A LULL
_Sunday, 15th November._
The feelings of utter exhaustion which come over us from time to time
do not last long. You think yourself at the last gasp, and yet the
following day you are as fresh as possible.
This morning we are taken in charge by Madame Gillot, who lodged us on
the 9th October. We receive a warm welcome--
"What, you are all alive!"
Milliard, the postman, brings us over twenty parcels; we are admirably
revictualled both in food and in warm clothing.
_Monday, 16th November._
Reymond's birthday; he is thirty years of age. To celebrate the
occasion, we organize a special lunch.
In the afternoon the lieutenant reviews each man's supplies of food:
his haversack, spread open at his feet, must exhibit to the officer's
vigilant eye two tins of corned beef, a dozen biscuits, two little bags
containing sugar, coffee, and two tablets of condensed soup.
One of our men has neither biscuits nor corned beef. Questioning glance
of the lieutenant. Evasive gesture of the man, who immediately stands
at attention.
"Have you eaten your two tins of corned beef?"
A sign of assent.
"Your biscuits too, naturally?"
Another sign of assent.
"Ah! And why did you eat your tins of corned beef?"
"_Mon lieutenant_, one evening I was hungry...."
"Better and better! If the men begin to eat their reserve supplies
whenever they are hungry, there will be no army left!"
That evening we laughingly relate the incident to Belin. Being an old
soldier, he cannot get over it.
"Eat one's reserve supplies without orders! If he had been in the
Foreign Legion he would have received eight days' prison for every
biscuit missing. The lieutenant was right.... You have your dozen
biscuits and two tins, at all events?"
"Of course, don't make such a fuss."
Belin makes a friendly review to assure himself of the fact.
Thin and sharp-featured, his capote well brushed and stretched, and the
lower part of his trousers rolled inside his leggings, Belin exhibits
subtle poisings of his body and impressive movements of his arm as he
points to the sky. He knows how to shout out the "_Hô Mohâmed!_" the
rallying cry intended to reach the ears of the comrade who has gone
astray.
The ways and manners of civilians in warfare baffle him considerably.
Roberty would say to him--
"Strange how much you lack understanding of Parisian humour and fun."
Belin, however, is a brave fellow, he has travelled, read, and fought a
great deal. Though we pay him a certain deference, we are very fond of
him.
_Tuesday, 17th November._
As we are resting we become somewhat like civilians, and await the news
with an anxiety unknown at the front, where one's horizon is limited to
a field of beetroots.
The papers bring fresh details of the frightful battles of the Yser.
The German offensive seems to have been broken. What will they attempt
now?
This morning our attack of the 12th is honoured by the following
communiqué: "We have made slight progress between Crouy and Vregny."
Multum in parvo. Here's something to make us proud, but more especially
something to make us modest and patient when we think of what those men
are going through who are fighting in the North, living and dying in
the thick of it all. It is they who are the real heroes.
From the letters we receive it is manifest that we also are regarded
as heroes; people will insist on considering as a gigantic struggle our
life as navvies and troglodytes! How absurd! Such lavish use should not
be made of these fine expressions, so well deserved by those who have
fought at Ypres, Nieuport, and Dixmude.
Here, too, we may deserve them some day. Meanwhile, let us do a little
gardening.
_Wednesday, 18th November._
We leave Acy to return to the trenches. Madame Gillot stands lamenting
at her door.
"Ah! my poor men, I wonder if I shall ever see you again?"
"Very good of you to think of us, Madame Gillot."
The company occupies a new sector in the front line. No dug-outs here,
the ground is too hard to do anything. We take sentry duty in the
middle of the beetroots, in a sort of trough dug in the ground, twenty
yards in front of the trench. It is snowing.
_Thursday, 19th November._
At dawn hoar-frost covers the whole field. A little beyond the barbed
wire are three small mounds, covered with snow: the bodies of those of
the 24th who died. It is freezing hard, so we stamp our feet on the
ground. Red faces emerge from _passe-montagnes_. I carefully press my
nose between my woollen-gloved fingers; the sensation of feeling the
warmth come gently back is delicious. A few cannon shots from time to
time, as though to explain our presence here.
The day is spent in walking as quickly as possible between the two
frozen walls of the trench. When I cross Reymond, each of us, before
turning round, gravely salutes the other and says: "_Buon di!_ _Buon
di!_" like the grotesque doctors in _Monsieur de Pourceaugnac_.
The company, returning to the grotto to sleep, brings back the bodies
of eight men, killed on the 12th and picked up between the lines,
thanks to the heroism of an auxiliary doctor named Wallon.
Yesterday I received a sleeping-bag made of a kind of soft oil-cloth,
lined with flannel: a notable event in a soldier's life. This evening,
wrapped in my cover, I enter my sleeping-bag and pull down the edges
over my head.
_Friday, 20th November._
The trees are now entirely stripped of leaves. The country looks cold
and dismal.
The eight bodies are laid out in a line in front of the grotto: the
second time we have had such a sight before our eyes. This one is
Mallet, who was on guard with us in the train which brought us to the
depot. He was a little stout fellow, quiet and taciturn, with a brown
beard. War was not at all his vocation, and he would frequently remark
with a sigh: "I am certain I shall be killed."
Ill-omened words which should never be spoken.
Mallet wore a medallion on his breast.... The night before the attack
he had said quietly to a friend--
"If I die, send this medallion to my wife."
The friend now tenderly unclasps it from his capote. As this latter is
being removed from the body, the cloth, covered with frozen mud, is as
stiff as cardboard.
After a prolonged examination we recognize Corporal Lion, whose
good-natured face has been rendered unrecognizable by a wound. He is
another who, speaking of his young wife and children and his past
happiness, had imprudently said: "It's all over with me.... I shall
never come back!..." There is some difficulty in taking from his
shrivelled finger the wedding-ring, the gold of which still shines a
little beneath the enveloping mud.
Our nerves are now too hardened for such a sight to affect them.
Emotion has become calm and considerate, and each of us thinks--
"Well, if I were in his place, would there be around my body nothing
but this cold and gloom of winter?"
The sergeant summons me along with Reymond and Maxence to go on
cemetery duty--
"Take a shovel or a pick and go down to Bucy."
In the old cemetery surrounding the church, a lieutenant indicates the
spot where we must dig a grave for eight men.
We set to work.
Shortly afterwards a tumbrel brings along the bodies. Two attendants
lay them out in a line. Meanwhile, the hole is growing larger. Our
shovels encounter old rust-coloured bones, and even an entire skull,
which is deposited on the edge of the grave.
At eleven o'clock the work is finished; we return to the grotto for
lunch. Above Bucy a duel is being fought between a French and a German
aeroplane; the rapid sharp cracks of a _mitrailleuse_ reach our ears.
Suddenly a jet of flame streams from the German machine, which makes
straight for the north, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. It is
hit; the French machine, after circling around, follows after.
On reaching the grotto we learn that the enemy bird fell within our
lines on the Maubeuge road. The pilot has succeeded in making good his
escape, but our 75's have opened fire upon the machine, which is still
burning.
At five in the evening the section is guarding the telephone at
Pont-Rouge, on the Bucy road. The light infantry have constructed a
hut, which will just hold ten men. Three very comfortable bedsteads,
and in one corner a rustic-looking chimney-place, where a magnificent
fire sheds its genial warmth. Here we come to roast ourselves in turn,
in the intervals of sentry duty.
The cold is bitter; the mud of the beaten track is frozen hard. The
roads themselves bristle with clods of frozen earth.
The Pont-Rouge road, which leads direct to the enemy, who is
entrenched three hundred yards away, is blocked by a rampart of
sand-bags. These bags are covered with blood. It was here that the 5th
Battalion, on the 12th of this month, deposited their wounded and dead.
A few broken rifles heaped up along the copse, _pêle-mêle_ with various
military equipment.
Balls whistle in our ears; sometimes they ricochet on the frozen ground
and glance off with a singing sound.
_Saturday, 21st November._
To-night the thermometer is 13° Centigrade below zero. I have slept
very well, in the open air, rolled in canvas wrappings at the bottom
of the trench. On waking I see Jacquard's hirsute beard, kind innocent
eyes and red nose. The rest of his face is swathed in chestnut-coloured
wool. Quick, my bottle and a good mouthful of brandy. Just in time, for
the cold has surprised us during the night and frozen me to the very
bones. I pick up my can, which I had laid aside during sleep: it is
full of icicles. The coffee is frozen.
The cold has brought out a number of fantastic costumes. One of my
comrades looks like a bashi-bazouk, another like a chorus singer in
_Boris Godounow_. To write a letter I put on great red woollen gloves,
a grey muffler, and a blue _passe-montagne_. I also wear trousers of
green velvet; the effect being quite good.
All the same, it must not be imagined that we look disguised. At
muster, the blue uniform reappears and the usual military aspect of
things; we remain soldiers beneath our fantastic accoutrement, having
all become so without an effort of will. Adaptation to the drudgery and
difficulties of the profession comes about insensibly.
Luckily, the wind is not blowing in the direction of the trench; but
the enemy's bullets pour in a raking fire. Maxence, who is extremely
tall and too careless to bend down, just misses being killed on two
occasions. His calm is most exasperating. We shriek at him--
"_Sale rosse!_ I suppose you'll be happy when you've got a bullet
through your head. And you think it will be a joke for us to carry you
away dead, a giant like you?"
"He weighs at least a hundred and eighty pounds," growls Jacquard, who
is a dwarf in comparison.
After all, frost is better than rain and mud.
_Sunday, 22nd November._
The squadron's new quarters at Bucy are not very luxurious: an
abandoned building, considerably broken up, windows smashed, doors and
casements torn away. Along a narrow flight of stairs, we gain access to
two square rooms.
Fortunately the people next door are willing to lodge us. Inside the
wide street-door is a little yard; to the right, a rabbit-hutch which
is empty; to the left, a ground-floor room with cellar and loft.
Doubtless the house is protected from enfilade firing, for it has
remained standing, though a 77 has made a slight breach in it, above a
sign-post on which we read: "Achain, mattress-maker."
We enter, meeting with a cordial reception.
"It's a poor place," says the woman, whose round face is framed in a
black shawl, "but we will give you every attention."
Poor, indeed! Nothing of the kind. The windows are unbroken, the roof
intact, the doors will shut, and there is a fire in the stove. In a
small room a couple of beds and a mattress laid on the floor are to be
placed at our disposal.
The owners of the house sleep in the cellar. The consequence is that we
are masters for the time being, one of the advantages-perhaps the only
one--of the bombardment.
Numbers of parcels arrive. Beneath the stupefied gaze of the Achains,
we unpack tins of preserved food, which Jules arranges on a sideboard.
Jules explains that we belong to the most refined and select classes
of society. It is a mania of his to proclaim everywhere that we are
persons of distinction. We make our appearance, tired to death and
covered with mud, bundled up in mufflers, with shaggy cadaverous
faces, carrying rifles, haversacks, pipes, mud, and making a horrible
clatter. Our hosts, troubled by such an invasion, at first manifest a
certain degree of reserve, but Jules speedily finds reassuring words;
he exhorts us to mend our manners, and pays court to the ladies. A most
valuable fellow, Jules!
He is a native of Franche-Comté. Evidently this district does not
produce thin sorry-looking specimens of humanity. Jules possesses the
frame and physique of a wrestler. His big shining face, flanked with
enormous ears, is illumined by two small eyes which give the impression
that he may be a very difficult person to deal with.
Jules is a born orderly. He has far more opportunities for exercising
his subtlety behind the trenches than on the line; his vocation is to
supply us with stores from outside the recognized limits. When on this
quest, he fears no one and will go anywhere.
In September he had not been a couple of hours on duty before giving
proof of his abilities: he found Roberty's canteen, which had gone
astray during the retreat, replenished our store of tobacco, and
brought back with him a rabbit, a fowl, three litres of wine and a
bottle of spirits.
"You can put this latter into your coffee," he said; "it will then be
worth drinking."
On the day we enticed him away, Jules, having lost his lieutenant,
had also lost his position as orderly, and forfeiting his privileges
occupied a lower position in the ranks. The adjutant, whose offers
he had scorned, told him dryly that he would return to the squadron
without any position at all. Jules did not like disputes, and pretended
to submit to his destiny. He resumed his place in the squadron,
though only to occupy himself with our personal affairs, in spite of
officials, roll-calls and laws.
The personal affairs of six soldiers in the second class do not seem a
very serious matter, especially in such busy times. Still, it took all
Jules' activity to attend to them.
"I say, old fellow, we are coming down from the outposts this evening
and sleeping in the village. Run along and find us a house."
Jules pretends to be considerably embarrassed. He raises his arms,
takes his _képi_ between his first finger and thumb, and scratching his
head with his other three fingers, says--
"That's just your way! Jules, find me this, or Jules, find me that!
This very morning, Jules cut the roll-call to do your messages, and the
corporal marked him absent."
"Come! come! not so much talk. We shall be in the village by nightfall.
You must get there before us. We rely on you for beds and dinner."
"What if I am caught by the gendarmes? Or suppose I meet the colonel?"
Then we appeal to his vanity--
"You can easily outwit all the gendarmes in the place. And a fellow
like you is clever enough to make up some plausible tale that will
satisfy the colonel."
An appeal is also made to his interests. Nothing further is needed,
and when, five minutes afterwards, some one calls for Jules, he has
disappeared.
The lodging is found and dinner in full swing. Jules confides to the
company in general--
"At first the mistress refused to lodge six soldiers. But I talked her
round. Besides, I gave her to understand that you were real gentlemen."
The natives of the South of France may be braggarts; anyhow, this one
from the Franche-Comté could easily give them points. If mention is
made of a farmer's wife or even of some lady of the manor within a
radius of ten leagues, Jules begins to cluck like a hen, to slap his
hands on his thighs, and with appropriate gestures he gives us to
understand that he knows the lady in question very well indeed.
In his own district he was attached to a farm, and in his leisure hours
he most certainly gave himself up to poaching.
Not on account of the war will he abandon his petty occupations. No,
indeed, something must be done to break the monotony of trench life.
From time to time, in spite of gendarmes and regulations, Jules trips
over to Soissons. He returns with an entire bazaar in his _musettes_.
"I sell it all again, you know, at cost price," he explains. "There are
times when I lose."
"Of course!"
The other day he brought back a small hunting carbine. He also managed
to procure the whole paraphernalia required for making snares and traps.
He is away for hours at a time, prowling about the woods, risking a
court-martial a score of times, all to bring back a few tom-tits. On
his return, blood and feathers are sticking to his fingers.
"You savage!" exclaims Verrier. "Doesn't war provide you with
sufficient opportunities to satisfy your bloodthirsty instincts? Why
should you go and kill tiny birds like these?"
"Don't cry over it; I am going to cook them for you, along with a few
slices of bacon...."
To-day, thanks to Jules, we are _en famille_ with the Achains. The
little girl, ten years of age, has pretty blue eyes and light hair,
confined in a black shawl, like her mother's. She looks at haversacks,
rifles, and _musettes_, and asks in drawling accents--
"Do you really carry all these things on your back?"
Indeed, the haversacks do look of a respectable size: on the top the
cover, rolled in the sleeping-bag; to the left, a tent canvas; to the
right, a rubber mantle; in the middle, a cooking utensil; inside, linen
and tobacco, a thread and needle-case, slippers, a large packet of
letters, and reserve provisions. The whole weighs nearly thirty-five
pounds. The _musettes_, too, are of enormous bulk, swollen with
provisions, toilet utensils, a ball of bread, evidently so called
because it is flat, spirit-flask, knife, fork, and spoon, a tin plate,
and lastly a few packets of cartridges. At the bottom is a confused
mass of tobacco and matches, bread-crumbs, and earth.
Sergeant Chaboy announces _en passant_--
"Be ready at five o'clock, my boys. It is the section's turn to act as
artillery support at the Montagne farm."
The Germans are beginning to fire upon the village. At four o'clock the
bombardment is at its height. Impossible to remain in the streets.
The light begins to fade, and the projectiles become fewer and fewer.
The section musters.
The Montagne farm is isolated right in the centre of a plain which
overlooks Bucy, and on which several batteries of our 75's have been
installed.
Every day the Germans pour showers of projectiles on to the position.
This evening their shells set fire to a straw-rick. The flames illumine
the whole summit, throw into relief the desolate outlines of the trees,
and project their lurid reflections on to the surrounding buildings.
We hear the crackling of the straw as the flaming sprays are carried
away in the distance. The section slowly advances towards the farm in
columns of twos. We halt on reaching a stable, where we find a quantity
of thick litter. All the better, for it is bitterly cold; several
degrees below zero.
At midnight I am on guard with Reymond in front of the door. It is a
clear, starry night. We hide ourselves in a corner against one of the
pillars of the doorway, to obtain shelter from the icy north wind. Here
we stand for a couple of hours. What is there for us to do? We begin
by expressing, as Anatole France says: "most innocent thoughts in most
crude terms."
Away in the distance the dull roar of a cannon. The shrieking sound
draws nearer.
"Appears as though it were meant for us!"
The shell whirls past and bursts a hundred yards from the door.
A grunt of satisfaction on finding that the explosion has taken place
at a safe distance.
One observation: the shrieking of shells almost at the end of their
course reminds one of the howl of a dog baying the moon.
Shots follow one another. Every minute the distant "boom," then the
hissing sound, which gradually grows more intense, and finally the
explosion, a rending crash close at hand, followed by vibrations and
the noise of broken branches. Not the slightest refuge for us.
"Not often have I been annoyed as I am this evening," remarks one of us.
"Nor I either!" remarks the other.
"They might have waited till we had finished sentry duty before
bombarding us."
Renewed explosions. The door slightly opens, and the head of Corporal
Chevalier appears.
"Is the bombardment pretty violent?"
"Bah! Nothing extraordinary."
"The fact is--the lieutenant has sent me to say that, if things begin
to look too serious, you may return. Useless to get killed for nothing."
We would gladly have profited by the permission. Chevalier, however,
does not belong to our squadron. Consequently we politely reply--
"All right, corporal, our best thanks to the lieutenant. We may as well
finish our watch."
Chevalier's head disappears. The door shuts. Fresh shells.
"How stupid of us to swagger in this way!" we reflect.
On coming to relieve us, the two following sentries, after muffling
themselves up by lantern light, ask--
"A pretty heavy bombardment just now, eh?"
I have the audacity to reply--
"Ah! We did not even pay attention to it, we were talking."
And so, "_La tempeste finie, Panurge faict le bon compaignon_," as
Rabelais said.
_Monday, 23rd November._
The lieutenant appears at the door and calls out--
"Everybody under shelter, to the grottoes. The bombardment is beginning
again."
At that moment, indeed, a projectile dashes down upon one of the farm
buildings, smashing in the stable roof. To reach the grottoes we have
to run a hundred yards through the darkness. We are in the open. Those
who have candles light them. _Tableau_. The grotto has been transformed
into a sheep-fold. Several hundreds of sheep are moving to and fro,
bleating all the time in stupid fashion.
Meanwhile, the German artillery is raining upon the farm and its
outhouses. A fowl is killed on a dunghill by a shrapnel ball. What with
the boom of the cannon and the bleating of the sheep, the hours pass
very slowly. Reymond, however, pilots us over the grotto as though it
were a gallery of Roman catacombs. Provided with a piece of candle,
he mumbles away like a sexton: "_Questo è la tomba di santa Cecilia;
tutto marmo antico!_" When the cannonade stops, out in the yard he
organizes a fancy bullfight, in which each of us, supplied with the
necessary accessories, in turn impersonates the bull, the espada, the
banderillero, the picador, or the disembowelled steed.
We play like schoolboys at recreation time, until we are quite out of
breath with laughter and exertion, and then sit down on the very spot
around which shells have so recently been falling.
The Prussians have fired forty thousand francs' worth of munitions and
have killed a fowl, which, by the way, our own gunners have eaten!
On the section returning to Bucy, the general impression is summed up
in the remark--
"After all, it has been rare sport!"
_Tuesday, 24th November._
Snow is falling, and so we remain indoors. The postman's visit
forms our only distraction. After yesterday's uproar the guns are
quiet to-day. No set of men are ever so capricious as gunners. The
inhabitants of Bucy, who have spent a day and a night crouching
in their cellars, walk about the streets this afternoon as though
everything were once more normal. There is little damage done to the
streets, since the Germans mainly fired with their 77's.
_Wednesday, 25th November._
A lieutenant is chatting at the hospital door with the major. All of a
sudden he falls to the ground. We gather round him, and find that he
has received a bullet in the abdomen. The street opposite the hospital
being perpendicular to the German trenches, spent bullets sometimes
take it in enfilade, and an accident happens.
During roll-call, which takes place in the main street, a shrapnel
explodes on a neighbouring house. Broken tiles rain down upon us.
Instinctively we "form a carapace." The lieutenant has not stirred a
muscle. "Surely," he remarks, "you are not going to get excited over a
little falling dirt. Attention!" We all line up and stand at attention.
The next moment the ranks are broken, and each man returns to his
quarters, laughing and joking at the incident.
After all, we make a jest of everything. This is the secret of that
dash and enthusiasm boasted of in the official communiqués, and about
which civilians must have the most vague ideas. The good humour that
has stood a campaign of four months must be in the grain; at all
events, it is of quite a special kind.
The source of our morale lies in the fact that we accept life as we
find it.
This evening the company returns to the trenches and sleeps in the
grotto.
_Thursday, 26th November._
The frost has disappeared; now we have a thaw with its inevitable filth
and mud. The entrance of the grotto is a veritable sewer. We enter
along slippery slopes, almost impassable.
Latest news from the kitchens: the regiment is about to leave for the
fort of Arche, near Epinal, unless it goes on to Amiens ... unless,
again, it remains here.
This evening, in the grotto, Maxence lies on his back smoking a
cigarette. He murmurs softly to Reymond, who is making a sketch, some
lines from the _Fêtes galantes_--
_Au calme clair de lune triste et beau
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres
Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau,
Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres._
Varlet, naked down to the waist, turns round and round, rolling himself
in his flannel girdle, one end of which is held tight by Meuret, who
is always ready to lend a helping hand. Mauventre, _Piaf_, and the
"Fireman" are playing cards with the corporal, making comments on each
move. Charensac crouches down, drawing up an inventory of the wealth
he has stored away in his haversack. The rest, rolled snugly in their
coverings, sleep and snore.
_Friday, 27th November._
Our artillery vigorously bombards the enemy's trenches. Nothing to do
except watch the shells--and the rain--fall.
_Saturday, 28th November._
In the front line the section occupies a new sector, not yet completed.
A misty maddening rain chills us to the very bones. Impossible to see
twenty yards in front of one. The kind of weather which gives you the
impression that the sun has left this world and will never return.
_Sunday, 29th November._
The 24th goes down to Bucy at six in the evening.
Our hosts know the hour we are to be relieved. They expect us.
"_Sainte Vierge_, what a filthy condition you are in!" exclaims Madame
Achain.
We are delighted to see our beds once again. Madame Achain would gladly
change the bed linen, if she had any--but she has not, and one must not
be too dainty in war time.
_Monday, 30th November._
Another quiet day spent by the fireside in conversation, playing cards
and writing letters.
This morning Jacquard is charged with the making of our chocolate. When
the six bowls, filled to the brim, are on the table, he calls out--
"Come, messieurs, breakfast is waiting, messieurs!"
How grandiloquent it sounds!
We appear, only half awake, slouching along in slippers and old shoes.
If perchance the chocolate is boiled too much or too little, if it
is too thick or too thin, then the patient Jacquard must submit to
sarcastic reproaches, to complaints from men who, most assuredly, would
not tolerate the slightest inconvenience!
_Tuesday, 1st December._
To-day we are road-labourers, an occupation lacking interest, though
preferable to that of grave-digger.
The section has been ordered to clean the Pont-Rouge road, in
anticipation of the visit of the general. We start with shovels and
brooms on our shoulders. Luckily, it is not raining. The Pont-Rouge
road is filthy; that, however, is its slightest defect: it is also
infested with projectiles. We are not enthusiastic about the work. No
one is wounded.
_Wednesday, 2nd; Thursday, 3rd December._
At eight o'clock the company musters in a farmyard, proceeding to a
field north of Bucy for drill. The soil is ploughed by huge shells
which daily continue to fall. Fortunately they have so far chosen a
different hour from ours, thus avoiding unpleasant encounters. Here
we have section school: "Count off in fours! Right wheel! Line up!
Shoulder arms! Right! Left turn!--Left!"
The men manoeuvre in very lethargic fashion. Even the words of command
have no life in them. The sergeant shouts out--
"Right-about turn!--Right!"
He adds--
"This isn't a march at all, it's a paddle!"
Towards the end of the drill we deploy in skirmish line, and fling
ourselves on our knees before a hail of imaginary bullets.
"Let each man practise the right position for charging. Fire three
cartridges at the enemy debouching at the outskirts of the wood. Three
hundred yards--Fire!"
The lieutenant pleads with us--
"Come, come, if you will drill well for five minutes I will march you
back to quarters."
It is the greatest mistake in the world to drill without putting one's
heart into it. As Belin emphatically says--
"Troops that cannot do manual exercises are no better than a flock of
sheep."
And the rascal is right, too, as he always is.
_Friday, 4th December._
At night the company musters to mount to the trenches. On the right,
for a few hundred yards, we proceed along the side of the wood, whilst
to the left stretches an endless field of beetroots, in the midst of
which the Germans are entrenched. In this field has been dug the branch
leading to the first line. It is completely dark, and the ground is
quite soft; the twenty-five minutes' crossing of this branch is a most
disagreeable piece of work. We knock against all sorts of corners, slip
about, and fall against the slimy walls.
Passages open out from time to time; these are second-line trenches,
or else branches connecting together the various sectors. Moreover,
first- and second-line trenches resemble the branches, though somewhat
wider and provided with earthen parapets in the direction of the enemy.
We are all on duty until nine o'clock. The Germans fire their rifles to
inform us that they are there. We blaze away in their direction for the
same reason.
About ten everything is calm. It is raining. Earth and sky seem blended
in one general flood.
Varlet, with his hood, looks like a dwarf out of some book of fairy
tales; Jacquard wears a knitted helmet, out of which emerges a
fan-shaped beard; he covers his shoulders with an oil-cloth stole. He
looks like a chorister masquerading as a crusader. Reymond, draped in a
huge khaki poncho, might have been a member of the Holy League.
The walls of the trench are slippery and fall in. There are but few
dug-outs, scarcely any of which can be used because of the water
finding its way through the badly jointed planks. The only possible
shelter consists of kennels made on the surface of the ground, into
which a man may coil himself. Take care, however, lest they fall in!
We can do nothing but submit to the rain, and let ourselves be
submerged. This is no longer war, it's a deluge.
_Saturday, 5th December._
Everybody must be up on watch duty before dawn. This is the regulation
hour for counter-attacks.... As a rule it is the quietest time of the
day. About seven the cooks bring coffee and letters. After swallowing
the one and devouring the others, there remains but little to do; we
doze about, play cards, perhaps, in case we find a sufficiently dry
spot. Or we may be sent off on a cleaning expedition, scraping the mud
away from the floor of the branch trench.
About noon the cooks appear again--
"Lunch-time!"
There are two of them--_Piaf_ and the "Fireman" in shirt-sleeves--one
carrying the dish full of meat, the other carrying the two big vessels
containing respectively soup and coffee.
They fill our plates and _gamelles_. Our hands are caked with earth.
The "Fireman" pours out for each man a little of the mess alcohol--a
nasty mixture containing tincture of iodine; we swallow it like whey.
Frequently there is wine to drink. We drag out the meal to kill time.
From half-past three onwards we are very impatient. We shall not be
relieved before nightfall. By reason of the narrowness of branches and
trenches it becomes most difficult to make room for the new arrivals.
They can pass along only when we squeeze ourselves into a corner, like
herrings in a barrel. To-night the company is not going down into the
grotto; it must occupy another emplacement, also in the front line.
Appearance of a German engine which we immediately nickname the
"torpedo"--a formidable explosion preceded by no hissing sound
whatsoever; a blinding flash, prolonged vibrations, projectiles
flung in every direction. At first we are somewhat stupefied. As I
am carrying an order from the lieutenant to the adjutant, a torpedo
explodes on the parapet, lifts a couple of men off their feet and
covers me with earth. No one is hurt. This new invention seems to make
more noise than it does injury--on condition, of course, that the
projectile does not come down direct on the trench itself.
_Sunday, 6th December._
This morning the sun is shining! How pleasant not to have one's head
bowed and one's back bent before the storm! Several days of incessant
rain have transformed the trenches into streams of mud. We sink over
our ankles in a slimy, yellowish cream. Third night in the first line.
_Monday, 7th December._
We are relieved at five in the afternoon. We run through the branches
in all the greater hurry because we are going to our quarters. Every
dozen steps we slip or stumble.
I managed to reach the Achains' before the rest to order dinner. On the
threshold I have to answer the invariable question: "No one missing?" I
reply gaily--
"Of course not, but we are all very dirty and tired, and as hungry as
wolves."
After removing our trappings and leaning our rifles in a corner, whilst
awaiting the arrival of our friends, we relate the paltry happenings of
the last four days: the dark nights and heavy rainfall, the skirmishes,
the bombardment, etc.
"And what of you here, has much damage been caused?"
The fact is that our village is being shelled almost daily, but the
inhabitants scarcely pay attention to it. They have acquired somewhat
of our mentality as soldiers, just as we have adopted something of
their peasant nature. They know that in war one must be astonished at
nothing.
No, this time no great damage has been done.
"A 150 shell exploded in Madame B.'s garden, over there on the right,
and _père_ Untel just missed being killed in his loft by a spent ball."
We remark gravely--
"All the same, things look bad."
We shake our heads just as old fogies do when the crops are likely to
prove a failure.
One old dame asks anxiously--
"At all events, you'll not let them come back here?"
At this moment our comrades burst in, Jacquard at the head, haversack
on back, pipe in mouth, muddy and all muffled up. His big face, with
its shaggy beard, beams with goodwill. He brandishes his big rifle in
his small arms and thunders forth--
"Let them come back! No indeed, my good woman; they'd have to pass over
our bodies first!"
We approve of what he says, and succeed in calming him down.
The mistress, an optimist, declares in her country accent--
"Shall I tell you what I think?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then, some fine day they will clear off without any one
suspecting it."
"_Mon Dieu_, for my part, I shouldn't object if----"
Our existence is now as well regulated as that of any Government
official: four days in the trenches, four days at Bucy, four days in
the trenches, and so on.
How glad we are to get back to the house and our old habits!
Yes, we keep to these habits, though they are far different from those
we followed in the bygone days of peace. It may be that we do so
because we know them to be so fragile and uncertain, like ourselves,
and at the mercy of the least of the hazards of war.
After dinner, then, one game of cards, two, three. Some other game as
an occasional novelty, though we always return to the noble game of
manilla.
Milliard goes from house to house with the letters for each squadron.
Here he comes. A sound of footsteps in the yard. We raise our heads;
is it he? It is. He knocks on the window-pane. We all spring to the
door. The postman is welcomed as eagerly as though he were the bearer
of victory and peace. He draws up to the lamp, reads the envelopes, and
sits down. If there are but few letters he apologizes.
Henriot and he chatter away by the fireside for a few minutes.
"Come, boys, quick, give me your letters," says Milliard. "I have three
more squadrons to serve."
Our thanks follow him right into the yard.
To bed early this evening.
_Tuesday, 8th December._
We do the best we can to clean our clothes. A knife has to be used for
scraping coats and puttees, to which great scales of mud are sticking.
Disputes burst out. Who is the first for the hand-basin?
Some such remark as the following is heard--
"You're not going to keep it all to yourself, as you did last time, I
suppose?"
The charge of selfishness is the one most frequently hurled at another
man's head.
"You make use of it yourself first," says one man, "and then you think
of others."
"Well, and what of yourself? Yesterday you refused me a bar of
chocolate, because of the trouble it would have given you to unfasten
your haversack."
"And you, the other day when preparing mess, didn't you go away and
leave me to carry a huge pail all alone? Did you, or did you not?"
Such is the conversation of heroes!
The whole of the first day in quarters is spent in cleaning. At night
all six of us appear shaven and brushed, combed and washed, and the
_far niente_ begins. A feeling of boredom comes over us. There is
nothing to remind us that we are at war, none of war's accoutrements,
at all events. Reymond has adopted a colourist's costume to rest in: a
black and yellow streaked cap, a short green woollen jacket, blue cloth
trousers, grey gaiters, a violet girdle from which hangs a broad knife
in its sheath, a red and white-specked tobacco-pouch, and a long wick
of orange-coloured tinder. The effect seems to him harmonious, and the
lieutenant who happened to pass along and dropped in a few minutes ago
appeared delighted and somewhat surprised.
The rest content themselves with a more sober get-up, though just as
little military in style: blue cloth or chestnut velvet trousers,
slippers, and frequently a woollen cap.
Nothing happens of a nature to enliven our existence. Drill in the
morning, but this is something it is impossible to "cut."
Between meals I write letters. Maxence, seated near the fire, with his
legs crossed and his hand under his chin, smokes cigarettes. He muses,
and at the same time keeps an eye on a rice pudding on the point of
boiling over. This native of Franche-Comté feasts on the most insipid
things, and obstinately refuses to drink wine or to eat cheese. Fond of
hunting, he chatters away to Jules, who comes from the same province.
Landed proprietor and poacher discuss the different methods of tracking
a hare, and talk seriously about other matters connected with hunting.
In a corner Varlet reads everything he can lay his hands on, even old
illustrated journals. Sometimes he starts off on an expedition and
brings back a leg of mutton. Jacquard, a jack-of-all-trades, is always
doing something, either cooking or repairing. Verrier, our treasurer,
slowly and minutely brings the accounts up to date, with the gravity
and seriousness he bestows on everything he undertakes. Simply watching
him roll a cigarette enables one to see that he never does anything
lightly.
About noon the _Petit Parisien_ reaches Bucy. The reading of the
communiqué and the dispatches gives us to understand how impossible
it is to foresee the end of the war. Six months ... a year.... Such
are the hypotheses we once laughed at, though now they appear logical
enough. At bottom, we believe there will happen something unexpected
and formidable which will bring victory and peace....
Then we begin to discuss matters. Since all six of us are bound by the
ties of true friendship, there is nothing upon which we are of one
mind: Varlet, a working electrician, who has often found it difficult
to make ends meet, considers that everything is not for the best in
the best of all societies. Maxence, with a stake in the land, regards
Varlet as a dangerous customer. Jacquard, who is in the hosiery
business, is a well-balanced individual, very optimistic, who reads
between the lines of every dispatch the coming entry of the Russians
into Berlin, and the complete exhaustion of Germany. Verrier is a
moderate and restrained sort of fellow. He says: "I am just going to
sleep a little," or "eat a little," or "wash myself a little." Always
"a little." We call him: "not too much," or sometimes _Verrierus
tristis_, the silent. He forms an interesting contrast to the exuberant
Reymond.
Mother Achain and her little daughter, their heads enveloped in black
kerchiefs and their hands clasped on their knees, smile quietly as they
watch us bawl and gesticulate. Father Achain, in the darkest recess of
the room, between fireplace and bed, is everlastingly drawing away at
a pipe that has gone out. From time to time he walks to the door and
stands there for a while. On returning, he says--
"There's some heavy firing going on above the Gué-Brûlé."
_Saturday, 12th December._
Bad news from Russia....
At six in the evening we return to the trenches. Whilst marching
along, our company crosses some light infantry.
"Hullo!" they say, "here come the foot-soldiers."
And what scorn they would convey by the word "foot-soldiers!"
Well, and what are they themselves, after all?
_Sunday, 13th December._
The whole day is spent in the grotto. It rains so heavily that fatigue
duty is suppressed. We are all either sitting or sprawling on the
ground, engaged in reading, writing, or eating by the light of a few
candles. A practical joke, repeated again and again, and of which
we never tire, consists in taking aim at some one intently reading
a letter or a book, and hurling at his candle a shoe, a loaf, or a
_gamelle_. Sometimes a nose is hit instead of the candle. Thereupon
huge guffaws ensue. Varlet, who considers that I am in a sad mood this
evening, cannot resist the temptation of taking me by the feet and
dragging me on my back three times round the room. I laugh heartily.
Then we both crawl about on all-fours, look in the chopped straw for my
pipe, tobacco-pouch, knife, and the small change that has dropped from
my pocket.
Another distraction: we have to carry from the grotto to the first-line
trenches great rolls of barbed wire, as wide as a barrel and several
yards in length. The things are most difficult to handle. On reaching
the outposts, we hoist them over the parapet.
Henriot and Milliard, having fastened up the letters and parcels in
bags, place these bags on to a barrow and mount to the trenches. The
ascent is steep, and the barrow sticks in the mud. From afar we see our
two friends climbing the hill. Some one shouts out--
"Letters!"
Thereupon there is a rush in the direction of the postman. A dozen men
are now wheeling the barrow along. Then come the questions--
"Is there a letter for me? Tell me if my parcel has arrived?"
If the answer is in the affirmative--
"Quick, give it to me; hurry up!"
Then the distribution takes place very speedily, for Milliard never
gets in a temper. We enter the grotto, and at the foot of one of the
great pillars supporting the vault Milliard attends to his business.
His silhouette and those of the men around show up black against
the background of light formed by the opening of the grotto. A
dismal-looking tree, standing on a rising ground, exhibits its leafless
branches.
When the weather is fine the distribution takes place outside skirting
the wood, whose leaves we have seen first turn yellow and then fall to
the ground....
Milliard says--
"Don't crowd around; you shall all be served in turn!"
We group around him.
"Now for the parcels!" Milliard calls out the names.
"Present! Here!"
The parcel flies above our heads in the direction of the answer.
_Monday, 14th December._
We are now in the first line, sometimes keeping a watch over the field
of beetroots, sometimes, pick or shovel in hand, digging and clearing
away.
The entire plain is furrowed with a vast network of fortifications. The
Germans construct listening posts eighty yards distant from our own. In
a few more weeks the wires will be touching one another.
From our front lines project antennæ or feelers, portions of trench
driven as near as possible to the enemy, and connected with the main
trench by a deep zigzag branch.
For sheltering purposes we build small huts somewhat resembling those
in which the bodies were deposited in the catacombs. Here the men keep
themselves dry, at all events. A couple of tent canvasses unfolded in
front of the opening are a protection from the cold, and enable one to
light a candle without making oneself a target for the enemy.
During the night, over a sector of one kilometre, there are fired on an
average a thousand rifle shots which neither kill nor wound a single
man. The object of this fusillade is simply to prevent the patrols
from moving to and fro between the lines.
_Tuesday, 15th December._
For some days past I have been feeling shaky. Really I shall have to go
to the hospital. The day sergeant passes through the trenches and calls
out--
"Any one ill to-day?"
"Yes, I am."
He writes down my name.
"Is that all? Come, now, there must be some one else. Is any one tired
belonging to the 24th?"
He goes from squadron to squadron picking up those who are sick.
Five _poilus_ give themselves up. As a matter of fact, it is not very
pleasant to report yourself ill in the first line. You have first to
make your way through the branches, then go down to Bucy along a road
that is being bombarded, and finally return to where you started unless
the major gives his verdict that you are to be "exempt from trench
service."
At the top of the village, alongside a small hill, a temporary hospital
has been fitted up in a rather fine-looking house, abandoned by its
owners at the time of the offensive of von Kluck. The lawns are
ornamented with statues.
In the centre of the yard patients await the hour of the doctor's
visit. Few serious cases; chiefly the wan expressions and dejected
looks of tired men.
Here comes the major. He has just finished breakfast with the
colonel, who is staying at the château opposite. He is from the
Vosges--young-looking and slim, average height, of ruddy complexion,
with a rough voice and dark, piercing eyes. As each man awaits his turn
he questions the attendants--
"Is the major in good humour this morning?"
The examination begins. The patients enter in batches of ten. They
disrobe in a corner, jostling and being jostled by their neighbours.
They run a great risk of never seeing their clothes again, for these
latter are deposited along the wall, and speedily become trampled about
the floor.
The major sits in front of a table, near the window. He spends half a
minute with each man.
Sometimes a man has a variety of ailments. He suffers all over: head
and loins, liver and heart and feet.
"Clear out at once!" exclaims the major.
Those who come from rural districts all complain of the stomach, an
organ which is just as likely to represent to their minds the bronchi
as the intestines. The doctor accordingly asks--
"Which stomach? The one that eats or the one that breathes?"
Every one receives his deserts. The genuine cases are "exempt from
trench service"; those who are war-worn and tired out are exempted from
some particular duty. As for the rest, the major writes opposite their
names on the sergeant's card the words, _Visite motivée_, a cabalistic
formula implying that there was no reason whatsoever why they should
have come up for examination.
Things are carried on just the same as in barracks; the same tricks are
employed. The other day Jules unhesitatingly placed on the stove the
thermometer which the attendant had put in his armpit. The mercury rose
to 430 Centigrade! The doctor nearly had a fit. Jules is still outside
the hospital walls.
At the exit those officially recognized as ill appear with radiant
faces; those who have met with a snubbing and are declared to be well
have drawn features and generally the air of a man at death's door.
Opposite my name the major has written, "To be kept in hospital." I
look as though I had won the first prize in a lottery, and already feel
considerably better.
The attendants carry me off to their room, a regular paradise. A
105 shell has fallen right on the staircase, reducing everything to
matchwood on its way, but the rest of the place is intact: beds, a
large fire, a good table, lamps. We play at cards, smoke, chat, do
anything to kill time. Outside, for a change, the rain falls harder
than ever.