BOMBARDMENTS
_Thursday, 17th December._
I leave the hospital and make my way to the Achains' to wait for my
five mates, who at nightfall will come down from the trenches with the
rest of the company. I lay the cover: heavy plates with pieces broken
off, tin forks and spoons, thick glasses. No knives; each man must
supply his own.
Here they come at last.... What a state they are in! Mud from head to
foot. Quick with their letters, slippers, and something to eat. We stay
up late, chatting by the fireside.
_Friday, 18th December._
This evening the section is on guard at the Montagne farm, but Reymond,
momentarily requisitioned for some design work at the commander's
bureau, remains at Bucy; I also stay behind, having just left the
hospital.
This Montagne farm is anything but a pleasant spot. Yesterday another
light infantryman was carried away with his head shattered by a 150-gun
shell.
Our friends start at four. We should be glad to see them back again
already.
"Now, be careful. No nonsense, remember!"
A _tête-à-tête_ dinner, a very quiet affair, after which we lie down on
our beds.
"How comfortable!"
Yes, indeed, this is the real thing. We might almost imagine ourselves
back in civil life!
The low-roofed room, which receives air and light only by way of the
door, was evidently white-washed long ago. There are spiders' webs in
every corner. The floor consists of beaten earth. The walls are bare
except for two chromos--Nicholas II and Félix Faure--just visible
beneath fly-stained glasses. The beds take up almost the entire space
available. We sleep right through the night and late into the next
morning. The hours spent in profound slumber represent so much gained
from the war.
_Saturday, 19th December._
Yesterday we were right in feeling anxious about our friends. From
daybreak onwards the farm has been bombarded over our heads. The shells
roar with varying intensity as they pass, according to their size. The
little ten-year-old girl, skipping about the yard in her _sabots_, hums
out--
"There! That's a 210 at least, and this one a 105. Oh, that little
one's but a 77!"
A loud crash, however, sends her flying into the cellar. When she comes
up again she tremblingly clutches her mother's skirt. Madame Achain
gives her a good shaking.
"What's the matter with you, little stupid?"
"Oh, I'm frightened of the shells!"
"A fine tale, indeed! Look at these _messieurs_, are they frightened?"
These _messieurs_, quietly seated, affect an impassive attitude, to
reassure the child.
About three o'clock a lull. We walk over to visit the hospital
attendants. A hearty welcome, cups of tea, every one very polite.
A couple of armchairs are provided for us by the fireplace. We are
treated like lords of a manor.
The Germans are now firing upon Vénizel, some distance farther away.
The petrol works seem to be in flames. Our hosts invite us to view the
spectacle from the second floor. It is hazy, however, and nothing can
be distinguished except a dense cloud of yellowish smoke on the other
bank of the Aisne.
"Really, you have no luck at all!" exclaim the attendants; "generally
we can make out Vénizel as distinctly as though we were in the town
itself."
Soissons also is being violently bombarded.
At night our friends return from the Montagne farm. Varlet affirms--
"We were awfully sorry for you. You missed the _marmites_ falling all
about your ears."
A couple of projectiles, it seems, had fallen right on to the
cattle-shed; a shrapnel had crashed through the dormer-window of the
stable where the squadron lay stretched on the ground, and riddled the
door with bullets. The section had to take refuge in the grotto-like
sheep-fold in the midst of the sheep, now bleating louder than ever.
_Sunday, 20th December._
The hours pass very slowly. This morning, for a couple of hours, we
had to return to the trenches, to clear away the earth and make them
deeper, and so counteract the ravages of the rain.
Back in Bucy, each of us settles down in a corner with a book or
newspaper. During the past few days we have resumed a liking for
printed characters. People may send us books, no matter on what
subject, if only they will help to pass the time. Whatever takes the
poor soldier out of a purely animal life to some extent is welcome.
Another shower of projectiles on Bucy. The windows shake and the little
girl begins to cry. Madame Achain sighs.
"Do the savages want to demolish our house?"
Suddenly there is a lull. Why does a bombardment begin? Why does it
stop? A mystery: the designs of gunners are inscrutable.
Girard, a hospital attendant, pays us a return visit. We thank him for
his kind intentions.
"Oh, it's nothing at all," he says.
Is Bucy to become a society rendez-vous? Girard, who just misses
falling as he seats himself on a tottering chair, remarks cheerfully--
"What nice quarters you have here!"
Madame Achain is flattered; so are we.
The village streets are strewn with sulphur from to-day's shells.
A hayrick has been set on fire and a horse killed close to Madame
Maillard's.
Varlet takes me to see this Madame Maillard. Arm in arm we pass along
the main street. Right and left ruined and disembowelled houses
alternate with buildings almost or wholly intact.
Poor village! Last September it was a pretty little market-town, like
many another on the banks of the Aisne, where the houses have a style
distinctively their own. The white stone doorways and flights of steps,
the violet slate roofs of Champagne and the Ile-de-France, match the
staircase gables of neighbouring Flanders. Now the bright, cheerful
houses are dilapidated and shattered; the tax-collector's house is
empty, so is the baker's. Nor has the church been spared; the recent
cannonade has added to the former ruin and desolation.
The civilians, too, are away. We talk to those who have stayed, and
daily make progress in the dialect of the place. We know that _ce
ch'tiot ila_ means "this little boy," as we have already discovered
that parents and grandparents call themselves _tayons_ and _ratayons_.
Brave civilians! No one ever mentions them. Now, this isn't right. Not
only have they seen the young ones leave for the front, not only do
they live through the horrors of war, but many of them have relations
in neighbouring villages occupied by the enemy. Scarcely any are left
except women and old men. The latter have passed through 1870; they
give their reasons for their present confidence in the result of the
war and tell of the miseries of former days.
On the town hall square are drawn up the carriages of the regimental
train. Opposite are two ruined hovels and a farm, the roof of which has
fallen in, a yard strewn with debris, now the playground of dogs and
cats, ducks and hens. Between two calcined pieces of wall stands Madame
Maillard's little house. We knock at the door.
"Come in!"
We now find ourselves in one of the gayest corners of Bucy; a very
select place, moreover, to which one can only gain admittance by
introduction. Here Milliard the postman is the oracle, along with
Henriot, his acolyte. Here lodges the _train de combat_, i.e. the
conductors of the regimental carriages. These infantry, who ride on
horseback all the same, form a separate corporation. Even their dress
is different from that of other soldiers: leather jackets and spurs.
Their names are Charlot, Petit-Louis, and Grand-Victor. Their functions
take them to Soissons and bring them daily into contact with the
rearguard service.
Varlet, as a friend, has requested permission to introduce me. His
request has been backed by Milliard and Henriot.
"Bring him along, then," they said.
At any hour of the day one can always find at Madame Maillard's white
wine, cards and tobacco. In a corner Henriot is sorting the letters.
Milliard, after noting the parcels in a book, encloses them in a big
bag.
"Are the letters for Achains' ready?" asks Varlet.
"Yes, here's the packet. We will bring you the parcels shortly."
The first thing we do on our return is to shout out--
"We have each had a pint of white wine at the _train de combat_."
"White wine, impossible! You lucky fellows!"
I have no idea why white wine is so scarce. In war there are hosts of
things one cannot understand at all.
_Monday, 21st December._
During the night a regiment of territorials have arrived who have not
yet seen fire. They make a fine _début_, for Bucy is subjected to a
heavier bombardment than ever; explosions for three hours without a
break. A rain of iron splinters and balls falls upon the roof of our
lodging. The tiles come toppling down into the yard. Varlet, who has
gone for some of the famous white wine to the _train de combat_, rushes
into the room, looking horribly scared as he clasps three bottles
to his breast. At the corner of the street he had encountered two
shrapnels.
"The first," he said, "went on its way, but I thought the second had
got me. It knocked a piece off the doorpost beneath which I had rushed
for shelter."
"Oh, _you_ wouldn't have been any great loss, but the bottles----"
The house shakes with the shock of the explosions, which come nearer
and nearer. _Sabots_ are clattering in the yard. The Achains and the
women from neighbouring houses hurry to take refuge in the cellar.
We should be wise to follow their example. That, however, would mean
leaving the lunch, which is simmering on the fire! Besides, there's
something attractive in the idea of brazening the thing out.
The explosions continue. By way of the chimney, which serves as an
acoustic tube, we hear the dull, distant detonation as the shell leaves
the gun, then the hissing sound, which increases in volume, and finally
the violent explosion a few yards away.
A projectile crashes through the roof of the house opposite.
"Suppose we go and see how they are getting along in the cellar?"
anxiously suggests Jules.
In a corner crouch the Achains and five or six other women. Sighs and
lamentations; invocations to Jesus and Mary!
"Is the house demolished?" asks Madame Achain.
"No, not yet."
At this very moment a shell bursts in the yard.
Ten minutes afterwards, Maxence, who prefers to be more at his ease,
mutters--
"It's not very pleasant here. I'm going up."
We follow him. The six of us return to the common room above. Well,
suppose we lunch. We take our places at the table, whilst Jacquard
carries a pan full of haricot beans to the refugees in the cellar.
Finally the bombardment ceases. Once more the streets are strewn with
sulphur. By a miracle nothing is set on fire. A light infantryman and
eight horses are killed. Some more rubbish is scattered about the
village, where, by the way, life is soon going on as usual.
At five the company returns to the front line. The engineers have
constructed shelters for the squadron, six feet below the surface,
stoutly propped up by large pieces of timber. One of these tiny
habitations is assigned to us, a tolerably warm and perfectly secure
sort of room, where one can come for a nap between two watches, and,
a more important matter, speak aloud, smoke, and light candles. The
shelters of the previous days, being unsupported, have all been washed
away by the rain.
Then comes a violent fusillade, beginning far away to the left, with
a sound as of rending cloth; it spreads over the whole line. The
lieutenant comes out of his dug-out; he orders Jacquard and myself to
start the beacon burning.
We both try to light the great acetylene lantern, opening the tap when
it should be closed, and closing it when it should be open. At last,
to our great surprise, the flame bursts forth. A corporal leaps on the
little fuse-projecting rifle and fires it. The fuses rise into the air
and fall to the ground, shedding a strong white light over a radius of
three hundred yards.
Sergeant Chaboy gives the command to fire. So we load and fire, until
our rifles are burning hot. Each man's hundred and fifty cartridges are
all gone in less than an hour. Firing slackens on both sides. A sudden
return to a state of dead calm.
Munitions are distributed around. Only one man wounded in the 24th: a
corporal, who was with a patrol that went out just before the alarm.
He was surprised by the fusillade when on the point of rejoining his
men, who had already returned to the trench. Caught between two fires,
he crouched behind a small elevation, and instinctively protected his
head with his right arm. This arm received six bullets, French and
German alike. The sergeant in command of the patrol goes out into the
hail of iron to bring back the wounded man, and returns intact, though
his clothes are torn to shreds and his hands are all blood-stained. The
corporal's arm is reduced to pulp, and his thigh has also received a
ball. The hæmorrhage is stopped as well as circumstances permit.
The lieutenant comes round and says--
"Keep your eyes open, the attack will certainly recommence."
Has there really been an attack?
"They do that sort of thing to prevent our falling asleep," growls one
man.
The rain has stopped. Each man leans against the trench wall and
groups form. We converse in low tones, hiding the light of the pipes in
the hollow of the hand, and await events.
At midnight a fresh alarm. The fusillade upon Crouy begins again, and
in a few seconds is raging along the entire line. The cannon also are
firing. The field of beetroots is lit up by fuses. We maintain an
uninterrupted fire under the quiet command of Sergeant Chaboy. A few
balls ricochet into the trenches and eight men are wounded.
After forty-five minutes of furious firing everything again becomes
calm. A few more salvos and a final crackling of the _mitrailleuses_,
and it is over. Profound silence throughout the rest of the night. We
cannot understand it.
The company has spent thirty thousand cartridges, perhaps without
killing a single German.
_Tuesday, 22nd December._
Still in the first line, though in a sector farther away from the enemy.
Reymond invites a few friends to inaugurate an exhibition of drawings
he has just finished. Into the recesses of the trench walls enormous
beetroots are fitted. On the slices of these hard white roots (they
resemble in no way the beetroot of the salad-bowl), cut clean through
with a chop from a spade, Reymond has sketched, with a violet crayon,
some of the heads of the section.
Here, with its prominent skull and nose, we have the pessimist
Mauventre, who at the faintest distant roar of the cannon sighs--
"Here come the _marmites_! They'll be the death of us all yet, see if
they're not!"
Reymond has well caught the anxious, troubled features of this intrepid
soldier.
On another slice of beetroot is the droll silhouette of Corporal Davor,
his startled face almost hidden between his shoulders and his arms
akimbo. Davor goes about, at night-time, to stir up those on sentry
duty.
"Keep a watch on the right. Keep a watch on the left."
One source of diversion for us is to assume, whenever he passes, the
indifferent air of one who ridicules the German attacks.
We all figure in the collection. Varlet is a striking type, with his
badger profile immoderately lengthened out by a pipe in the form of a
shell or conch, which appears to be soldered on to his nose.
The beetroot haunts our very dreams. Since we are fated to be tormented
with the beetroot for all eternity, we may as well extract what fun we
can from it.