, old man. You have played and won; there's nothing more
you can do here."
His thoughts fly to his wife, and he sighs--
"We were so gay and lively at the Gare Saint-Lazare!"
"You must tell us about it to-morrow. What are you complaining of when
you'll soon be on your way to see her again?"
Each one of us thinks--
"I should be quite content to escape as cheaply as Buche has done."
Naturally those badly wounded say very little, even when they succeed
in reaching us.
The order comes to advance towards another trench we can just make
out, even farther forward. Lying flat amongst the beetroots, we crawl
along like serpents. No one is either gay or sad or over-excited even.
Maxence, a huge fellow, is the only one who proceeds on all-fours.
Reymond growls out--
"The megatherium! He'll get himself killed!"
Bullets strike the ground all about us. I can think of nothing but my
haversack and _musette_, my can and bayonet sheath which will insist on
slipping between my legs. The ground is soft and slimy. I do my best
to keep the barrel of my rifle clean. Take care the cartridge cases
don't fly open! Crawling along in this fashion is no sinecure. Smoking
distracts me, and so I keep my pipe between my teeth. My nose is almost
poking into Reymond's heels. From his coat pocket slips a sketch-book.
Recognizing its mauve cover, I pick it up, the result being that I am
more embarrassed than ever in my anxiety not to lose it.
Reymond descends head foremost into a hole. I follow him.
"Look out, there's some one dead here."
"Take your sketch-book. You dropped it just now."
Evidently he is unnerved, for he answers--
"What the deuce do you expect me to do with that? You might have left
it where it was."
The ungrateful fellow!
A few comrades join us. We crowd as well as we can into the trench,
taking care not to tread upon the dead body.
The lieutenant in command of the company has walked across the open
space which, at his orders, the men have had to crawl across. He now
appears before us, safe and sound.
"Who is dead over there?" he asks.
"Mignard has had his brains blown away, _mon lieutenant_. A ball right
in the forehead, just as he was scaling the parapet."
Mignard's haversack is unbuckled. His cover is unrolled and wrapped
round his head.
More wounded men returning. Here comes one groaning more loudly than
the rest. A bullet has pierced his arm above the wrist. He grins as he
shakes his injured paw.
"What's the matter with you?"
"I'm certain my arm's broken."
"Move your fingers."
He lifts them up and down like a pianist.
"That will be nothing at all. Shall I dress it for you?"
I cut the sleeve of his coat and shirt. The wound consists of two tiny
holes of reddish-brown, one the entrance, the other the exit of the
bullet.
"Just a little iodine on it?"
Scared out of his wits, the other says--
"No, no; it would burn too much!"
I dress the wound, and when it is finished say to him--
"Off you go, old fellow; either return to the front or go back to the
rear, as you please."
He chooses the rear. Another who has done his day's work.
Reserve squadrons come up. Jouin runs along at full speed instead of
crawling. The lieutenant, perceiving him, shouts out--
"Down with you! Down!"
Jouin either does not or will not hear.
"Hear him laughing, the idiot!" remarks the lieutenant, quite furious.
Jouin is at the edge of the trench. One more leap and he will be safe.
Just then he stops, looks fixedly at his hand, and falls to the ground.
Parvis, his mate and friend from childhood, rushes up to him and says,
after a moment's examination--
"He has a couple of bullets right in his chest. Nothing to be done."
"Well, then, come down; it will be your turn next."
"No, I must stay; he is still breathing."
A continuous and indefinable sound, like the gurgle of a bottle being
emptied.... It is Jouin in his death agony, which lasts fully a quarter
of an hour. Parvis holds his friend's hand, watches his face pale and
his features become rigid. He seems not to hear the bullets whistling
about his ears.
At last he leaps into the trench, remarking--
"He is dead."
Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he adds--
"His own fault, idiot as he was!"
Parvis does not understand the meaning of a funeral oration.
A straggler comes creeping up through the beetroots.
"A little more quickly!" exclaims the lieutenant. "Do you want me to
come and fetch you?"
The man makes a sign that he is utterly exhausted.
"Are you wounded?"
He shakes his head, indicating that he is not.
Reymond looks at him.
"Why! It's Verrier! Poor old fellow!"
It is indeed Verrier, whose one thought has been all along to join his
friends. His strength, however, betrays him, and he lies there flat on
the ground.
The lieutenant understands--
"You'd better return, Verrier. I must send you back to the grotto."
A voice answers, as though from a distance--
"Ah! Thanks! Thanks!"
And he quietly returns, exposed to the enemy's fire all the way. I look
back after him, and when he makes too long a pause, I remark--
"It's all over. Verrier's dead."
I am mistaken, however, for he soon resumes his crawl. Finally he
disappears.
What time is it? Half-past one. How slowly the hours pass!
Two sections of the company are stopped in the open, close to our
trench, by deliberately aimed infantry firing.
A lieutenant makes a sign to Sergeant Chaboy, who comes up--
"Take your half-section and bear away to the right of the sections now
in action. When you are on a level with them, open fire and hang on to
the ground you take."
Another crawl through the beetroots. A fine sport. Without the loss
of a man, Chaboy deploys his two squadrons. Some fire whilst others
are digging holes. There is only one spade for each squadron, but we
scratch away with knives and hands. Very soon we have before us a pile
of earth sufficiently high to stop the bullets.
The sergeant sends Jacquard to inform the lieutenant that his orders
have been executed. We see Jacquard trot away on all-fours with such
agility that, though it is no time for jesting, we cannot refrain from
poking fun at him.
"He runs like a rat," says Varlet.
"Or, rather, like a tatou" (an armadillo).
The expression catches on at once. Jacquard returns at a speedy run.
His eyes shine, and his complexion is heightened. Before flattening
himself on the ground he watches the shells burst, and exclaims in
triumph--
"Our projectiles are falling right in the German trenches!"
"Bravo, rat-tatou." (A _ratatouille_ is a stew of meat and vegetables.)
The hours pass. Impossible to advance. The fusillade, intense to right
and left, slackens in front. Some of the men fall asleep on the spot.
Night comes on. The cannonade and the firing almost cease. A cold,
clear night and a starry sky. Profound calm. Seven o'clock.
The lieutenant orders our half-section back into the trench. The 24th
has been dealt with severely--thirty dead and twenty wounded.
Shall we be relieved to-night? It is sufficiently dark for us to move
about behind the trenches and remove the numbness from our limbs.
"Look out, Jouin is there," says Parvis.
It is usual to continue to call the dead by their names.
We form a circle round the body, touch one another on the shoulder and
shake hands. We are the more conscious of the value of life from the
fact that its tenure in our own bodies is so uncertain.
Mignard, a cover flung over his shattered head, still lies at the
bottom of the trench. We shall have to raise him and place him by
Jouin's side in the field of beetroots, unless we wish to spend the
night with him. He is very heavy. The cold touch of his lifeless hands
sends a thrill through my whole body.
But very soon sleep alone occupies our thoughts. The lieutenant remains
awake. He looks over the parapet without once removing his eyes.
Reymond rolls himself in his cover; I do the same. We throw over our
bodies the big poncho, and, close pressed to each other, sleep at the
bottom of the trench.
_Friday, 13th November._
About two in the morning some one gives me a shake--
"Come along; it's your turn to keep watch over there among the
beetroots."
There is a smile on the lieutenant's face as he adds in grumbling
accents--
"I never heard any one snore as you do!"
I take up my post, lying flat on the ground, at a distance of fifty
yards in front of the trench. I do all I can think of to keep awake.
There is a dense mist over the land. After a couple of hours I am
relieved. It is raining, of course!
The daybreak is dull and unpleasant. Are we to attack again? No.
Yesterday we only had to create a diversion, so the lieutenant
explains, and compel the Germans to direct their fire upon our sector.
This artillery fire has been sprinkling the plain ever since eight
o'clock. The shells shriek overhead and burst away to our left. We
remark, jokingly--
"That's nothing; the 21st will catch it all."
During the night a section of the 23rd company, remaining in reserve,
has linked up our trench, by means of a branch, with the rear trenches.
We are delighted at the idea that we shall no longer have to crawl over
exposed country.
The day seems as though it would never end, and nothing happens.
Reymond and I, tired out, and seated side by side in a sort of sofa
hollowed out in the trench wall, feel not the slightest inclination
even to speak. At night the 23rd replaces us and the 24th retires to
the grotto.
On reaching it, after forty minutes in the branches, the grotto seems
more than ever a paradise to us all.
Each man has his own tale to tell.
Sergeant Moricet shows his coat with a hole right in the middle of the
breast; his pocket-book has stopped the bullet, though all the papers
in it are cut in pieces.
Corporal Chevalier has been bleeding at the nose ever since the
previous evening. At the moment of attack, as he was crawling along,
a huge beetroot, hurled forward by a ball, struck him full on the
nose. He thought he had swallowed a 210. He now spends all his time in
padding his swollen organ.
In the stone bedroom the men are very kind and attentive to one
another--
"I hope I'm not in your way, old fellow? Have you enough room to
stretch yourself?"
"Yes, thanks. Oh! I beg your pardon if I kicked you."
Each man fusses over the other as though to thank him for not being
killed.
The men lie on the ground against their haversacks, their rifles
supported against the wall, with cans and all accoutrements hooked on
to the guard. The first squadron is complete. Corporal Matois is a big,
bearded peasant, from the neighbourhood of Langres, a roughly built
countryman. He is really the best character I know.
Charensac, squatting in a corner, is stuffing into his haversack a
flannel belt some one has given him. He has already stored away seven
shirts, which he intends to carry home with him after the war.
Everything offered him he takes. "Look here, Charensac, would you
like this?" Without looking, he shouts out from the other end of the
room: "Thanks, old fellow!" It may be what remains at the bottom of a
sardine tin, a piece of sausage, chocolate, cigars, a pair of socks,
nothing comes amiss. Charensac's stomach is a veritable pit. His
haversack, another pit, weighs over sixty-five pounds. Huge shoulders
and the flanks of a bull are needed to carry it. He has also two
enormous _musettes_, which form baskets projecting on either side. His
comrades frequently regard him as a mule. They assure him that he will
kill himself. Nothing, however, can rob him of his imperturbable good
humour. The only time his face assumes an expression of seriousness is
when he affirms: "You should never throw anything away."
Yes, Charensac is quite unique. Never have I seen any one else live
through trench warfare with such constant joviality. The men, speaking
generally, in spite of their wonderful morale, do not look upon war as
a sort of holiday.
Extremely tall and well built, strong as a Turk, a full-moon face
enlivened with cunning little eyes, a voice of thunder, a Gargantuan
appetite, an ant's rapacity and a dormouse's capacity for sleep, such
is Charensac, the gas-fitter from Auvergne. For a packet of canteen
tobacco, worth exactly three farthings, you may obtain from him the
most extraordinary things, for instance, silence for a space of
twenty-four hours. Brawling and uneducated as he is, however, he can
count his change quite well, and it is impossible to cheat him. We
often say to him: "Charensac, you are nothing but matter!" "Charensac,
you make a god of your stomach!" "Charensac, you have every possible
vice, you are a disgrace to the first squadron!"
His optimism cannot be shaken by such insults, for he sees in them our
inexhaustible goodness of heart.
Henriot coldly looks on at Charensac's evolution. He is a Parisian
printer, intelligent and well educated, indifferent to danger, a
taciturn fellow, tall and solidly built, almost bald, with the face of
a Socrates.
Mauventre, all nose and forehead, always wears a woollen cap, similar
to those affected by chestnut sellers. The wretched fellow has a
perpetual dread of shells and bullets. Never does the company muster
without Mauventre remarking sadly--
"A projectile is bound to drop right in the middle of us."
Briban, a native of Dijon, has a parrot's profile on the body of a
shepherd-spider. And finally, Pierrot, nicknamed "_Piaf_," a Paris
drayman, possesses the classic physique of a Zouave.
_Piaf_ and Briban are now our cooks. Briban is called the "Fireman,"
because, having had his head-gear removed by a bullet in September,
after going for a whole week in a cotton cap, he at last found in a
field a fireman's _képi_, of which he took immediate possession.
The first company also includes Verrier, Maxence, Varlet, Jacquard,
Reymond and myself. A fine squadron.
Sergeant Chaboy enters.
"Have you room for me here?"
We shout out: "_Vive Chaboy!_" and welcome him affectionately, for he
has manoeuvred his half-section beneath the enemy's fire without losing
a single man.
At nine o'clock the lieutenant calls for volunteers to pick up the
dead. Varlet, Jacquard, and Charensac offer themselves; they are
anxious to bring back two old chums with whom they served before war
broke out. They return at midnight.
_Saturday, 14th November._
Eight bodies are laid out here, in front of the grotto, with their
uniforms all torn and muddy. We try to recognize them.
Around the bodies things follow their ordinary course: fatigue duty,
men sweeping and digging the road. The cooks are busy about the fire.
Ten men ordered to dig a grave at Bucy cemetery set off, shovel or pick
on shoulder.
Belin runs up; he has not been able to get away from his company
sooner. On finding us all alive, he lifts his hands in the air and can
scarcely contain himself for joy. The 21st has only a few wounded.
We spend the day in relishing the pleasure of being alive; a sensation
unknown to civilians.
The relief arrives--a battalion of _Alpins_--and we leave the trenches
just as boys leave school on breaking-up day, with feelings of
unpolluted joy, and also the thought that the return is in the dim
distance and somewhat problematical.
The company is quartered at Acy-le-Haut, where it sojourned in October.
At midnight we have to hoist ourselves into a loft by the aid of a
ladder, two-thirds of whose rungs are missing. We sink softly into
bundles of hay. For twenty-two days, with the exception of two rests of
twenty-four hours each at Bucy, we have not left the trenches. Outside
it is freezing hard.