We could hear the crack of rifles and the roar of cannon. Sometimes
the flying steel whirled over our heads with its weird whistle. Some
corvées passed, heavily loaded, carrying materials for attack and
defense. Habituated as we were to the sight and sound, oblivious to
the familiar racket, we walked quite tranquilly, in spirit far removed
from our surroundings, expanding our thoughts and confiding our dreams.
All sorts of subjects shared our attention: art, history, literature,
politics, we touched upon them all, commented upon all as if we had
been a hundred leagues away from the war, as if no other occupation
had the least claim upon us. The contrast was so vivid, the difference
so striking, that sometimes we stopped and exclaimed in amazement at
ourselves.
By this time we had no childish vanity in the matter. Our sense of
pride was rather above it. We called no one’s attention to our calm
indifference. No! It was night, we were lost in the shadows, no one
could see us. We were simply relaxing our brains in withdrawing our
thought from the present; in leading it, by means of conversation,
toward the past and the future.
One particular desire which we held in common was frequently mentioned:
we wished to visit Rheims, which was quite near. Our regiment formed
a part of the troops of coverture of the city. However, we could not
enter the town without permission, and this could not be obtained
without good reason. We finally found an excuse, and the rest was easy.
One morning, armed with our permit, we set out. The expedition was not
without danger. For several months, since we had occupied the trenches
at the north of the city, we had known that the Boches were obstinately
bent upon its destruction. Every day brought its rain of shells. We
could see the flames shoot up, we could see writhing columns of smoke
mount to the heavens. No matter; the visit tempted us, and the most
violent storm of iron and fire would not have deterred us.
So we went. We prepared our minds, as we thought, for every
possible surprise; we were not prepared for what we were destined
to find. Approaching by the Faubourg Cires, we entered a ruin. We
saw nothing but demolished houses, entire streets swept by machine
fire, gnawed by flames, blackened by smoke. Tottering façades,
holding their equilibrium by a miracle, supported the skeletons of
apartment-buildings, in whose walls blackened shell-holes seemed
like dead eyes opened on a void. Heaps of plaster and stone fallen
from the walls rendered passage difficult and impeded our progress.
Occasionally, an entire section of wall would swing slowly, balance
for an instant, then fall in a cloud of dust. It was a house in its
death-throes.
After passing this scene of desolation, we entered a quarter still
intact, where, to our stupefaction, the city came to life again. There
only a few injuries to buildings were visible. Here and there a shell
had wounded a structure. The general appearance of everything was quite
peaceful. The inhabitants followed the usual routine of life with
apparent serenity. Open shops offered their merchandise. Young girls
came and went smiling. A pastry-cook spread out his tarts and nougats;
a stationer displayed his pencils and office supplies; a haberdasher’s
window was filled with collars and cravats. Nothing indicated war.
People went up and down about their business; old women gossiped on
their door-step, and peddlers cried their wares.
Around the Place Royale, which was absolutely in ruins, cabmen awaited
a fare, stroking the manes of their bony horses, or discussing the
price received for the last trip. In the public gardens mothers watched
their little ones at play, caressing them or scolding them, as if their
entire life were assured, as if no thought of anything unusual entered
their brain.
Was it bravery, indifference, habit? Who knows? We were dumbfounded.
What! In a city crushed by shells, tortured by fire, subjected to the
most barbarous treatment, how was it possible to be so matter-of-fact?
Could the life of the populace continue in its usual channels,
indifferent to danger, removed from fear, calm as in time of peace?
We must look closer to perceive under the surface the explanation of
the anomaly; everywhere, people seated or standing observed a patient
discipline in using only one side of the street: the one exposed to the
direct shock of the shells. Only a city long exposed to bombardment
could conceive such a mechanical precaution. It is a protection,
because the shell, in falling, bursts; its splinters fly in the
opposite direction to that taken by the projectile.
We soon saw the working out of the principle. Attracted by an open
shop, we made some purchases at our leisure. A sinister shriek crossed
the sky, and a racket followed. “They are bombarding,” calmly remarked
the young woman who served us. She listened. “It is at the cathedral.”
Then she continued, most unconcernedly: “Let us see! Some braid? It is
at the other counter. You get the buttons here, and the wool and the
thread. Is that all you wish? That makes a franc sixty.”
Another roar, this time nearer. The street was immediately deserted. So
quickly that a stranger could not observe the action, every passer-by
disappeared. Every one went underground, somewhere, into an open
cellar. It happened as naturally and quickly as in ordinary times when
people find shelter from a sudden shower. They knew that the hour to
seek cover had arrived. The shower of steel would last until evening,
and would not cease until a new quarter was obliterated. It was the
turn of one _faubourg_, therefore the others would escape this time.
Consequently, outside the zone attacked, existence might continue as
usual.
Already the rescue squads were running in the direction of the falling
shells, as resolute and well disciplined as when at drill. Duty called
them. They responded, “Present,” without fear or hesitation: down there
people were dying under the ruins of their homes. The stretcher-bearers
rescued the injured in the midst of the tumult. If they had been
praised for their heroism, they would have resented the praise as an
insult.
When recovered from our first astonishment, Berthet and I set out. This
martyred city, so tragic and so calm, seemed to us superhuman. We found
it beautiful. We felt a desire to weep, to cry out, as we looked at its
reddened walls, its yawning windows and wrecked roofs. We went about
gently, as one walks in a place of suffering and sorrow. In our rather
aimless wandering, reverent as in a sacred place, we came suddenly in
front of the cathedral.
It rose before us like a queen, at the turn of the street. The lofty
façade, stained by fire in shades of gold and blood, lifted its proud
head to the sky. The towers were like two arms stretched imploringly
toward heaven: one reddened by fire, the other clothed by the centuries
in the blue veil which shrouds ancient monuments. Between them the
shattered rose-window seemed to moan distractedly: a silent sob. That
dumb mouth in that fire-reddened face seemed to cry with such hatred,
with such anguish, that we stopped, gripped by the sight.
It was there that the great Crime had written its name! There, where
France had inscribed the most sacred things of her history; there, by
the cradle of the nation, on the book always open, the assassin had
left his thumb-print; his infamy remained inscribed in each gaping
wound, on each fallen statue. The high towers attested to heaven the
execrable violence. The roof was gone, like the scalp which the savage
tears from the head of his victim. The eyes of God could search to the
flagstones and judge with one glance the foul deed.
Outside the church the _Place_ was gloomy, but sublime. By an effect of
fatality, it had become the dwelling-place of the holy relics driven
from the interior. The tabernacle was no longer in the heart of the
cathedral, but scattered in fragments around it: the choir encircled
the church. Fragments of stained-glass replaced the organ-pipes, and
the wind moaned through the leaden groins, and chanted the dirge of the
sacred spot.
Cathedral! Church thrice holy! The murderer tried to destroy thee:
he has given thee eternal life. He tried to gag and choke thee:
but the voice from thy tortured throat resounds higher and clearer
throughout the world. In his stupidity he believed he could annihilate
thee: instead, he has glorified thee. Cathedral! A song in stone, a
hymn--hymn too ethereal for the human ear to catch; a poem of beauty
and light, which the sodden Boche thought to efface, but which stands
resplendent, a witness of his shame, before humanity and eternal
righteousness. Divine, immortal cathedral! Men have never created a
human prayer more sublime than art thou, bombarded. The German shell
believed it had power to destroy thee. It has crushed thine arches and
broken thy wings. Thou hadst no need of wings to soar. As a spirit of
light thou hast floated above the city; now thou rulest over the city
the war, and France; as a symbol, thou art resplendent over all the
world. Rheims, thou wert the shrine of France; broken, thou art become
her emblem. Thou art no longer ours alone. Thy majesty rises unshaken,
triumphant, a divine intelligence facing savage cruelty; a barrier
touched, but not destroyed, defying bestiality.
We had no words to express our emotions. We walked about, in silent
exaltation. From its purple shroud, still smoking, the enormous
basilique spoke to us. Great scenes in history were enacted in its
sacred precincts: all the sacred kings, the noble sons of France;
Clovis baptized by St. Remy; Charles VII led by Jeanne d’Arc, whose
bronze image still defies the enemy from the porch of the church;
Charles X, last king anointed in this august place--all, all were there
as restless phantoms; powerful, saintly, silent, looking on. We were
satiated with emotion, bewildered by a hundred beauties: the light
through the broken arches, the fragments of art treasures in the dust
at our feet, the scintillating glass on the flagstones. We went away,
fairly giddy with its impassioned grandeur.
The increased cannonade directed our course. It was impossible to
remain longer. We crossed the forsaken park and made a détour around
the deserted station. Behind us lay a city of silence, but her
martyrdom continued incessantly. Shrill whirrings made the air quiver.
Shells growled above the roofs, leaped the streets, crossed the
squares, threatened, fell and exploded. There was a sudden crash of
collapsing floors and of tumbling masonry. A quarter, somewhere in the
city, was being pounded to dust and débris; an entire quarter was being
hammered out of existence. Clouds of plaster filled the air; great
stones crumbled.
Families were unable to escape. Their homes, which should have
sheltered them, were thrown wide open to the brutal dangers of the
street. The invalid’s bed tottered in the ruins, the baby was thrown
from its cradle. The old man died at the side of the youth, the wife
in the arms of her husband, the child at its mother’s breast. The
criminal extermination, determined upon and planned, was completing
its frightful work, was blotting out a city, was beating to death a
country. The Boche, squatting on the commanding heights, aimed his guns
with ease, made sure of his fire and picked out his prey. He struck
practically without risk to himself, sure to hit a target in the chaos
of roofs, to demolish and to destroy. A town--what an immense quarry!
The shell may fall where it will: it is sure to kill. The explosion
will burst in some window, will cross some bedchamber, will find some
victim. A town is a quarry more easily sighted than a battery. It is
huge, it is immovable, it cannot reply. One can destroy it without
danger to oneself.
Therefore the shells fell unerringly; only the flames and smoke made
reply....
We paid it no further attention.
* * * * *
My poor Berthet, charming companion, and sharer of so many
unforgettable experiences, was unable to follow the regiment through
all its struggles. One day, while in the Rheims sector, he suffered
severely in a gas attack and the physicians ordered him to the rear for
treatment in one of the resting-camps. Gradually the soft air of France
healed his tortured lungs and started him on the path of recovery. The
German poison had, however, severely shaken his constitution and the
cure was slow. He was unable to rejoin us for the tragic trials at
Verdun.
VIII
DISTRACTIONS
Existence in the trenches is characterized by a monotony that soon
becomes a burden. It is made up of waiting and work: work in which a
man is by turns dirt-digger, sentinel, carpenter, and porter. There
is much time for rest and repose. It is a special type of life, which
recalls that of the sieges of olden days, when armies sat long months
at a time facing each other. One does not fight all the time. The vigil
is constant, but the struggle is not. There is the incessant watching
of the field in front, the unrelaxed tension of stalking the enemy; and
at the rear the staleness of inaction.
What is there to do? Sleep, certainly. Then find amusement, for the
time is long. The hours move slowly, night follows day and day night
without bringing change. Therefore, one must exercise his ingenuity.
One writes a lot of letters. There is always a relative to enlighten,
or a sweetheart to console, or a mother to entertain. Letters arrive
which are read and reread. Then the newspapers bring their limited
ration of news. We discuss their contents. We learn that the submarine
warfare is extending; that the Zeppelins have gone over England; that
the Bulgars are attacking the Roumanians; that a great parliamentary
speech has explained to the world the causes of the upheaval. Thus we
kill a few more minutes. Then ennui returns: dull tediousness that puts
the thumbscrews on the brain; homesickness for the distant fireside,
for the old life renounced for war; yearning for the past, still near
and yet so far. One wanders about and knows not what to do. One fellow
has some playing-cards and opens a game. We smoke, and dream, and
sew, and clean our arms. We await our turn at sentry duty. It rains.
We yawn. The sun comes out, one risks his life to pay a visit to his
neighbors. The picturesque ceases to be, by reason of familiarity.
One sees nothing of that which at first fixed his attention. The deep
trench where crazy grasses hang is a road only too well trodden. The
mess is stale, the card-game stupid. One is bored to death and utterly
worthless.
Then the inveterate wag intervenes. He sings, he “joshes.” He brings
a laugh. The dying conversation revives. Those who were dozing sit up
again and take notice. Circles form. Each one tells a story, and the
long faces spread into smiles. Torpor is banished for a moment. The
man who was cutting a cane with his pocket-knife exhibits it. It is
fine and much admired. The man who hollowed out an inkstand from a fuse
brings it forth. His work is curious, dainty, and ornamental: bravo! A
painter is there, an artist, who brings out his album; he has a hundred
drawings, warm with color. Each man would like to possess a copy. That
is the end: there is nothing more. All this is too brief, and the time
is too long. We cast about for something new.
In a hut some one installs a museum. It is a collection of souvenirs
of the field of battle. The gathered trophies hang on the walls. A
Boche helmet is near a freakishly twisted splinter. A German trooper’s
sword-belt hangs near a saw-bayonet. There are cartridge-boxes,
fragments of guns, the button of a tassel from the sabre of a buried
German officer. Every one is interested in the work and brings his
contribution to enrich the collection. It does not belong to any one
in particular, but is owned jointly. It is the pride of the sector and
the joy of the regiment. It receives the _casse-tête_ picked up after
the last hand-to-hand scrimmage with the Boches; a reservoir of liquid
fire, whose bearer lies somewhere near the trench that he sought to
enter; some fragments of grenades--anything which one might pick up on
a kilometre of ground furrowed by projectiles, dug up by shells, or
ploughed by cannon-balls. Curious conglomeration! Glorious scraps of
iron! Mute witnesses of the fury of men, implements of their ferocity!
At another spot some man who loves the cultivation of the land cares
for a wee patch of garden. A garden, yes, that is what I said. In the
midst of the trenches. He has planted some pansies, a sprig of stock,
and three clumps of pinks. He waters them every morning, and watches
them carefully. Woe to any careless foot that might crush them! These
flowers, in the sombre surroundings, breathe perfume and poetry.
At another spot a fight between a dog and a rat is pulled off. A
lieutenant sets a fox-terrier on a promising hole of the rodents.
A group of men look on eagerly. One, armed with a pick, enlarges
the opening. Another removes a stone which was in the way. The dog,
trembling with excitement, sniffs, paws, digs, buries his nose
in the earth, scratches, reaches the animal at the bottom of his
retreat--seizes him! Good dog! He shakes the rat furiously, breaking
his back. The victor is applauded and petted.
Simple distractions, these! I will pass them by quickly. There is
the man who makes chains of welded wire; the one whose hobby is
photography. One mysterious fellow amuses himself with cookery. There
are some secret pursuits, like that of the inveterate hunters, who
place game-traps at twilight and at dawn endanger their lives to go
out to empty them. There are fishermen who drop lines in the canal. A
hundred avocations are followed on the edge of the war, side by side
with the service, in range of the cannon and punctuated by shells.
I had my occupation, as well as the others, you may be sure.
I published a newspaper: a great affair. A newspaper, in the
trenches--that savors at once of a trade and of an adventure. Title:
_The War Cry_, appearing once a month. Every month, then, I had a
problem: to get paper. An obliging cyclist had to bring it from the
village on the day fixed. He left it at the foot of a sapling, no
matter what the uproar overhead; no matter how large the edition of
shrapnel messages from the Germans. Oh, honest pulp, intended for a
simple life, into what scenes of adventure art thou thrust!
In one trench the print-shop was twenty feet underground. It was
illuminated by three night-lamps, set in a triangle. At another place
the shop was on a level with the surface of the ground, and the
bombardment scattered sand and pebbles over the proof. At another
time it was installed in a bedroom of a ruined house. As there was no
roof to catch the rain, it fell in large tears on the printer and the
printing. No matter! The number was issued, illustrated. It was eagerly
sought, and the copies circulated briskly, carrying gratuitous joy,
smoothing knit brows, bringing a laugh, and, finally, carrying to the
rear the gayety of the front.
When I look back upon these labors, they seem to me childish. In their
place, they were amazing. The Great Tragedy held us constantly in its
clutch. The man who was polishing a ring for his fiancée did not finish
it: that very evening a ball or a piece of shell shattered the work and
destroyed the worker. The man who was carving a walking-stick was a
mutilated wreck before his work was finished. The danger was incessant.
In these occupations we sought distraction from the thought of it all,
but one could never ward off that which fate held in store for him.
It was an intermission snatched from ennui; a truce; and when one was
doing fairly well, thinking no more of physical discomfort and mental
anguish, suddenly the cannon barked, the alarm was sounded, and the
dance of hell was on again!
“Outside: trench thirteen!”
Then we ran. We left the rings and walking-sticks and the newspaper.
_The War Cry_--It was the real war cry now. The Boche had come upon
us by stealth. It might be night or day, morning or evening. He
slid, he crept, he crouched, he jumped into our trench. We must
hack him to pieces with grenades. Then we must put up again a fallen
splinter-shield, reconstruct an observation-post, open again a
filled-up trench. The shells came like gusts of wind, the shrapnel
flew, smoked, and stunk.
Or, at another time, it was our turn to leap out, run to the assault,
take a trench, hold it, and guard it.
It was necessary, from time to time, to go to the rear that we might
enjoy some real security and relaxation.
The relief! Who will ever adequately sing its praise? It came at night,
ordinarily. Two or three days before the event the sector saw strangers
arrive for a visit, officers and sergeants, who looked around and took
instructions. This is the way they were shown about:
“Look out at this point. This part of the trench seems to be in easy
range of the guns.”
“This is a bad corner. Torpedoes hit it every morning. Go by quickly
over there, for you can be seen.”
“Every man who passes this spot is saluted by a bullet. We have some
wounded every evening.”
They took notes, made observations and inquiries. We looked upon their
activities with satisfaction. They were the forerunners of comrades
who were about to come, in their turn, to enjoy a period in the open
country--underground. They never came too soon. Already we were making
up our packets, putting our affairs in order, buckling our knapsacks,
filling our side-bags.
We departed fewer than we came. We left some chums in the earth, under
humble mounds marked with a cross. There was one man surprised when
on patrol--he was carried back dying in the arms of his companions.
Another, disembowelled by a grenade, fell at his post without a cry. We
had known these men, we had loved them. One was gay, one was grave. All
were loyal comrades whom we would never see again. When killed they had
remained all day lying at their posts. A cloth was thrown over them,
concealing the face and partly covering the body. In the evening when
the shadows fell, we put them in their graves.
It was very simple. If possible, the section surrounded the grave, a
rough excavation hollowed in the dirt thrown up from the trenches.
Sometimes, not always, some one murmured a prayer. The body was
lowered, and the dead went his way saluted as a hero by the cannon.
That was all. It was sad and impressive, simple as an unpremeditated
gesture. Some one put a bunch of field-flowers on the fresh mound. The
soldier’s cap was placed on the wooden cross. Then into a bottle was
slipped the name of the departed--dead that France might live, fallen
at his post of honor. Immediately we returned to our places, to watch
and to fight. To-day it was he. To-morrow it would be one’s self.
The relief came by following the communication-trenches. Curious
concerning their new post, the fresh arrivals asked many questions:
“Pretty nifty here, isn’t it?”
“Where are the kitchens?”
We informed them as rapidly as possible. We wished that they would
arrive more quickly. It seemed as if we would perish in waiting for
them, and that the danger increased by their coming. They made a lot of
noise. They went back and forth, they talked. Surely the Boche would
hear them and let loose his cannon.
In fact, that is what often occurred. Then the brutal shells added to
the disorder. Ignorant of the shelters, lost in the thick darkness,
the new arrivals flattened themselves out where they could. Their
non-commissioned officers reassembled them and led them on in jostled
disorder. It seemed that the confusion would never end, that we would
have to stay there, all mixed together like tangled thread from an
unwound spool. It seemed that the deadly hammering would annihilate us
all, down in the earth. Then the officers brought order from chaos. The
first line took their places. At the posts of listening the new men
replaced the old.
“Notice that recess: that is where the Boches send their love-tokens.”
“Do you see that black pile over yonder? Behind it is a German
machine-gun.”
Down in the shelters the new men were making themselves at home, the
departing men were gathering up their belongings.
“Good luck to you!”
“Don’t worry about that!”