CHRISTMAS
_Wednesday, 23rd December._
The third day in the front line. The section is on guard at the
telephone. There is a good _gourbi_ or hut provided for each
half-section. Two hours' sentry duty on the Vregny road, along which a
spent ball comes whistling from time to time.
A pleasant diversion; Captain P---- of the Flying Corps arrives from
Paris in a motor-car, and sends for Reymond and myself.
We go down to the car, which has come to a halt below the grotto. Muddy
and slimy, enveloped in multi-coloured wrappings, rifle and cartridges
hanging on to our persons, pipes in mouth and bearded faces, dirty and
grimy, we all the same greet the captain with a very martial military
salute.
He has brought us an enormous hamper of provisions. What luck! We are
now assured of keeping up Christmas-eve. He also brings us letters, and
offers to take back any messages from ourselves. In a dreamy maze of
wonder we gaze upon this astonishing individual, who will be in Paris
to-night, and whose surroundings are something else than fields of
beetroots.
Whilst engaged in conversation, a 150 shell falls a few yards from the
car. It fails to explode.
Captain P---- briefly gives us the news. The war will last longer than
people think; perhaps another five or six months. We ourselves, it
appears, are in a very quiet sector, neither attacked nor attacking,
just mounting guard.
_Thursday, 24th December._
A bright sun, fine and cold weather. The company go down to the grotto,
where they are to sleep to-night. Consequently we shall celebrate our
Christmas-eve "beneath these vaults of stone" as the song goes in _Don
Carlos_.
Here comes the postman. What a heap of parcels! We spend the afternoon
in unpacking them; the war is forgotten; our main preoccupation is
to prepare a dinner to which the squadron will all contribute. Jules
has gone down to Bucy; for once he has received the lieutenant's
permission. His errand is to bring back some wine.
Crouching in a corner, with a bayonet-candlestick by my side, I write
away. The man next to me becomes irritated by my silence and evident
preoccupation.
"What are you writing?" he asks.
"A letter to my servant."
"Well! That's the very last thing I should have expected you to do."
"You fool! I'm giving her instructions to send out my New Year's gifts,
telling her to buy boxes of sweets and chocolates, and giving her the
addresses to which they are to be sent, with my card."
No sooner have I spoken than a whole string of epithets--snob,
_poseur_, dandy--comes down on my devoted head. I reply in very
dignified fashion--
"Oh, indeed! Then you cannot even tolerate ordinary politeness in a
man?"
"Politeness! Just look at yourself in a mirror. You would be better
employed in giving yourself a scrub down."
At eight o'clock the corner of the grotto containing the first squadron
is illuminated with a goodly number of candles.
In the first place, for a successful Christmas-eve celebration we must
have some sourcrout--Alsatian, of course. There are five large tins of
it, along with a knuckle of ham. Then follow all kinds of sausages,
one of which has come from Milan. We speedily dispatch it, at the same
time exhorting our "Latin sister" to join in with us. Carried away by
an irresistible impulse, the squadron takes by assault several _pâtés
de foie gras_. The dessert is most varied: pears, oranges, preserves
in jars, in tubes and in pails, a pudding which flames up when you
apply a match to it, and, last of all, a drink which the cook has most
carefully prepared: coffee with the real odour of coffee.
It is past ten o'clock. The bottles are empty. Every one is very gay
and lively; no one intoxicated.
So pleasant an evening cannot end without music.
The concert begins with our old marching songs, those we used to sing
at drill, or when tramping the dusty roads, to quicken our speed, songs
which we run the risk of forgetting in this accursed war where we
scarcely stir a foot. The words are not invariably to be recommended,
but the familiar swing and rhythm which used to make us forget the
weight of our haversacks, this evening make us forget our burdens of
worry and _ennui_. Most conscientiously do we brawl out the tunes. The
great advantage of the grotto lies in the fact that one can shout as
loud as one pleases.
The lieutenant lifts up the tent canvas with which we have barricaded
our den.
"Well! This is something like! You are doing it! May I come in?"
"Of course, _mon lieutenant_!"
We give him a seat on an empty bag, and the concert recommences.
Singers, with some pretence to a voice, try hard to carry off their
sentimental or grandiloquent ditties, but it is the motley repertoire
of absurdity and ridicule that meets with the success of the evening:
the songs of Montmartre, artistes' refrains, fertile in spicy nonsense.
We mark time by tapping our empty plates with the back of the hand.
The noisy merriment is intensified when we come to the chorus.
With frenzied enthusiasm the squadron shouts out the chorus of Hervé's
_Turcs_--
_Nous, nous sommes les soldats
Et nous marchons au pas,
Plus souvent au trépas...._
And now Charensac comes forward.
"Make way for the Ambassador of Auvergne," barks out Varlet.
"Quite right, I am from Auvergne, and I'm going to dance the _bourrée_."
He dances it, all alone. Some of the audience, making a humming sound
with their hands, the rest whistling or else beating time with cans and
_gamelles_, form an improvised orchestra, half Spanish, half negro. The
dancer's big round face, flanked with little tufts of black whiskers,
lights up. He is both the Auvergnat and his betrothed--advancing,
receding, seeming to escape from himself. When you think he is utterly
exhausted, he still finds it possible to shout out in joyous accents--
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, a collection for 'l'artisse.'"
And he mimics in succession a lion-tamer and a lady walking the tight
rope. The sous rain down into his _képi_.
Thereupon Charensac strikes a lyrical vein. He sings in the _patois_
of Auvergne, and, being in an expansive mood, relates the whole of his
life, from his birth down to the present day, forgetting nothing, not
even his wedding festivities, in the course of which he assures us that
he thrashed his mother-in-law.
Charensac's eloquence is made up of hiccoughs and invocations, songs
and laughter, but we understand all the same. We gather that this giant
of an Auvergnat is a compound of landowner, estate manager, Government
official, and representative of his syndicate at the _Bourse du
Travail_. I find I have had to come to the front to learn that a keen
sense of the rights of property is not incompatible with the spirit of
revolutionary claims.
Charensac stops for a moment, exhausted. Thereupon Reymond, who has had
his eyes fixed on him for some time, leans on his elbow, and from the
corner in which he has been lying, remarks--
"You don't know whom you make me think of, Charensac, always shouting
and stuffing like a huge ogre? I'll tell you; you remind me of old Ubu."
"Who's old Ubu?" asks the other.
"Old Ubu----" begins Reymond.
Startled, I burst out--
"You're not going to tell the first squadron who old Ubu was?"
"Don't you interrupt."
And Reymond explains. In profound silence we listen as he relates how
Ubu was the first man who recommended that eight bullets should be put
into a rifle, because with eight bullets it is possible to kill eight
of the enemy, and you have that number the less to account for. The
thing that delights the first squadron is Ubu's prophetic description
of the modern battle: "... We have the foot-soldiers at the foot of
the hill ... the cavalry behind them to burst upon the jumbled mass of
combatants, and the artillery round by the windmill here to fire upon
them all." The men clap their hands in delight and exclaim knowingly:
"Yes, that's it! The very thing!"
Finally Reymond says that Ubu, like Charensac, was a sort of enormous
giant, with a voice of thunder and an insatiable appetite.
After this, Charensac is never called anything but old Ubu, and as
the sly rascal sees here a new excuse for the satisfaction of his
appetites, he accepts the surname with enthusiasm.
Old Ubu will become popular in the 352nd Regiment, and rightly so. In
warfare it is necessary to evoke the shade of Jarry as frequently as
that of Homer.
Midnight. A procession of magi moves along the galleries. Reymond, a
muffler wrapped turban-wise round his head and majestically draped
in the folds of a poncho, carries the myrrh in a _gamelle_. The tent
pickets serve the purpose of sceptres. Some one walks backwards in
front of the kings, with an electric lamp raised above his head. This
represents the star.
The star guides us back to our _crèche_, where the candles have just
flickered out. Kings and shepherds lie _pêle-mêle_ on the ground, and
the loud snoring soon proves them to be sound asleep.
_Friday, 25th December._
At half-past six the sergeants shout into the grotto--
"Up, 24th, and fully equipped!"
"What's this?... What's the matter?"
"Get up at once; within a quarter of an hour we must be in the fighting
line."
Each man, half-awake, puts on his boots and his puttees and fastens on
his haversack.
Muster in front of the grotto: a frightful din. From Crouy to Vailly
every single battery keeps up an uninterrupted fire on the German
trenches. What an awakening we are giving them for their Christmas!
In a few words the lieutenant explains the day's programme--
"Attacks on the left as soon as the bombardment is over. In front of
Bucy we are commanded not to move. The 24th must hold the support
trenches and keep in readiness 'for any eventuality.'"
The usual thing!
This morning the fighting emplacements are not very dangerous. The
company deploys along the path which skirts the ridge on a level with
the grotto. This is the first line as it was at the beginning of
November; to-day the first line is over five hundred yards forward.
Men belonging to the 23rd relate how the Germans have been singing
hymns all night long. They must have been celebrating their triumphs;
our artillery will bring them all back to their senses. The shells
hammer away at the frozen soil, tearing it up when they explode.
Impossible to hear oneself speak in the midst of the uproar. The sky
is pale blue, gradually assuming a darker tint. The sun is shining
brightly, but it affords no warmth. Each man sends out from his mouth
tiny clouds with every breath.
On the road between the loop-holes there are still to be seen some of
the branch-constructed shelters in which we lodged a couple of months
ago. With the exception of two on sentry duty, we are going to finish
here our interrupted Christmas dreams.
In war-time, unless he is sent on guard or given fatigue duty, the
foot-soldier makes his bed anywhere and anyhow. In case he has
insufficient room he shrinks into as small space as possible, his knees
touching his chin. The cartridge cases of the man behind him dig into
his ribs, and those of the man in front crush his stomach, the hilt of
the bayonet finds a place between two other ribs, whilst the sheath
always seems twisted and bent.... Well, it can't be helped. You just
settle down as well as you can, and you dream, whether awake or asleep.
From time to time some one will growl out, "Its impossible to sleep
with such a noise going on!" and off he falls at once into a deep
slumber.
A joyless day seems in store for us. Shall we be attacked? Or are we to
attack?
A brief distraction takes the form of a young mouse, which comes out of
its hole close to our feet, and is by no means startled by the sight
of six _poilus_ seated around on the floor. Soon it scampers away, but
immediately reappears and fastens its impudent eyes upon us. The roar
of the cannon does not seem to disturb its tiny ears. It is neutral. I
quietly put out my hand, but evidently the gesture is too familiar, for
the mouse re-enters its trench and appears no more.
At two o'clock the 24th are ordered to equip and muster. It appears
that we are to relieve the 23rd in the first line.
News arrives: our attack in the direction of Crouy has succeeded only
partially. The artillery duel is coming to an end. We appreciate the
silence that follows.
We are fixed up in the first line. I spend a couple of hours with
Verrier at the listening post, anything but a pleasant spot. The
Germans are fifty yards away. By risking an eye at the loop-hole we
distinctly make out their wires and the mounds of earth behind which
they are. At night we have to keep our ears alive to the faintest sound
to prevent ourselves from being taken prisoners or massacred by a
patrol party.
An interlude. The Germans are imitating the cries of various animals:
cock and dog, calf and pig.
We ask for news of the Kaiser. They reply--
"He's quite well, thanks. We'll see you again shortly in Paris."
A single though expressive word is our retort.
Again they shout to us from the enemy's trenches--
"A merry Christmas! Send us some wine."
Then they sing the _Marseillaise_!
_Saturday, 26th December._
This morning we found the water frozen in our cans.
The cooks, when bringing in the soup, assure us that the Hindus have
been sent for to make an attack on Crouy. They describe minutely how
they are dressed.
"There is a fellow in the _train de combat_," says "the Fireman," "who
has come across them at Soissons."
Thereupon Jacquard cannot contain himself for joy. Being of a most
optimistic temperament, he sees the Sikhs and Gurkhas coming down
Hill 132 and cutting our invaders' throats. He endeavours to give his
foolish face an expression of ferocity, and explains how the Hindus
attack.
"The beggars glide about noiselessly in the dark, like serpents.
Impossible to hear them coming. Before you are aware they are upon
you, cutting your throat with the big knife they hold between their
teeth...."
"_Bigre!_ Lucky for us they're on our side."
But where has Jacquard, who has never travelled beyond the
neighbourhoods of the Rue de Sentier and Levallois-Perret, obtained
such detailed information about the warlike habits of these distant
peoples?
Meanwhile there is a dead calm; they forget to relieve us. The section
returns to Bucy after forty hours' outpost duty. We quarter in a
half-ruined house which contains scarcely enough room to lie down in.
We sleep in higgledy-piggledy fashion with our comrades, the feet of
one man against the face of another, and vice versa.
_Sunday, 27th December._
No means of returning to the Achains', the company being fixed up
at the other extremity of the village. I knock at the door of the
Ronchards, the brother and sister who showed us hospitality one
afternoon last month. They place at our disposal a large well-warmed
room, where we can all six sleep on an enormous litter of straw.
Mademoiselle Ronchard has not yet recovered from her disappointment at
our not eating her rabbit stew. The stove begins to roar and we come
back to life again.
A detail: we find ourselves covered with fleas. An energetic hunt
commences. It is not without results.
We hear a voice in the street and rush out. The Montagne farm is a mass
of flame, the result of a bombardment which has lasted several hours.
The entire hill is illumined; even from this distance we can hear the
roar of the fire. Beams fall to the ground and flames of fire rise into
the air. Dark silhouettes are seen in the neighbourhood. Without a
word we gaze long at the sinister spectacle. Some one simply remarks--
"The pity of it all!"
We return to the Ronchards.
_Monday, 28th December._
Thaw and rain, creating mud and all the old troubles over again. We
remain indoors at the Ronchards'.
How calm and quiet this evening! There are six of us, feet in slippers,
sitting round the table. Some are reading, others writing by the soft
light of a lamp. Are we the same persons who, only the day before
yesterday, were wallowing in the trench between two walls of mud? Are
we really at war, at the front, with the enemy less than a mile away?
Our friends and relatives, whose letters betray constant anxiety on our
behalf, invariably imagine us in the thick of the fight. If only they
could know, this very moment, that we are in such comfortable quarters,
that there is such an element of peace in our sad surroundings!
The howling wind makes us appreciate by contrast the joy of being under
cover. The distant firing sounds like the noise made by a cart as it
jolts along over the pavings.
_Tuesday, 29th December._
An hour's drill this morning in the shell-ploughed fields, manual
exercise and section school, just to remind us that we are soldiers.
Hair review by the lieutenant in the afternoon. The entire company
must pass through the barber's hands.
Charensac bursts into our room, shouting out, "Good day. How are you,
my young friends?" His voice upsets us completely, and we roughly
inquire whether he has not yet learnt the value of silence after five
months of warfare. Thereupon he explains in his gibberish--
"Don't get angry. I know some one at Crouy who has received a supply of
benedictine and all sorts of good things to eat. I at once thought of
you, for I know my generous little mates will pay for me a drink...."
He is absolved. A bottle of benedictine is worth considering at certain
moments of one's life, and so Charensac starts for Crouy, supplied with
funds, precise instructions, and promises.
In ordinary times the road to Crouy is probably as good as any other
road. But these are not ordinary times. Shells are continually falling,
and a portion of the village of Crouy itself is in the hands of the
enemy. A German machine-gunner, whom we know well, opens fire when any
one passes a certain corner. Charensac, however, disdains the very idea
of peril; he is very brave. The other day, when he was brawling away as
usual, his weary neighbour interrupted him--
"_Ah! là, là_, you wouldn't make such a noise if we were attacking."
Charensac replied, not without an air of dignity, speaking
instinctively of himself in the third person, as though he might have
been Cæsar or Napoleon--
"Don't trouble yourself about Charensac. Just keep by his side when
there is hot work to be done, then no one will ever be in a position to
say that you were afraid."
And, as a matter of fact, Charensac continues to make fine sport of
war, even in the midst of danger. Certainly I have never met his like
before.
Charensac returns in the course of the evening. We all run to meet him.
He tosses off a glass of benedictine, accepts a flannel girdle, two
pocket-handkerchiefs, a bar of chocolate, a camphor sachet for killing
fleas, and then he retires to sleep, shrieking joyfully.
_Wednesday, 30th December._
From noon to four o'clock we clean out the branch trenches, which the
rain has transformed into mud puddles.
_Thursday, 31st December._
Morning drill during a brief spell of sunshine.
Belin comes to dinner.
The year about to begin will be a year of peace and victory, of our
return home.
We do not wait for midnight before going to bed, though we first wish
one another a happy 1915.
_Friday, 1st January, 1915._
Not everybody has followed our example of sobriety in letting in the
new year. This morning some unsteady walking is visible in the streets
of Bucy and Bacchic songs fill the air.
At five the company returns to the grotto.
_Saturday, 2nd January._
A fight against mud, which we scrape away from the road. At noon we
proceed to the first line; for some time past, relieving forces have
been sent out in the daytime. Passing through the branch is a difficult
matter, for we wade in mud up to the knee.
Two hours' duty at the listening post. A calm night. Occasional firing.
_Sunday, 3rd January._
The cooks bring in the soup at ten o'clock and inform us that we shall
be relieved in the evening instead of at noon. Mud and war! Five
more hours of this sort of work! This is what we call, like all good
Pickwickians, "Adding insult to injury, as the parrot said when being
taught to learn English after being taken from his native land."
From four to six, Verrier and I, facing each other as we lean against
the trench walls, await the relief without speaking a word, our eyes
obstinately fixed on our boots.
The return at night along the branches; the mud is thicker and more
plentiful than ever. Frightful oaths and the continual exhortation--
"Gently ahead! We cannot follow you."
Shades glide behind one another, accompanied by the sound of the
_gamelle_ chains. The head of the company has already reached the
grotto whilst the rear is still waiting in the first line till its turn
comes to march away.
The branch opens out on to a very uneven path, scarcely visible through
the wood. In the profound darkness we hear the outbursts of rage and
the curses of the men. The rifles knock against the branches. There
is another path skirting the wood, over exposed ground. A few balls
whistle past, chiefly during reliefs. We have to advance in Indian
file, carefully planting our feet in the steps of the man in front
because of the many holes in the ground. Fifty yards of a steep ascent,
slippery as soap. The falls multiply. Wonderful to relate, there are no
broken bones; not even a sprained ankle.
At last we reach the grotto. Candles and pipes are lit. Each man
removes his equipment and his coat and flings himself on to the straw.
After a brief rest we dine, seated round a newspaper which serves for
a tablecloth. Our comrades left behind in the grotto have kept the
parcels which have arrived whilst we have been in the first line. We
manifest a schoolboy's delight in unfastening them.
_Monday, 4th January._
In front of the grotto the sections muster in columns of fours. A few
stragglers arrive, buckling on their haversacks.
The sergeant welcomes them with the words--
"Don't hurry, I beg of you. I suppose I'm here to wait for you."
The company goes down to Bucy. Within a short time the six of us are
installed with the Ronchards.
Another hunt for fleas. A vigorous offensive is necessary to prevent
ourselves being devoured alive. The labour required to keep one's body
clean becomes something herculean. The mud on coats and puttees refuses
to dry. We give up the struggle.
_Tuesday, 5th January._
Whilst the rest are away at drill I stay behind, the major having
exempted me from duty. I seize the opportunity to do the house work and
Jules gives me a helping hand.
It is Jules' dream to become a _valet de chambre_ in Paris. His views
on life as lived in the capital are unusual and lacking in precision.
He says to me--
"When peace is proclaimed, won't you take me back with you?"
"Listen to me, Jules, I don't want to hurt you, but I cannot afford
more than one servant."
"Nonsense, a man like you!"
"Yes, you see how badly society is built up."
Jules goes over his good points--
"You know me well; I can easily adapt myself to things. With me, you
may have your mind at peace, I would take charge of everything, and you
would not even need to pay me."
Such disinterestedness sends a shudder through me.
"You agree?" asks Jules.
"But--don't you see, I'm tied down here."
"How stupid you are! Things will not always remain as they are now."
"And what if I am killed?"
"Don't talk like that. It would be a pity!"
He sticks to his idea, for he has chosen me to assist him in the
realization of his dreams. Finally he remarks--
"You will leave me free to go out whenever I want, won't you? And every
morning I'll go and kill some little birds for you."
In the evening we chat away with quite civilian freedom of mind. We
forget both what we are engaged upon, and where we are. Plans for the
future are discussed without any one thinking of making the remark that
our talk is very silly. We pay attention neither to our odd-looking
accoutrements, nor to our unshaven chins. We are not even aware of our
tired condition.
We go out into the yard for a quiet smoke. It is very mild; the sky is
lit up with stars, as in times of peace. Away towards the north we hear
the firing of the sentries. The cannon is booming on our left.
Reymond does not feel sleepy; neither do I.
"Suppose we write an article for the _Figaro_?"
Agreed. I set to work. After scribbling away for an hour, I hand a few
sheets across to Reymond. After reading them, he declares--
"How idiotic!"
I feel hurt.
"Then write the article yourself, since you are so clever."
"It's not my business; I'm a painter. Begin it all over again."
I obey. More sheets and a further reading by Reymond.
"This time it's not quite so bad. Suppose we go over it word for word."
At two in the morning we are still at it. Our aim is to set forth
nothing but facts, and at the same time to thrill our readers.
_Wednesday, 6th January._
It's all very well to play at being journalists, and to spend the
night in writing, but this morning we must all be ready for drill at
half-past seven. The two collaborators are snoring away. Varlet wakes
us by walking over our bodies.
"Come now, up! you two journalists."
The journalists refuse to budge.
"You'll be marked absent!"
"Don't trouble about that."
At ten o'clock our comrades return. Our absence has passed unnoticed,
the very thing upon which our modesty and laziness combined were
relying.
At noon--
"Quick! Muster in half an hour. We return to the trenches."
The usual stir and commotion in alarms of this kind.
Afternoon and night are spent very quietly in the grotto.
_Thursday, 7th January._
The 24th occupies fresh positions between Bucy and Crouy, still in the
first line. The weather is dreadful; it is useless to gaze through the
loop-hole, you cannot see a yard in front of you.
A dull, unpleasant day. This evening, seated by Reymond's side in a
dug-out, which luckily is waterproof, I recopy by candle-light the
article for the _Figaro_, taking down the words at his dictation,
with tongue protruding, like a schoolboy, to make my handwriting more
legible. From time to time the rain, oozing through the ceiling, drops
a tear-stain on to the copy.
When the sheets of paper are filled, I carefully put them away safe
from the wet. They will be in the postman's hands to-morrow.
Four hours' sentry duty now to divert our minds. Those who pass by tell
us that the shelters are falling in upon the sleepers. Several times
during the night we have to go to the help of our buried comrades.