the road without cessation. Some stragglers entered the town and they
were anxiously questioned. They could tell only of their exhaustion
and of small details of the fight, describing the corner of a field,
the margin of a wood, the bank of a river: the precise spot where the
individual had entered the zone of fire and had seen his neighbors
fall. This one had marched up a hill, but couldn’t see anything when
he got there; another said his company had tramped along singing, when
suddenly the machine-guns broke loose and his friends fell all about
him; a third told of joining the sharpshooters, of throwing himself on
the ground and, “My! how it did rain.” One tall chap recalled that in
the evening his company had withdrawn to a farmhouse where they paused
for a bite to eat, after which they made a détour. Such were the scraps
of information they gave, minute details which told nothing.
All these stories were a jumble. None of these combatants had truly
seen the war. Each knew only what had happened to himself, and even
that he could not explain. These men seemed to have just awakened from
a nightmare, and their disjointed words told us nothing. We, who
listened with such tense interest, were tortured with the desire to
know if the tide of battle was bringing nearer the chance to prove our
valor.
We were eager for the fray. All our forces, physical, mental, and
spiritual, hungered for the combat. Our tasks of the hour were
insipid. This incessant felling of trees, this clearing away of brush,
this myriad of fussy efforts put forth for the refurbishing of our
antiquated fortress, held us in leash until the place seemed like a
suffocating tomb, whose cave-like quarters we would never leave.
In the town the people grew restless as the French armies fell back.
They knew no more than we of the outcome of the battle of Charleroi,
but as they saw the endless procession of convoys, of soldiers and of
fugitive civilians, they began to fear the worst.
The German drive increased in power. Now, Belgian soldiers began to be
mixed in the swift stream of the fleeing. Hussars, guides, infantry,
and linesmen, clad in picturesque uniforms, copied from the first
French empire, poured by in disorder. Some were mounted on carts;
others afoot, were leading their foundered horses; and these haggard,
mud-covered men brought an air of defeat. Their faces, sunken from
hunger and distorted from lack of sleep, told a story that sowed terror
and kindled a panic.
The invasion presented itself at the gates of the town with an
unforgettable cortège. Fear-stricken men deserted their fields, taking
with them such of their possessions as could most quickly be gathered
together. All means of transport were employed. Vehicles of all types
and ages were piled high with shapeless bundles of bedding and of
clothing of women and children. Some of the unfortunates were pushing
perambulators, on which they had heaped such cooking-utensils as they
had hurriedly gathered up. Trembling old men guided the steps of their
almost helpless wives. Many had left their tranquil homes in such haste
that they had not taken time even to fully clothe themselves. With
weeping eyes, quivering lips, and bleeding feet they stumbled on. One
heard only words of terror:
“They kill every one.”
“They have killed my mother.”
“They have murdered my husband.”
“They are burning the houses and shooting the people as they try to
escape.”
Can you imagine such a sight? And this never for an instant ceased.
Three roads joined each other at the edge of the town, and each brought
from a different direction its tales of horror. Along one came the
families driven from the colliery shafts, another brought the fishermen
from the Scheldt, and the third the bourgeoisie from Mons and Brussels.
All marched pell-mell along with the troops, slept at the roadside,
and ate when some interruption on the congested route offered the
opportunity. All fled straight on, not knowing whither.
I found reproduced in this lamentable exodus certain spectacles which I
had witnessed years before, but under vastly different circumstances.
Yes! I had seen things just like this, but on a far-away continent
where the fugitives were not men of my own race. I had seen cities
taken by assault and whole populations fleeing in terror. I had seen
houses in flames and corpses rotting in the fields. I had seen all
the drama and horror of an invasion and had looked on with infinite
pity. However, nothing in all that had touched me as did the present.
Those flights had not taken place in my own country. They were not my
compatriots who had been harried like so many animals, and driven from
their homes like frightened beasts, to be tracked in the forests or
hunted across the plains. They were, nevertheless, poor, unfortunate
humans. Even in their panic and distress they were still a little
grotesque, owing to their strange manners and costumes. Their natural
abjection had in it nothing of similarity to the fierce grief of these
Europeans, surprised in a time of peace and in no way prepared to
endure submission.
Once when I saw an exhausted old man fall at the roadside, near our
fort, and heard him beg his companions to abandon him that they might
make better speed, I recalled a scene indelibly graved on my memory. It
was in China. We were moving toward Pekin in August, 1900. We pushed
back before us the Boxer insurgents, whom we, with the Japanese and the
Russians, had routed at Pei-Tsang. One evening when hunger tortured
us, some companions and myself started out in search of food. We
reached a farm isolated in the midst of a rice-swamp, and we entered,
just as armed men, conquerors, may enter anywhere. There was not a
soul in the numerous buildings of the extensive plantation--or so it
seemed at first. Finally, I went alone into one of the houses, and
there came face to face with a very old woman, shrivelled and bent,
with straggling wisps of hair, grimacing and repulsive. She instantly
thought that her last hour had come. I had no bad intentions, but
she could read my white face no better than I could have read her
yellow countenance had our positions been reversed. She was overcome
with fear, and her fright caused such facial contortions that I had a
feeling of deepest pity for her. I tried without success to reassure
her. Each of my gestures seemed to her a threat of death. She crouched
before me, supplicating with most piteous cries and lamentations, until
I, finding no gestures that would explain what I wanted, left the room.
She followed me as I withdrew, bending to kiss each footprint as if to
express her gratitude for the sparing of her life.
At that time I had thought of what my own grandmother would feel were
she suddenly confronted by a German soldier in her own home in France.
My imagination had formed such a vivid picture that I remembered it
fourteen years later when the real scene passed before my eyes.
Ah! Free men of a free country! Men whose homes are safe from invasion,
men who need not dread the conflagration leaping nearer and nearer,
or the lust of your neighbor--fortunate men, imagine these villages
suddenly abandoned; these families in flight; these old men stumbling
on the stones of the road; these young girls saving their honor; these
children subjected to the hardships and dangers of such an ordeal!
Search your mind for a picture which may aid you to visualize such a
spectacle. For no pen, no brush, not even a cinematograph could depict
that terrified mob, that throng pushing on in the rain and the wind;
the flight of a people before another people, the flight of the weak
and innocent before the strong and guilty.
III
THE MARNE
As the result of tenacity and strenuous effort, our work of defense
progressed. We had been able to build a smooth, sloping bank all around
the fort, to place entanglements before the principal entrance, and
to arrange such cannon as we had at our disposal. We put iron-bars in
front of the windows to break the impact of shells, and baskets filled
with sand at passage entrances. We had sufficient provision to last
a month. We built a country oven that we might bake bread and not be
reduced by famine.
We were tired, but confident, the enemy might come now. Each of us knew
the spot he should occupy on the rampart, and we had not the least
doubt of our power of resistance. The commander redoubled the exercises
and drills, and each day notices were posted near the guard-house
saying that we must hold the fort unto death, that surrender was
absolutely forbidden. As for the men, we were equally determined to
offer resistance to the end.
In the meantime, we came to know each other better day by day, and
genuine sympathies grew into solid friendships. In addition to my
two friends of the first hour, I found myself associated with some
excellent comrades. There was Yo, a splendid young Norman, strong as a
giant, a carpenter by trade. He was persistently good-natured, and knew
a thousand amusing stories. He had an anecdote or witticism ready for
all occasions. Then there was Amelus, whom we dubbed “Angelus.” With
his little, close-set eyes, small features, narrow shoulders, he was
as nearly as possible the physical type of a Paris gamin. He possessed
also the gamin’s quick repartee and unalterable good humor.
This man, who was killed later, deserves special mention. He was an
anti-militarist. That is to say, before the war he constantly asserted,
as a point of honor, in season and out of season, his hatred of the
whole military business; and detested, without clearly knowing why,
every one who wore an army uniform. When I first met him, the war
had not yet changed his habit. He indulged freely in vituperation of
the officers, from the highest to the lowest; but this veneer covered
a truly patriotic spirit, for whenever an officer asked a service
he instantly offered himself. He volunteered for every rough job,
and although he was not strong nor of robust health, he managed to
accomplish the hardest kinds of labor, and would have died of the
effort swearing that he “wished to know nothing about it, and no one
need expect anything of him.”
This type of man was very numerous in France before 1914, and
experience has proved that much could be counted on from them, whenever
the occasion arose to put them to the test.
Such as he was, with his comic fury, with his perpetual tirades against
the officers, and still very evident good-will, he amused us greatly.
One heard often such colloquies as this:
“A man wanted to cut down trees!”
“Take me!” cried Amelus.
“A volunteer to carry rails!”
“Here I am!”
Once accepted, bent under the heaviest burdens, he poured out his
heart; he cursed his ill fortune, he pitied himself, he growled and
groaned. That aroused the irony of Yo. There was a continual verbal
tussle between the two men, the one groaning and the other responding
with raillery, which spread joy among us all.
Yes, we laughed. The tragic events which were closing in upon us, which
were drawing nearer irresistibly, did not yet touch us sufficiently to
frighten us much. We laughed at everything and at nothing. We laughed
like healthy young men without a care, men who have no dread of the
morrow, and who know that, whatever may happen, the soup will be boiled
and the bread will come from the oven when it is needed. We had not yet
become really grave, certainly no one had suffered, when, our task of
preparing the fort completed, we went to the embankment and witnessed
the ghastly procession of fugitives. That froze the heart of each of
us. So many old men, women, and children, thrown out at random, thrown
out to the fierce hazard of flight, stripped of all their possessions!
The sight was distressing, and the visible horror of their situation
brought tears to the eyes of the most stolid.
The hours passed rapidly. The last French troops fell back, the town
was evacuated. Trains packed to the last inch carried away every
one who could find room. When we went out in the evening, we found
closed the shops which had been open the day before. Their owners were
hastening to find shelter and safety.
The enemy was approaching. We felt it by a hundred indications, but we
did not suspect how close he had come.
He arrived like a whirlwind. One evening we were told to remain in the
fort, to take our places for the combat, to prepare cannon, cartridges,
and shells. During the day an aeroplane had flown over the fort, and
it was a German machine. Disquieting news preceded the invader. It was
brought by some straggling soldiers: men panting, miserable, dying of
thirst and hunger, who had been lost in the woods, and had covered
twenty leagues to make their escape. They recounted things almost
unbelievable. They had seen Belgian villages as flaming torches, and
they told their experiences little by little, with a remnant of horror
in their eyes, and an expression of bravery on their faces. We gave
them drink. They scarcely stopped their march, but took the bottles or
glasses offered, and emptied them while continuing on their way. The
fear of being taken bit at their heels. “Save yourselves!” they cried
to the women, “they are coming!”
After they were gone, the people gathered in large groups, seeking
further information on the highroad. The road was clouded with dust
and alive with movement, where other fugitives, more hurried than
the first, pushed their way, and threw out, in passing, bits of news
still more alarming. Haggard peasants explained that the Germans were
pillaging houses, ravaging everything. From these strange reports one
would have believed himself transported into another age, carried back
to the period of the great migrations of peoples.
“They have taken away my daughter,” wailed a woman in tears, “and have
set fire to the farmhouse.”
“They shot my husband!” cried another, “because he had no wine to give
them.”
The terror of the populace increased and spread. Mothers went to their
houses, gathered together some clothes and their daughters, then
followed the throng of fugitives. Old men started out on foot. The
threatening flail swept the country, even before it was seen, preceded
by a groan of agony and of fear as the thunder-storm is preceded by the
wind.
And we soldiers, with no exact knowledge of the situation, we awaited
orders and completed our preparations for resistance. We lifted the
drawbridges, we put in place the ladders, the tubs of water to put out
fire, the tools to clear crushed roofs and arches. We never thought
of flight. We had a sort of pride in remaining at the last stand,
in protecting the retreat of all the others, and we strove to give
encouragement to the civilians departing. But we were eager for news,
and seized upon all rumors.
About four o’clock in the afternoon a rumor passed like a gust of wind.
Some outposts came running: “They are here!” They told of the attack
on their position five kilometres away. Five of their number had been
killed, six taken prisoner by the Germans. This time the invasion
was rolling upon us. We almost touched it. We felt the hot breath of
battle, we were going to fight, we were going to offer resistance.
This was an impression more than a certainty. Explosions could be heard
in the distance: the engineers were blowing up bridges and railroads,
in order to create obstacles and retard the advance of the enemy. The
foe seemed to arrive everywhere at the same time. He was discerned
on the right and on the left, at each cross-road, advancing in deep
columns, and preceded by a guard of cavalry, the terrible Uhlans, who
were plundering everything in their way.
We felt, rather than saw, the nearness of the invaders. We could do
nothing but wait. In spite of the efforts exerted by the officers to
quiet the men, there was among them an uncontrollable restlessness:
inaction was intolerable.
It was a great relief to be able to accept, with several comrades,
a piece of work outside the fort. This had to do with blowing up a
viaduct. We set out, much envied by those left behind. We advanced
with customary precaution, following one point of light carried by
an advance-guard. Naturally, this position was taken by Amelus, the
habitual volunteer, followed by Yo, the giant, whose muscular force
inspired confidence in every one.
We had not far to go. At the railway-station, we learned that the last
train had just left, taking away the portable property of the station,
and all the people who could pack themselves into the coaches. There
was no longer, then, any assurance of rapid communication with the
rear. The struggle was really commencing.
Our destination was scarcely two kilometres away. It was a
railway-viaduct crossing a valley. We arrived quickly. The blast of
powder was prepared in an arch by the engineers; our part was only to
watch and protect the operation. A sharp detonation, an enormous cloud
of smoke, the whole mass swaying, splitting, falling, the reverberating
echo, and the route is severed. The trains of the invasion will be
compelled to stop: there is an abyss to cross, which will make the
assailant hesitate perhaps an hour. Although our work was swiftly
accomplished, it seemed that it must be effective. We had nothing to do
but regain our fort and await events.
However, it is late when we arrive. Night has fallen. On our left, an
immense glow stains with blood the leaden sky: it is Fourmies which
is burning, fired by the enemy. It is a French town which is the prey
of flames, the first one we have seen thus consumed before our eyes,
in the horror of darkness; while on the highroad rolls constantly the
flood of refugees, carts, wagons, carriages, all sorts of conveyances
of town and country, jumbled together with bicycles and pedestrians,
the turbulent throng of a province in flight, of a people driven by a
horde.
In subtle ways the fort itself has changed character. It breathes war.
Sand-bags are placed about the walls, sentinels watch on the ramparts,
orders are given and received under the arches. Our comrades ask
anxiously: “What have you seen?” We give an account of our exploit,
while eating a hurried bite, then we imitate our comrades, and,
following the order received, we take up our sacks and prepare all our
accoutrement.
There is still some joking, at this instant. Yo attempts some of
his raillery, Amelus once more pours vituperation on the army, but
their pleasantries fall without an echo. We are grave. The unknown
oppresses us. We are attentive, and await the slightest order of our
superiors. The commandant calls the officers together. The conference
is prolonged, and we know nothing precise in the half-light of our
fortress chambers. What is going on? Will we be attacked this evening?
Will the defense be long? We exchange opinions and assurances: “There
are two hundred rounds of ammunition apiece!”
Two hundred rounds! That means how many hours of fighting? Shall we be
reinforced? Are there troops in the rear? And in front? No one knows.
Those who affirm that there are troops in front of us meet a slight
credence, which gives way immediately to doubt and then to a certainty
to the contrary. Numberless contradictory pieces of information clash
together, mingle, intercross:
“There is fighting at Maubeuge.”
“The enemy is withdrawing on the Meuse!”
“Yes, he has lost all his cannon.”
“But he is advancing on us here!”
All these statements jostled each other in the general uncertainty.
Suddenly, at the door of the chamber, I saw our lieutenant, a splendid
soldier, upright and frank. He was speaking to one of my comrades.
Scenting a special mission, I approach them. I am not mistaken.
“Silence!” says the officer, “I need six resolute men, and no noise.”
“Take me, lieutenant,” I ask.
“If you wish.”
“And me, too,” begs Amelus.
“All right, you too, and Yo. Meet me immediately in the courtyard, with
your knapsacks.”
We meet in a few minutes. My friend Berthet rushes in. “Wont you take
me, too?” “Certainly. Come quickly.”
And now we are outside the fort, with knapsack and gun. We are
delighted with this godsend, without knowing what it is all about: at
least we are moving about, doing something, and that is the main thing.
“Be careful,” commands the lieutenant, “to the right! Forward, march!”
We leave by the postern gate. We are on the embankment. The night is
dark, the heavens are black except where the blood-red reflection of
burning towns marks the path of the Germans. In silence we make our way
down the steep slope of the fort.
“Halt! Load!”
We fill the magazines of our rifles. Ten paces farther on we meet
the last sentinels. The password is given, we proceed. We go toward
the town, as far as the highroad, where the flight of the distracted
populace continues. Amidst a tangle of conveyances, pedestrians slip
through mysteriously and hurry by. They jostle us, then make way for
us in the throng. At last we stop. The town is only a hundred metres
distant, without illumination, but much alive, full of the hubbub of
the last departing civilians.
“Listen,” says the lieutenant, “this is your errand: a group of Uhlans
has been reported about eight hundred metres from here. At this
moment they must be occupying the civilian hospital. They must not be
permitted to pass. Two men will hide themselves here, two others there.
The others will guard the cross-road. In case you sight them, give
them your magazine and fall back on the fort to give the alarm. Do you
understand? Go to it!”
In such moments, one’s intelligence is abnormally active: one
understands instantly, and each man seems to take his own particular
rôle by instinct. I advance with Berthet to take the most forward post:
it is where adventure is most likely. The others leave us, to take
their own positions. So there we are, he and I, alone as sentinels, at
the edge of the highroad--the road which is the path of the invasion,
where rolls unceasingly as a torrent the stream of fugitives.
“You tell me what to do,” says Berthet, “I will take your orders.” “It
is very simple,” I respond, “one knee on the ground. In the deep grass
you will not be seen. For myself, I am going onto the road itself. I
will stop any one who looks suspicious. Don’t worry, and don’t let
your gun go off unless you hear me fire.” “Very well.” “Oh, another
thing! If we are attacked, we will fire, then run for the fort without
following the road. Our companions will fire, and we must cut across
the fields. Do you agree?” “Yes.”
I leave him, to take my post just at the edge of the road, eyes and
ears on the alert, finger on the trigger. A host of memories crowd my
brain. How often in other days have I stood guard in just this manner!
I recall similar hours which I experienced in China, at Tonkin, in the
Sahara. I feel once more the intense poetry which is inspired by such
a vigil: a poetry incomparable to any other; a poetry in which alert
action is mingled with the strangeness of night, with the thousand
noises of a stirring populace, with the imminence of danger, with
visions crowding up from the past, with all that surrounds us and all
that flees from us. Less than a fortnight ago, at this hour, I used
to write my daily article. My young wife, in our dainty dining-room,
was rocking the baby to sleep. Or I was correcting proof on my
forthcoming book, and she came to sit near me, her fingers busy with
some fine needlework. She always placed on my desk the flowers from
the dinner-table, and I thanked her for being so good, so pretty, so
loving and thoughtful, by a swift stolen kiss on her rosy finger-tips.
I read to her the last page I had written. She smiled and approved.
Our confidence was complete. She had faith in my ability, I rejoiced to
know that she was mine. We were so happy----
To-day, with loaded gun, with every nerve strained, I lie in wait for
an advancing enemy. My wife is far away. She has shelter, at least.
Without doubt she dreams of me, as I dream of her, and she trembles
and she fears the future, the danger, death. My brothers--where
are they?--and their wives, and our parents, and all my dear ones,
like myself, like all of France, thrown into war, into danger, into
suffering. And all the children, and all the helpless women, and old
men, all counting on us, on our stoutness of heart, to defend and to
save them.
My meditations did not in the least interfere with my watchfulness.
From time to time I stopped a passer-by.
“Halt there!”
“We are French.”
“Advance slowly, one by one.”
The poor creatures were terrified and bewildered.
“We are trying to escape!”
“Pass on.”
After a bit I return to see Berthet.
“Anything new?” “No, nothing.” “Supposing you look around more at the
left.” “All right.”
I resume my place. All at once, I hear the clatter of horses’ hoofs.
Berthet rejoins me. “Do you hear that?” “Yes. It must be they. Don’t
forget. Fire, then run across fields.”