UNDER THE GERMAN SHELLS
[Illustration: The author at Camp Grant.
The American soldier is Divisional Interpreter Umberto-Gagliasso.]
UNDER THE
GERMAN SHELLS
BY
EMMANUEL BOURCIER
MEMBER OF THE FRENCH MILITARY COMMISSION TO AMERICA
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
BY
GEORGE NELSON HOLT
AND
MARY R. HOLT
_WITH PORTRAITS_
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1918
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
Published May, 1918
[Illustration]
PREFACE
Life is a curious thing. In time of war Life is itself the
extraordinary and Death seems the only ordinary thing possible for men.
In time of war man is but a straw thrown into the wide ocean. If the
tossing waves do not engulf him he can do no more than float on the
surface. God alone knows his destiny.
This book, _Under the German Shells_, is another instance of war’s
uncertainties. Sent by my government to America to join the new
American army as instructor, I wrote the greater part of the book on
the steamer which brought me. The reader will, perhaps, read it when I
am dead; for another steamer is about to carry me back to France, where
I shall again be “under the German shells,” before the book will see
the light.
This is the second work which I have written during the war. The first,
_Gens du Front_, appeared in France while I was in America. I wrote it
in the trenches. The second will appear in America when I shall be in
France. The father will not be present at the birth of either of his
two children. “C’est la Guerre.”
My only wish is that the work may be of use. I trust it may, for every
word is sincere and true. That it may render the greatest service, I
wish to give you, my reader, a share in my effort: a part of the money
which you pay for the book will be turned over to the French Red Cross
Society, to care for the wounded and assist the widows whom misfortune
has overtaken while I have been writing. Thus you will lighten the
burden of those whom the scourge has stricken.
I hope that you will find in the work some instruction--you who are
resolutely preparing to defend Justice and Right and to avenge the
insults of the infamous Boche.
I have no other wishes than these for my work, and that victory may be
with our united arms.
EMMANUEL BOURCIER.
CAMP GRANT, December 16, 1917.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MOBILIZATION 1
II. THE INVASION 21
III. THE MARNE 50
IV. WAITING 93
V. LA PIOCHE 101
VI. THE GAS 120
VII. RHEIMS 134
VIII. DISTRACTIONS 148
IX. THE BATTLE OF CHAMPAGNE 166
X. VERDUN 177
XI. THE TOUCH OF DEATH 200
ILLUSTRATIONS
The author at Camp Grant _Frontispiece_
Emmanuel Bourcier at the front in the sector of
Rheims in 1915 _Facing page_ 118
Under the German Shells
I
THE MOBILIZATION
Only those who were actors in the great drama of the mobilization of
July, 1914, in France, can at this time appreciate clearly all its
phases. No picture, however skilful the hand which traces it, can give
in full its tragic grandeur and its impassioned beauty.
Every man who lived through this momentous hour of history regarded
its development from a point of view peculiar to himself. According
to his situation and environment he experienced sensations which no
other could entirely share. Later there will exist as many accounts,
verbal or written, of this unique event as there were witnesses. From
all these recitals will grow up first the tradition, then the legend.
And so our children will learn a story of which we, to-day, are able
to grasp but little. This will be a narrative embodying the historic
reality, as the Iliad, blending verity and fable, brings down to us the
glowing chronicle of the Trojan War. Nevertheless, one distinct thing
will dominate the ensemble of these diverse accounts; that is, that
the war originated from a German provocation, for no one of Germany’s
adversaries thought of war before the ultimatum to Serbia burst like a
frightful thunderclap.
At this period there existed in Europe, and perhaps more in France
than elsewhere, a vague feeling that a serious crisis was approaching.
A sense of uneasiness permeated the national activities and weighed
heavily on mind and heart. As the gathering storm charges the air with
electricity and gives a feeling of oppression, so the war, before
breaking forth, alarmed men and created a sensation of fear, vague, yet
terrifying.
To tell the truth, it had been felt for a long time, even in the lowest
strata of the French people, that Germany was desirous of provoking
war. The Moroccan affair and the incidents in Alsace, especially that
of Saverne, made clear to men of every political complexion the danger
hanging over the heads of all. No one, however, was willing to believe
what proved to be the reality. Each, as far as possible, minimized
the menace, refused to accept its verity, and trusted that some happy
chance would, at the last moment, discover a solution.
For myself, I must admit this was the case. Although my profession was
one that called me to gather on all subjects points of information
which escaped the ordinary observer, in common with the rest I allowed
my optimism to conceal the danger, and tried always to convince myself
that my new-found happiness need fear no attack. I had “pitched my
tent.” At least, I believed I had. After having circled the globe,
known three continents and breathed under the skies of twenty lands,
my wanderlust was satiated and I tried to assure myself that my life
henceforth was fixed; that nothing should again oblige me to resume the
march or turn my face to adventure.
Alas! human calculations are of little weight before the imperious
breath of destiny.
I closed my eyes, as did all my countrymen; but to shut out the storm
was impossible. Mingled in all the currents of public events I felt the
menacing tempest and, helpless, I regarded the mounting thunder-clouds.
All showed the dark path of the future and the resistless menace of
1914.
I see again the Paris of that day: that fevered Paris, swayed by a
thousand passions, where the mob foresaw the storm, where clamors
sprang up from every quarter of the terrible whirlpool of opinions,
where clashed so many interests and individuals. Ah! that Paris of
July, 1914, that Paris, tumultuous, breathless, seeing the truth but
not acknowledging it; excited by a notorious trial[A] and alarmed by
the assassination of Sarajevo; only half reassured by the absence of
the President of the republic, then travelling in Russia; that Paris on
which fell, blow after blow, so many rumors sensational and conflicting.
In the street the tension of life was at the breaking-point. In the
home it was scarcely less. Events followed each other with astonishing
rapidity. First came the ultimatum to Serbia. On that day I went to
meet a friend at the office of the newspaper edited by Clemenceau, and
I recall the clairvoyant words of the great statesman:
“It means war within a month.”
Words truly prophetic, but to which at that moment I did not attach the
importance they merited.
War! War in our century! It was unbelievable. It seemed impossible. It
was the general opinion that again, as in so many crises, things would
be arranged. One knew that in so many strained situations diplomacy
and the government had found a solution. Could it be that this time
civilization would fail?
However, as the days rolled on the anxiety became keener. One still
clung to the hope of a final solution, but one began little by
little to fear the worst. In the Chamber of Deputies the nervousness
increased, and in the corridors the groups discussed only the ominous
portent of the hour. In the newspapers the note of reassurance
alternated with the tone of pessimism. The tempest mounted.
At night, when the dinner-hour came, I returned to my young wife. I
found her calm as yet, and smiling, but she insistently demanded the
assurance that I would accompany her to the seaside at the beginning of
the vacation. She had never before asked it with such insistence. She
knew that, in spite of my desire, it was impossible for me to be absent
so long a time, and other years she had resigned herself to leaving
with her baby some weeks before I should lay aside my work. Generally
I joined her only a fortnight before her return to Paris. This time
a presentiment tortured her far more than she would admit. She made
me repeat a score of times my promise to rejoin her at the earliest
possible moment. In spite of my vows she could not make up her mind to
go, and postponed from day to day our separation. At last I had almost
to compel her to leave; to conduct her to the train with a display of
gentle authority. She was warned by an instinct stronger than all my
assurances. I did not see her again until thirteen months later.
Abruptly the storm broke. It came with the suddenness of a thunderclap.
The happenings of this period are a part of history. It is possible,
however, to review them briefly.
It was announced that the President of the republic, abandoning his
intended visit to the King of Denmark, would return precipitately to
Paris, just as the Kaiser, terminating abruptly his cruise along the
Norwegian coast, had returned to Berlin.
I went to the station curious to witness this historic return. The
approaches were black with people, and an unusual force of police
protected the entrance. The interior was decorated as usual with
carpets and green plants, but most unusual was the throng there
gathered. One noticed, in addition to the numerous officials, many
notables little accustomed to going out of their way to see affairs
of this sort. I still see clearly the gray-clad figure of M. Edmond
Rostand, the distinguished author of _Cyrano de Bergerac_; the eager
face of M. Maurice Barrès, and many others.
The presidential train arrived precisely at the announced hour. The
engine, covered with tricolor flags, had scarcely come to a stop amid
clouds of steam, when the parlor-car opened and the President appeared.
He was immediately followed by M. Viviani, at that time president
of the Council of Ministers, who had accompanied M. Poincaré on the
Russian visit. The two advanced to M. Messimy, minister of war, shook
his hand and then those of the other officials. I looked with deepest
interest on these men on whom fate had placed a responsibility so
sudden and so heavy. They appeared calm, but it appeared to me the
countenances of both were pale as if they realized the gravity of the
moment and the weight of their trust. Whatever their feeling, only the
most commonplace words of greeting were uttered, and the group at once
proceeded to the exit.
Here something out of the ordinary occurred. Though I should live a
hundred years, the scene would remain undimmed before my eyes. In
my memory there is no similarly indelible picture, in spite of the
fact that in the course of my ten years in the army I had witnessed a
considerable number of remarkable spectacles. Even at the funeral of
President Carnot, or that of President Félix Faure, even at the visit
to France of Czar Nicholas II, even at the Congress of Versailles after
the election of President Poincaré or any of the great public events
of our national life, I had not seen anything with so dramatic a note
as the occurrence of this instant.
Leading the procession, the President came close to the barrier which
restrained the crowd of privileged persons, who had been allowed
to enter the station. Not a sound had been made, when, sudden as a
lightning-flash, the silence was rent by an intense cry from thousands
of throats. It swelled immediately, was taken up by the throng outside,
echoing and reverberating, till it became a tonal torrent, capable,
like the clamors of the Romans, of killing the birds. And this cry was:
“Vive la France!”
It was so strong, so powerful, and, in these circumstances, so
poignant, that there was a wavering, a hesitation on the part of all.
Even the horses attached to the carriages, and those of the cavalry
guard, seemed to thrill at its fervor.
While the carriages filled and the escort, with sabres flashing, took
its place, the same acclamation, the same cry, deep and powerful,
continued to roar, in its fury demonstrating better than any deed the
national will, and expressing it in a manner so intense and precise,
that any Boches in the crowd (and there certainly were many) must
at this moment have felt the abyss opening beneath their feet; that
the horrible adventure into which their Emperor was hurling them was
destined to hasten their fall rather than assure their triumph.
Through this crashing human concert the escort moved forward. The
crowd, however, was so dense that the carriages were not able to open
a passage, and it was as in a living wave, with men and horses in a
confused mass, that they reached Rue La Fayette, where at last they
were able to disengage the presidential cortège from the still shouting
throng.
In the crowd left behind, a remarkable patriotic demonstration
spontaneously developed under the leadership of two noted deputies, M.
Galli and Admiral Bienaimé, chanting the “Marseillaise” and acclaiming
France.
Now let the war come! Unity dated from this instant.
From this hour the war imposed itself on every one. Each Frenchman
resolutely prepared himself. The Miracle, that wondrous French miracle
which was to stupefy the world and arrest the enemy at the Marne, this
sublime display of strength on the part of a France seized by the
throat, was born, under German provocation, at the Gare du Nord, in
this furious shout, in this cry of passionate love:
“Vive la France!”
From that evening each family felt itself warned, each man felt his
heart grow stronger, and each woman lived in shuddering anticipation.
Throughout the land there gushed forth a will to battle, an admirable
spirit of resolution and sacrifice, on which the enemy had not counted,
that he had not foreseen, and which all his power could not conquer.
France, insulted, provoked, assailed, stood erect to her foes.
This period was brief. People followed in the papers the energetic move
for peace undertaken by France and England, but the day of wavering
was past. War, with all its consequences, was accepted. The national
sentiment was unanimous, and the mobilization found the public ready in
spite of the shocks inseparable from such an event.
The most serious of these which I recall, was the assassination of
Jaurès, the great Socialist leader, in Rue Montmartre. Although several
of the newspapers, and particularly the Italian press, printed that I
was in the party of the great tribune when he was killed, the statement
was inexact. I learned of the assassination shortly after it occurred,
and with several of my associates hurried to the scene. The moment was
tragic and the tense state of public feeling caused an immense throng
to swarm the boulevard. I was able, nevertheless, to reach the office
of l’Humanité and, with others, to write my name in homage to the
fallen one.
Already history was on the march. The national defense was in
organization, and each individual had too many personal preoccupations
to give even to the most legitimate occupation more than a few brief
minutes of attention. For myself it was necessary to think at once of
the rôle of soldier, which I was reassuming.
I hurried to my home. In the empty apartment I assembled my military
equipment with the skill of an old stager; the compact baggage
indispensable to the trooper, which should serve all his needs while
taking up the smallest space, and add as little as possible to the
weight of his burden. The experience I had had in the trade of
soldiering, the expeditions in which I had taken part (the campaign
in China, where, for the first time, I had as companions in arms the
splendid soldiers of free America; my journeys into Indo-China and the
Sahara), enabled me to know, better than most others, the essentials
of the soldier’s personal provision; what must be chosen and what
rejected, and the precise size limits by which a useful article should
be judged indispensable or abandoned because too cumbersome.
I provided for myself accordingly without waiting for the official
call. In consequence I was able to devote my last free hours to some of
my less experienced neighbors. Among these, two poor fellows interested
me particularly. They were brothers, one of them recently married,
who, by uniting their savings, had just opened a shop not far from
my home. They had watched with dismay the coming of the tempest, and
questioned me incessantly, hoping to find in my answers some words of
reassurance. I was able to give only such answers as increased their
fears, and to add advice which they would not heed.
“Imitate me,” I said to them; “the war is inevitable. Buy some heavy
shoes and thick socks. Provide yourselves with needles and thread.
One always needs them, and too often one hasn’t them when the need is
greatest,” etc.
They wouldn’t listen. They continued to worry and do nothing, refusing
to the end to accept the terrible reality, closing their eyes to the
spectre as if they had a premonition that they were destined to be
crushed in the torment and both killed; which, as I have since learned,
was their fate within the first month of the war.
In the meantime I had to write consoling letters to my wife, abandoned
at the seaside, amid a populace shocked and bewildered by the
thunderbolt, and lacking definite news to satisfy the anxious need
which saddened each individual.
But I was a soldier. I had to rejoin my command, and I had only enough
time to pay a farewell visit to the home of my parents, where my
brothers, ready like myself, awaited me with their wives and children.
Such an unforgettable repast. The paternal table surrounded by the
group of sons and grandchildren, each still forcing himself to smile to
hearten the others, each in the bottom of his heart wondering anxiously
what the morrow would unfold. Several of those who on this final
evening partook of the food prepared by their mother, or touched their
glasses and drank “A la France,” “A la Victoire,” will never return.
They have fallen on the field of honor, battling the odious invader,
breasting his blows and giving their lives that their sons may remain
French and free. No one knew who would fall, who would be alive a year,
even a month later, but one would have looked in vain for a quiver
in any eye or a tremor in any voice. All were French. All accepted
their duty, however it might present itself; each in his rank, in his
assigned place; to do simply, without discussion, without hesitation,
whatever the threatened country might demand of its children.
We had the courage to laugh, at this last dinner. We heard our father
recall the memories of the other war, that of 1870, in which he had
served as a volunteer, and then we separated with words of au revoir
and not good-by on our lips.
We were keenly conscious that everywhere in France, in all the homes
and in all the families, an identical scene was presented at that
instant. At each table the mother offered the departing ones a farewell
repast; the wives repeated their vows of affection, and the children
gave their tender love. Every one swore to make the Prussian pay
dearly for his provocation, to chastise his insolence, to arrest him,
cost what it might, and to defeat him. One entered the drama without
effort and almost without hatred, because it was unavoidable, because
France called and it was necessary to defend her. One was sure of the
right, that the cause was just, and without discussion one obeyed.
French blood--the blood which has flowed in so many wars, the blood of
Bouvines, of Valmy, and of Jena, the blood of the Revolution and of
1870--surged in the veins, quickened the pulse and grimly expressed
itself:
“They shall not pass!”
The night of the second of August seemed short. For myself, my
preparations completed, I retired early, well aware of the fatigues to
come; a little shaken, it must be admitted, at the thought of leaving,
for a time which might be long, an abiding-place where I had tasted so
much of pure happiness and calm joy with my young wife and our pretty
baby.
Adventure, the great adventure of war, of journeys, of battles, and of
blood: Adventure left behind so short a time before, as I had believed,
forever, had seized me again and thrown me as an insignificant atom
into the path of the unknown, breaking all the bonds whose forming had
given me so much joy, and whose stability had seemed so humanly sure.
When the hour arrived for my departure, I contemplated my deserted
apartment, and gave a last kiss to the pictures of my absent loved
ones. Then, in marching attire, my light sack on my shoulder, I
descended to the street with firm step and heart beating high, to begin
my journey to the front.
The animation of the streets was extraordinary. All Paris seemed to
have turned out to form an escort for the soldiers. These latter were
easily recognized by the stern resolution of their faces, quite as
much as by the accoutrement they bore. Most of them were accompanied
by parents or friends; those who were alone were constantly saluted by
the crowds as they passed. Many people offered their carriages to the
soldiers, and others had placarded their motors with announcements that
they would carry mobilized men to the stations without charge. Around
these machines there was an ever-increasing crowd.
I entered this human wave. Immediately one dropped the manner of
civilian life and became a soldier. By an old French habit, obligatory
in the barracks, all the men replaced their formal speech by the
intimate forms--_le tutoyer_--reserved ordinarily for one’s family and
intimate friends.
Costumes of all sorts were there; the long coat of the workman,
business suits, peasant blouses, bourgeois jackets with a touch of
color given by the occasional red or blue uniform. Hair-cuts were in
equal variety, from the tousled head of the peasant lad and the waving
curls of the student to the closely cropped state of those who had
anticipated the military order. At the station all was well ordered.
The trains, requisitioned before our coming, and with directions
clearly indicated by placards, were quickly filled. Throughout the
cars the men were singing and shouting, giving assurance of triumph,
of prompt return, and of chastisement for the Boche. The coaches were
covered with inscriptions naïve and gay.
“Excursion-train for Berlin.”
“Round trip to Germany.”
“Good fellows’ compartment-car.”
And a hundred others, many accompanied by satirical drawings, showing
occasionally real talent on the part of the caricaturist. At the hour
fixed all moved forward. All these men departed, singing; starting
on their journey toward battle, toward glory, and toward death,
while along the way, in the gardens or at the doors of the houses,
the women, the children, and the old men waved their hands and their
handkerchiefs, threw kisses and flowers, endlessly applauding, in a
warm sentiment of love and of recognition, those who went forth to
defend them.
No one, perhaps, of all those who departed, of all those who saluted,
believed that the war would be long, that it would involve the world
and become what it now is, the battle for human freedom, the battle to
death, or to the triumph of democracy over autocracy.
II
THE INVASION
A short time before the advent of the world catastrophe, Mr. Nicholas
Murray Butler, president of Columbia University, was in France. I had
the pleasure of meeting him in Paris. He gave me the first copy, in
French and English, of the report of the American commission of inquiry
concerning the Balkan atrocities. This report was made for the Carnegie
Foundation, and he asked me to spread the knowledge of it, as far as
possible, in my own country. I believed then that I was doing well in
drawing from this interesting work a comparative study, which chance,
rather than choice, caused to appear in the _Grande Revue_, in its
number of July, 1914, only a few days before the outbreak of the great
war itself.
I could not think, in writing this study, that it would precede by so
very short a time events much worse, and that the Balkan atrocities,
which were already arousing the conscience of the civilized world, were
about to be surpassed in number and horror at the hand of one of the
nations claiming the direction of modern progress: Germany! No, I could
not dream it, nor that I would be so soon a witness of it.
Let us return to my strict rôle of soldier, from which I have
digressed. The digression was necessary, however, for it will make
more comprehensible the amazing situation which the war created for
me. At the time the mobilization took place I was accustomed to the
wide liberty of action, of thought, and of speech which is usually
enjoyed by the writers and artists of France. In public places as well
as in certain drawing-rooms, I met the most illustrious personages,
both French and foreign, whose presence gives to Paris much of its
unique charm. My own signature was sufficiently well known to attract
attention, and life opened before me full of attraction. Suddenly, from
the fact that a demoniacal fanatic had killed the Archduke Ferdinand
and his wife in the little, unknown town of Sarajevo, the conflagration
flamed forth. I abandoned everything which, up to this time, had
constituted the essential part of my life; everything which had seemed
worthy my attention and care, to become, on the morrow, an unknown, a
soldier of the ranks, a number almost without a name, without volition
of my own, without individual direction.
This was, it still is, a great renunciation. To really grasp its
meaning, one must experience it himself. However, by reason of the
importance assumed gradually by the World War, by reason of the
enormous number of men called to the colors of every country of the
globe, the feeling which I experienced at that time has become part of
the common lot, and before the end of the tragedy, the majority of our
contemporaries will have experienced it to a greater or less degree.
My order to report for duty directed me to go to Caen. It is a lovely
town in Normandy, rich in superb monuments, of which one, “Abbaye aux
Hommes,” is an almost unequalled marvel of twelfth-century architecture.
I arrived in the evening, after a fatiguing journey in a train packed
with mobilized men, who had already dissipated all social differences
by the familiarity of their conversation. Immediately on our arrival
we entered the barracks. As there was not nearly enough room for the
throng of recruits, my company received the order to join another in
a temporary camp, whither we hastened at full speed with the hope
of being able to sleep. This new lodging, unfortunately, contained
no conveniences whatever: it was a riding-school, where the young
people of the town learned horsemanship, and which offered us for
bedding nothing but the sawdust mixed with manure which had formed the
riding-track. It must be confessed that one would need to have a large
measure of indifference to be entirely content with this lodging. The
unfortunate civilian clothing, which we were still wearing, suffered
much from the experience.
Dawn found us all up and moving about, each one hunting, among
the groups, those who, through mutual sympathy, would become more
particularly “comrades,” or, to use a word more expressive, more
characteristically French, “companions,” those with whom one breaks
bread.[B]
The crowd was composed of the most diverse types, but the greater
number were from Normandy. Most of these Normans were farmers, many of
them well-to-do; a few were dairymen and others horse-dealers. The rest
of the company was Parisian. It is the custom in recruiting the French
army to mix with all the contingents a certain percentage of Parisians,
thus scattering over all of France, and particularly along the eastern
frontier, the influence of the country’s capital. In the French army
the Parisian has the reputation of being an excellent soldier; very
alert, of great endurance, light-hearted, and agreeable, with a keen
sense of humor which sweeps away gloom and dispels melancholy. He is
also a bit hot-headed and does not yield readily to discipline. The
leaders know the admirable results they can obtain by appealing to the
vanity or the sentiment of the Parisian, and that he is capable of
almost any effort is freely admitted. They fear, however, his caustic
humor, his facile raillery and his eternal joking, which sometimes
endanger their prestige. At least, these ideas existed before the war.
Under the fiery tests of these three years, all differences of thought
have melted as in a terrible crucible; and there has been brought
about a national unity so intimate and so absolute, that one would not
know how to make it more perfect.
Among my new comrades the differences due to birthplace were quickly
noted. By the costume, the accent, or the general manner it was easy
to identify the native of the Calvados, of Havre, or of Paris. Already
these affinities played their unfailing rôle, and in the general
bustle the groups formed according to their origin. In the meantime
every face showed that species of childish joy which always marks the
French when they abandon their individualities and become merged in a
crowd, as in the army. Their naturally carefree spirit comes to the
surface and colors all their thought and action. They cease to feel
themselves responsible for the ordering of their lives, and leave all
to the authority which controls them. This enables them to throw aside
all thought of their immediate needs, and permits them, at whatever
age, to recover a youthfulness of spirit which is a perpetual surprise
to strangers, and which constitutes one of their chief racial charms.
Released from all care, they jest freely on all subjects, and their
spirit of quick repartee, their gifts of observation and of irony
develop amazingly--perhaps to excess. They are just children, big
children, full of life and gayety, who laugh at a joke and delight in
a song; big children who will suffer every fatigue and every pain so
long as they can retain their _esprit_, and whom one may lead into any
danger if one knows how to provoke their good humor.
War did not in the least change all this. While perhaps most of the
troop had done little more than go through the motions of slumber, and
every one had missed something of his customary comfort, no one seemed
tired when next morning’s reveille came. Each improvised an occupation.
One built a fire between two stones that he might heat water for the
soup, another prepared vegetables, a third helped the quartermasters
in their accounts, and still another volunteered to help arrange the
uniforms which were heaped up in a barn commandeered to serve as a
store-house. In a short time the issuing of uniforms commenced. In
his turn each soldier received his clothing, his equipment and all
the regulation baggage. And such scenes, half comic, half serious,
as were enacted when the men tried on and adjusted their hurriedly
assembled attire! Gradually, however, the long and short, the lean and
rotund, by a series of exchanges, achieved a reasonable success in
the transformation, and the variety of civilian aspect gave way to a
soldierly uniformity.
At this period, in spite of all the efforts to secure a modification
of the garb of the French soldier, the uniform still consisted of
the celebrated red trousers and the dark-blue coat. This too gaudy
attire was a grave error, soon to be corrected by stern experience.
The red trousers dated from about 1830, and had acquired prestige in
the conquest of Algeria and the wars in Mexico and Italy. To it also
attached all the patriotic sentimentality aroused by the struggle
of 1870. So strongly intrenched was it in popular fancy that it had
triumphed over its most determined foes, and this in spite of the
lessons regarding the visibility of the soldier, furnished by modern
combats such as the Boer War and that between Russia and Japan. In
consequence, the whole French army, excepting certain special troops
such as the Chasseurs, the Marines, and a few others, started for the
front in this picturesque but dangerous costume. On its side, it cannot
be doubted, it had a certain martial pride, a pride so notable that it
was remarked by the Romans at the time of the conquest of Gaul. This
sentiment of sublime valor makes the French prefer the hand-to-hand
combat, in which they excel and where each shows the exact measure of
his bravery, rather than the obscure, intrenched warfare for whose
pattern the Boche has turned to the creeping beasts.
Therefore we were clothed in this glittering fashion. However, as if
the visibility of our uniform had already disquieted our leaders, they
concealed our red head-gear by a blue muff which completely covered
the cap. It was in this attire that the company formed, that the ranks
aligned and the two hundred and fifty civilians of yesterday became
the two hundred and fifty soldiers of to-day; two hundred and fifty
soldiers of right and justice. In like manner millions of others,
scattered through all the depots and barracks where invaded France was
arming herself, girded their loins and burnished their arms for the
sacred work of defending their homes.
Although few details are visible to the individual lost in the crowd, I
feel sure that none of us even tried to see beyond the affairs of the
moment. Certain things we could not help knowing: The war had already
reddened our frontiers. Invaded Belgium battled desperately. Liége
resisted. King Albert, his court, and the Belgian Government prepared
Antwerp for a prolonged defense. Our comrades of the covering troops
on one flank had invaded Alsace, and on the other had advanced to
Charleroi. In the meantime, we, the soldiers of future combats, busied
ourselves with preparations for our rôle with hardly a thought for
the struggles already under way, or those of the future; this future
so terrible which awaited us. We were more occupied in choosing our
comrades than in considering the far-reaching possibilities of such
incidents as the escape of the German cruisers _Goeben_ and _Breslau_,
and their subsequent internment at Constantinople. No, all that we
learned from the newspaper dispatches interested us far less than the
organization of our squads and platoons.
I had the luck to find some good comrades, one the son of a celebrated
novelist, the other an artist of some repute, and we three amused
ourselves in observing our new surroundings and trying to foretell
our next military moves. Our officers engaged our careful attention,
as is natural in such circumstances. Our captain, as the chief of our
company, a brave man, slightly bewildered by the astonishing rôle which
had suddenly fallen to him, was the object of our special interest. We
had the keenest desire for a chief who knew his trade so thoroughly
that he would be able to lead us without trouble in whatever crisis.
The soldier is ever thus. Without saying a word he examines his
officer, measures his qualifications, and then reserves his confidence
until the moment when it is made certain that this confidence is
well placed and he need no longer fear the necessity of revising his
judgment. This judgment which the soldier passes on his chief is
definite, almost without appeal, so rare is it that circumstances will
later cause a modification.
These early days, it is true, did not give our captain any opportunity
to demonstrate his valor. Burdened with an important physical task,
that of transforming into soldiers more than two hundred men who had
left the barracks years before; of clothing each according to his
measure; of answering all the questions of the higher officers, and
of watching at the same time a hundred little details--he was so busy
that we had relatively little opportunity to study him. We were already
armed, equipped and placed in the ranks before we had caught more than
a glimpse of him; and then suddenly came the order to move the regiment
to C----, one of the most important seaports of France.
To entrain a regiment of three thousand men with its baggage, its
horses, its wagons, its stores, and its service, has become mere play
for our strategists of to-day. To call it a heavy task would make one
smile, for it now appears so simple. At the period of which I speak,
the month of August, 1914, when our defense was hardly organized and
when the enemy rushed on, driving before him the terrified populace, it
was not, by long odds, the simple problem of to-day. The railroads were
congested, there was a shortage of cars, and orders were not always
certain of prompt execution.
Nevertheless, in spite of these circumstances, the regiment entrained,
departed, reached its destination without losing a minute or a man.
We reached our assigned place at the scheduled time, just as if this
tour de force had been planned for a long time or had been made easy by
habit.
We arrived thus in our garrison without knowing each other, but none
the less completely equipped and accoutred, although less than four
days had elapsed since the mobilization call had been sent to these
three thousand men, most of whom had forgotten all but the rudiments
of their military training. This miracle of execution was reproduced
throughout our territory, and after three years of war there has not
arisen a single voice to claim that the French mobilization failed
in any detail, or that in either plan or execution it fell short of
perfection.
This was in reality a remarkable achievement. It must be here noted
that France was prepared for the war neither in spirit nor in
material. Most of our citizens were pacifists, who refused even to
acknowledge the possibility of a war. Yet, when confronted by the
inevitable, each brought to the task an abundant good-will and an
enthusiastic patriotism which gave speed and efficiency to each act
of the mobilization. This was in truth the first step, the beginning
of the “Miracle of the Marne.” It was indeed a miracle, this splendid
co-ordination of good-will and eager effort into an organization,
enormous but almost improvised, which worked without clash or creaking,
with an almost mathematical ease that could not have been assured to a
method prepared and perfected by the most careful study.
After all, we were not destined to remain long in our new post. In
fact, we were hardly installed when an order came which placed us
once more on the train, and sent us at last to the frontier. We were
delighted.
Imagine, for the moment, these three thousand men recently armed,
barely organized into squads and led by officers as yet unknown,
starting on their way to meet the enemy. It was for them a veritable
_début_. They were still unaware of the tricks and brutality of the
German. Very few of us had heard more than the vaguest discussion
of the theories of Bernhardi and the Teuton “Kriegspiel.” We knew
little of what was happening in Belgium, of the desperate efforts of
the heroic defenders of Liége, or of the atrocities committed by the
invaders. There was no time to study and explain the horrors of this
war which threatened to submerge us; no time to instruct the soldiers;
no time even to wait for munitions. Speed was necessary. We must hasten
to offer our bodies, in the effort to check the black wave which
advanced so ominously.
It was not a war which came. It was an inundation. The numberless
German host, rolling on like a wave of mud, had already covered
Belgium, submerged Luxembourg and filled the valleys of Lorraine. No
one knew if there would be time to check it. The army of the front
was fighting, no one knew just where. The English army was not yet
ready, the Belgian army, that heroic handful was giving way, and the
French mobilization was hardly finished. And here we were, rolling on
at full speed along the lines of the Eastern Railway, to reach as soon
as possible the frontier of the Aisne, with two hundred rounds of
ammunition in our pouches and two days’ rations in our sacks.
We went where we were sent, passing trains of terror-stricken refugees;
speeding without stop along the sentinel-guarded way; passing Paris,
then Laon, and finally arriving in the middle of the night in a
darkened city; a terror-torn city, whose people gathered at the station
to receive us as liberators, acclaiming our uniform as if it were the
presage of victory, as if it betokened a sure defense, capable of
rolling back the threatening enemy and giving deliverance from danger.
Poor people: I see them still in the touching warmth of their welcome.
I see them still, as they crowded about to offer us refreshing drinks
or bread and eggs, and following us clear to the fort which we were to
defend, and which they believed would protect the city from all attacks.
Here we were at last, at our point of rendezvous with that grim
monster: War. The men of the regiment began to look about, and
especially I and my two friends, to whom I was already bound in one of
those quick soldierly friendships. We were ready to suffer together,
to share our miseries, and to give an example to others. Because of
our social position and education and our superior training, we felt
capable of indicating and leading in the path of obedience. However,
neither of my friends was able to follow the campaign to the end. A
weakness of constitution ended the military career of one, while the
other suffered from an old injury to his legs. At this early moment
neither wished to think of his own sufferings. They dreamed only of
France and the need she had for all they possessed of strength and
courage. In spite of their good-will and stoutness of heart, neither
of them was able to endure the strain of military life for any
considerable period. A soldier should be a man of robust physique and
unfailing morale. He should be able to withstand heat and cold, hunger
and thirst, nights without sleep and the dull agony of weariness. He
should have a heart of stone in a body of steel. The will alone is
not enough to sustain the body when worn by fatigue, when tortured by
hunger, when one must march instead of sleep, or fight instead of eat.
All these things I knew well. I had served in war-time. I had marched
on an empty stomach when drenched by rain or burned by the sun. I had
drunk polluted water and eaten the bodies of animals. I had fought. I
knew the surprises and hazards of war; hours on guard when the eyes
would not stay open; hours at attention when the body groaned. I knew
the bark of the cannon, the whistle of bullets, and the cries of the
dying. I knew of long marches in sticky mud, and of atrocious work in
the midst of pollution. I was a veteran of veterans, earning my stripes
by many years of service, and therefore ready for any eventualities. My
gallant comrades knew little of all this. Instinctively they looked to
me for instruction, and placed on me a reliance warranted by my genuine
desire to help them, as well as my long military experience.
Up to this time, however, the war had not shown us its hideous face.
Our immediate task consisted of placing in a state of defense an old,
dismantled fort here on the edge of French territory, and our orders
were to hold it as long as possible, even to death. We were only a
handful of men assigned to this heavy task, of which, it is true, we
did not realize the importance.
Under the orders of our commander we hurriedly cut down the trees which
had overgrown the glacis, made entanglements of branches, and helped
the artillerymen to furnish and protect their casemates. Oh, the folly
of this moment, superhuman and heroic! We had only a dozen cannon of
antiquated model to defend a defile of the first importance, and there
was neither reserve nor second line to support our effort.
Before us developed the Belgian campaign. The battle of Charleroi was
under way. In the evening, after supper, when we went down to visit the
town and find recreation, if possible, we heard the inhabitants discuss
the news in the papers as tranquilly as if these events, happening only
ten leagues from their door, were taking place in the antipodes, and as
if nothing could possibly endanger them and their interests.
Trains bearing the wounded passed constantly through the station.
Those whose condition was so serious that they could not stand a
longer journey were removed from the trains and taken to the hastily
improvised hospitals. This we saw daily, and so did the people of the
town. We saw Zouaves, horsemen, and footsoldiers return, blood-covered,
from the battle; frightfully wounded men on stretchers, who still had
the spirit to smile at the onlookers, or even to raise themselves to
salute.
Still, this town, so close to the battle, so warned of its horrors,
remained tranquil and believed itself safe. Every day endless motor
convoys passed through on the way to the front, bearing munitions and
food without disturbing this calm life. Shops were open as usual,
the cafés were filled, the municipal and governmental services were
undisturbed in their operation, and the young women still pursued the
cheerful routine of their life, without dreaming of the coming of the
Uhlans and the infamy the German brutes would inflict.
Thus passed the days. We soldiers organized our habitation, placed the
rifle-pits in condition, repaired the drawbridges and redressed the
parades.
Ah! how little we knew of fortification, at this period, so recent and
already so distant! How little we had foreseen the manner of war to
which the Germans were introducing us. We knew so little of it that we
did not even have a suspicion. We expected to fight, certainly, but we
had in mind a style of combat, desperate perhaps, but straightforward,
in which cannon replied to cannon, rifle to rifle, and where we
bravely opposed our bodies to those of the enemy. We were confident.
We reassured any timorous ones among the townspeople, saying: “Fear
nothing. We are here.”
We were stupefied, civilian and soldier alike, when the French army
suddenly gave way and rolled back upon us.
In the ordinary acceptation of the term this was a retreat. The
regiments, conquered by numbers, by novel tactics, and by new engines
of war, drew back from the plains of Charleroi. I saw them pass,
still in good order, just below the fort, our fort where the work of
preparation continued. Each soldier was in his rank, each carriage in
its place. It was at once magnificent and surprising. We questioned
these men with the utmost respect, for we envied them. They came from
battle, they knew what fighting was like, and we could see a new
flash in their eyes. They were tired but happy. They were covered with
dust and harassed by fatigue, but proud of having survived that they
might once more defend their native land. Most of them could tell
us but little, for they had only the most confused notion of what
had happened. They were witnesses, but they had not seen clearly. A
formidable artillery fire had mown down their comrades without their
seeing an enemy or even knowing definitely where the Germans were.
They had advanced and taken the formation of combat, when, suddenly,
the storm broke upon them and forced them to retreat. They were so
astonished at what had befallen them, that one could see in their
faces, almost in the wrinkles of their garments, the mark of the
thunderbolt.
They marched in extended formation and in excellent order, remaining
soldiers in spite of the hard blows they had borne. They kept their
distances, their rifles on their shoulders, their platoons at the
prescribed intervals, the battalions following each other as in
manœuvre and bringing their pieces of artillery.