filled with artillery. We could breathe more easily. We were going
away, toward repose. At last, in the darkness, we found the road.
Conversation began, pipes were lighted. We were getting farther away
from the tunnels, from the depths of the earth, and from death. Though
still menaced by shells, we felt liberated. We came to a demolished
village occupied by moving shadows: men who remained at the rear, in
the accessory service of food supply and munitions. Lanterns bobbed
here and there. Some horses hitched by the road switched their tails
in friendly salute. We went on. We met an ammunition-train going at
full speed in a terrible racket of wheels and oaths. Still we marched.
We descended a slope. Over yonder lay the Promised Land, spared by the
gods of war: where the crops were growing; where the houses had roofs,
the villages had inhabitants, the barns had straw; where there was wine
to drink, girls to look at, and merchandise to buy. It was all there.
We knew it. The recollections of our former visit came to mind. One
hoped to find the cantonment running on as in the last sojourn; la mère
Laprot, who knew so well how to cook an omelet, and big Berthe, whose
teeth were so white when she smiled.
One gave an energetic hunch to the knapsack. One recognized every tree,
every turn of the road. We were getting nearer. One more pause and we
would be there. We must still climb a bluff, steep as a ladder, leading
to the plateau. We climbed--for everything can be overcome.
At last we arrived. The village awaited us with open arms. We entered,
and were at home.
The shed was hospitable as ever. We felt of the straw, and laid aside
our accoutrement. The arms and leather trappings made a little pile at
the head of each man’s place. Blankets came out of the knapsacks. How
delicious to stretch at full length on the straw! A few moments more
and a hundred sonorous snores, deep and diversified, blended their
antiphones under the worm-eaten roof.
Life entered the village with the troops. From early morning the
streets swarmed. Wagons lined up under the trees and unpacked
their loads. Horses chewed their hay while switching their tails
contentedly, or enjoyed long drinks at the trough. The blacksmith
hammered the glowing horseshoes in the midst of a smoky haze. The
buffets were full. The cold-meat shop was invaded. The grocer was
besieged until he emptied his boxes. It was a rush, a battle, an
assault.
“Some sausage!”
“Some thread!”
“Some soap!”
“How much for this cheese?”
“I’ll take that box!”
The coins jingled. Happy laughter responded to happy smiles. Wine
flowed. At the river laundry the surface of the stream was billowy
white with the suds from well-washed clothing. With a drum for a chair,
the barber was busy with his razor. At another place shower-baths
completed the work of renovation. New faces emerged, fresh-skinned
and wide-eyed. The exuberant joy of youth burst forth into gay cries
and bodily freedom. Visits were exchanged. The smoking kitchens were
sending out delicious odors. The non-coms were kept busy hunting for
their men who had disappeared, flown away.
By noon, however, the troop was again in order. In the square the
soldiers were in line, with arms polished and garments clean. The roll
was called. Their appearance was noted, their losses of equipment were
made good. The report was read. We learned that such an one was cited
for bravery, that the general was pleased, that we would remain eight
days without molestation.
Then the gayety increased. We organized to make the most of our
vacation. Some men with a bright idea arranged a theatre and prepared
a concert. Two sawhorses supported the stage, which we trimmed with
leaves. We draped the flag of the _mairie_ overhead. The programme was
quickly arranged, as we had a considerable talent in the regiment.
On the day appointed for the performance chairs were placed for the
higher officers, the chief of the battalion, and the captains. The
privates noisily disposed of themselves as chance permitted. There
were spectators roosting on the wheels of carts, others perched on
straw-stacks; wherever a body could hold its equilibrium, there was a
body. An improvised orchestra opened the entertainment. Then several
singers followed with comic songs. The applause was tumultuous, as
high spirits mounted higher. We forgot the war, at that moment, and
its suffering and privation. A ballad touched our deeper sentiment.
A monologue was punctuated with laughter. The hilarious faces of the
spectators told of their pleasure--the joy of living, with youth and
health. We relaxed our tense nerves, and became human beings again.
There were no more shells, no more mud, no more guard duty, no more
fatigue. The tragedy had paused; and, if one had not heard the growling
rage of the cannon bent upon its work of death and destruction, one
would have believed that there could be no more pleasant existence.
On other days there were games in the open air. Like children freed
from school the men ran in the meadows, tussled in a game of prisoner’s
base, or played leap-frog. The suppleness of body, the litheness of
movement, were such as to inspire admiration. These were no longer
soldiers, but graceful athletes, with agile muscles and solid torso.
Under the trees gently waving in the breeze, with the clear sky of
France above a charming countryside, the scene evoked the picture of
the athletic games of antiquity. Not even the group of philosophers was
lacking, walking up and down and arguing.
Thus the hours ran on, peaceful and all too short. The troop took a
fresh breath, renewed its spirit, calmed excited nerves, found new
courage and a magnificent enthusiasm. The cruel remembrance of dark
hours, of horrible spectacles, of losses, became dim. We found again a
vibrant love of life. The soul-sickness which had grown upon us at the
parapets, under the shells, melted away in the new environment, in the
joy of a recreation dearly won.
The week of vacation was completed. They were new men, refreshed and
invigorated, who fell into line when the hour arrived. In the darkness
we retraced the road by which we had come. We were returning to the
battle, we were re-entering the tunnels, the dugouts, the redans,
the trenches, the parallels. Now we were the relief, in our turn.
We took our place. We brought back with us arms, food, replenished
cartridge-boxes, new men to fill the vacancies in our ranks. More than
that, we brought back valor, patience, faith, and a spirit reborn.
We entered again the domain of death, again we began the agony.
IX
THE BATTLE OF CHAMPAGNE
A year had passed. The Marne and the Yser had gone into history. We
knew that enormous preparations were in progress behind our lines. They
are always known. The symptoms are perfectly visible. The artillery
is massed, the various operations are pushed more vigorously, new
precautions are taken.
Vague rumors are afloat. Every one wishes to appear informed, and the
strangest forecasts, the most absurd reports are passed from mouth to
mouth, originating no one knows where.
“We are going clear to the Rhine, this time!”
“What! do you think? As far as the Meuse, and already----”
“The cavalry is massed at the rear; and if the cavalry passes, the line
is already smashed. Then, _mon vieux_, how far do you think we’ll go?”
The war was changing its aspect. Germany, checked at the Marne, seemed
to have an unsuspected force. Her regiments were renewed continuously.
They seemed to spring from the ground, an uncounted host, capable
of breaking over any barrier. Unprepared France, in accepting the
combat, profited by the period of “digging in,” to cast big guns and
manufacture shells. A colossal effort galvanized her hope. People
repeated the famous words of Joffre: “Je les grignote.”[F]
We were confident: Germany could not win. She would be beaten as soon
as we could collect guns and ammunition in sufficient quantities. Some
words of the generals came down to the ranks. Gallieni had said: “They
are in the trenches--they are lost!”
We believed it, we were sure of it. The humblest cook, in his smoky
_abri_, spattered with his sauces, his blackened face beaming with
smiles, had no more doubt of it than the major-general in his
automobile.
Many furloughs had been granted. Each man had been allowed to visit
his family, and had spread assurance of success in return for the
festivities his friends had prepared for him. No doubts found lodgment
in the minds of the people. On tenter-hooks the country awaited
victory. Trembling old mothers believed it, tearful wives put faith
in it, fathers felt convinced of it. At last we would be avenged, we
would punish the enemy’s infamous arrogance, we would chastise him, we
would crush him. We were going to crunch him by an enormous pressure,
overthrow his system of trenches, advance, break his line; and then,
with one burst of valor, we would hurl him back whence he came--into
his deep forests, as far as the Rhine; perhaps still farther, to his
lair. Every one knew the good news, counted on it, awaited it with
impatience.
People liked the bearing of the soldiers. All were delighted to see
them so robust, so hardened; more alert than at the beginning, more
viril, more manly. The warrior’s helmet graced his forehead like an
aureole. The men were fêted and showered with tokens of affection. Long
trains brought them home--so ardent, and young, and splendid; shouting
their joy in the stations, passing through towns with the air of a
victor. How the women admired them! They were treated (in advance)
as liberators. Those sober people who still were apprehensive of the
outcome, who reckoned up the future and calculated the chances, were
looked upon with a reproachful eye. This time it was certain: we would
pass!
The opening came the 20th of September. A furious storm of artillery
saluted the dawn, and set the thunder rolling. It was a prodigious
simoon. The sky cracked with the terrible, hot breath; the earth itself
bubbled. A deluge of red-hot iron fell. It was more than a noise: it
was a tempest, a gigantic roaring, the forge of Vulcan in full action;
an entire sector of the front bursting into flame. What a fantastic
tornado! All calibers of shells shrieked together. No single voice of
cannon could be distinguished in the concert. They were blended in
one roll, as if a god had sounded the charge on a gigantic drum. The
avalanche of steel fell on the enemy’s breastworks, spattered over the
intervening space, let loose billows of smoke, dust, and flames. The
very earth seemed to cry out to heaven, as it was pounded to powder and
scorched by the fire. Entire sections of trench walls leaped into the
air; a giant plough turned over the tunnels. A heavy cloud formed,
grew thicker, rolled over the battle-field. The passing hours augmented
the uproar. No sooner did the climax appear to be reached than the
tumult increased afresh.
Massed near the field of carnage, the bivouacked troops were in
readiness. Each company had its rôle, and each was ready. Each knew at
what hour to join the dance. They were going to pierce through, they
would pass! Comrades exchanged encouragement and last promises. All
hoped to survive, and pursue the routed foe in a sweeping victory.
Our regiment, like others, awaited the call. It had no active part
in the festivity, but was present. This was for us a poignant grief.
In our sector, not a sound. The cannon were as silent as if every
living thing had become a mere spectator of the drama. As the roaring
increased in volume from minute to minute, we listened. We divined the
scene. We could follow it in the clouds, and in the sounds carried by
the breeze. We were like curious, listening neighbors who hear the
people next door quarrel and fight. The Germans opposite us remained
silent also, and listened, like ourselves.
Battle of Champagne! It had not yet a name. It held all the hope of
France, a single, united, colossal WILL. For five days France could
only listen to the panting of an army in travail, and held her breath.
The 25th of September, at 9.15 in the morning, the first line left the
trenches; bounded forward, hurled themselves on the enemy. Another
line followed, and another, and another. Less than an hour later,
everywhere, even well back at the rear, messages of victory came. The
telephone passed on the joyful news, distributed it to the end of its
lines. In our ranks, where we awaited our turn with arms at rest, we
breathed with high-swelling hope. We defied the enemy, that day. We
looked at his lines, marked his location. To-morrow, perhaps, we would
be where he was to-day. We would command his crushed-in shelter, his
hiding-places opened by the shells; we would be the victors, and he
would be driven before us. Oh, yes, we were quite sure. Already, with
pricked-up ears, we could perceive the advance. Our cannon pierced his
lines. It roared elsewhere than was usual; already, opposite us, the
German had turned.
And yet--no! The accursed race has the tricks of a cowardly beast.
To the chivalrous courage which offers itself for an open test of
prowess, the Boche opposes stealthy ambush, burrowing in the ground.
For the noble _élan_ of our men, for their impetuous passion, for their
valor, the Teutonic sneak sets a snare: close to the ground, about
a foot high or less, a fine copper-wire was concealed in the grass,
and electrified. Our heroes were ensnared in that web. In vain their
assaults were renewed. In vain they accomplished a hundred exploits.
Close to the earth the traitorous wire caught their ankles, sent the
electric shock through their legs, threw them down and burned them.
But we--we were still ignorant of all this, and we awaited our turn. In
the falling night we saw the neighboring sky light up. The enemy’s fear
was read in the number of his rockets. He was afraid of our sortie, of
our onslaught and the outcome.
Ah! Those hours! Those days, those four days of superhuman effort!
In what a fever we passed them! At any moment we could become
participants, and yet we remained there, inert, champing our bits. We
talked, that we might shake off our impatience; that we might hear
words, though their import went unnoticed. We talked without knowing
what we said, merely to hear ourselves say something. We waited for our
cue: nothing came! Near us our comrades were fighting in a veritable
furnace; they were living the apotheosis of supreme minutes, living the
glory of combat, amidst an uproar of shells: in suffering of the flesh
and in the beauty of sublime Adventure. We envied them. We mounted to
the extreme edge of the embankments, to the parapets of the trenches,
that we might see farther and follow more closely the movement of the
drama; that we might breathe the odor of battle and grasp its splendor.
We looked at the fire-reddened sky, where a hundred lightnings flashed
and a hundred thunders rolled. We desired, with all our souls, to enter
the strife, and at last force back the intrenched enemy--intrenched in
our land, in our soil.
Since then many a battle has been fought. We have had Verdun, we have
had the Somme, we have had the Aisne, we have had almost each day a
unique page of history. Most certainly; but it was at this time that
we learned our lesson. We learned that patience is the weapon _par
excellence_ in a war such as this; whereas, at that time we still
conserved intact the old faith in French ardor. It was the first shock
following the Marne, after the defense of the Yser. It was the first
hope of breaking through. We were near it, so near we could almost
touch it, but we did not attain it. We were ready for death itself, but
the sacrifice was unavailing. The sacks loaded for the forward march,
the filled cartridge-cases, weighed heavily and more heavily when we
knew that the line remained where it had been, that the breach was not
sufficient, that an insignificant wire had stopped our onslaught and
protected the German.
Nevertheless, the results were worth the effort. We counted our
prisoners by hundreds, we gathered from them much information. Yes; but
the gain was as nothing, so great had been our hopes. We were bound to
accept another hibernation, dig in the earth again, dig oftener and
longer; look forward to a war of greater duration, more murderous;
recommence the effort, accept not months, but years.
The war ceased to be a human struggle. The mass of material became
appalling. It was no longer a shock of arms, but an industrial clash:
the machine substituted for the valor of a man, the contrivance become
demoniac. Cannon were made in enormous calibers. Old pieces were
replaced by huge-throated monsters, and one guessed that the wily
German, girt for supreme effort, was preparing something more, which
would make the early part of the war seem like child’s play.
This is why the present war is impossible of narration. It is no longer
a battle of a certain date. It is not, as in former times, a moment
in history, the clash of two wills, the shock of two armed bodies of
men. It is a period in a century. It involves, not two peoples, but the
world. It is not a turning-point, but a transformation. It is almost a
state of society: “C’est la guerre.”
Later, in an unforeseen epoch, in the year ----, it will be taught the
children as two dates: the war began August 2, 1914; it ended ----.
All the tragedy, all our cries, our furies, our agonies, our suffering
and death--all this, without name, blurred and indistinct, will be
contained between two numbers, and will mark two eons: that before the
War, that after the War. We will have fought and we will have wept; our
bodies will have been broken and our hearts will have bled, without
our being able to say, “It happened as I have told it,” for we will
not know just how it happened. We will be obliged to call to mind the
first day when grenades were used; the day torpedoes came to light;
the advent of the four-hundreds. Facts will be mixed in our troubled
memories. We will no longer recall all that happened to us. To be more
explicit, to create a truer picture, we will say:
“At the Marne, we used rifles.”
“In Champagne, we threw bombs.”
“At Verdun--such cannon!”
“On the Somme the shells flew so thick they met in mid-air.”
“And then--and then, America came!”
X
VERDUN
Those who have not been actively engaged in the war cannot form any
conception of it. When they hear a combatant speak of it, they say:
“Then you fight all the time?” “No.” Whereupon they think: “Then in the
firing-line one is not really in much danger.”
Ah, not so fast, good people! In this war, this new, present-day war,
the vigilance is continuous, the hand-to-hand struggle is not. Shells
fall unceasingly, but the open battle, the assault, is not without
interruption. Fortunately.
Thus it was that after the German check, after the Crown of Nancy had
withstood the foe’s attack, since the Marne in fact, the sector at
Verdun remained quiet.
It was a particularly good point. Here and there a sprinkle of shells,
then nothing more. There was fighting everywhere else, in Flanders, in
Artois, in Champagne, even in the Woëvre district, but not at Verdun.
The sector was so calm, that the only guard left there consisted of
Territorials, mostly older men. They worked without too much effort,
these fathers of families; without much disturbance, doing general work
of repairs about the fortifications, pipe in mouth, almost at peace in
the midst of war. In the winter of 1915 they shivered a little with
the cold; but the forest was near by, wood was abundant, and the cold
caused no great suffering. In the evening, down in the deep trenches,
in the well-heated huts, or in the powerful forts, such as Douaumont,
Vaux, Vachereauville, they basked in the heat as on a sunny day. They
looked at the falling snow and the landscape sleeping under its white
blanket. They swept the snow with branches of trees, blew on their
fingers a little, accepted their slight discomfort in patience.
December passed, unusually cold; then January came, bringing the new
year. One more year gone, one less to come! Soon the beautiful days
would come, the spring, and--who knows?--perhaps peace. Germany was
tired of it all, near the end of her resources, and would give in.
Every one had his own definite idea on the subject. According to one,
peace would come before the end of June. Another thought the war would
last well toward the end of July. No one imagined that the following
winter----
February entered. At the listening-posts one received a surprise: one
noticed signs of life and activity among the enemy.
“They are unloading iron.”
“They are doing a lot of talking.”
Bah! The Boches were putting their affairs in order. For more than a
year the opposing lines had been looking at each other without any
great exchange of blows. They felt quite well acquainted. The fellows
opposite were taking good care of their own bones. Some said they were
only the Landsturm, who were hibernating over there.
In the town of Verdun the usual life continued. The cafés were so
crowded they turned people away; concerts and theatres were in full
swing; everywhere there was great animation, on account of the presence
of troops in increased numbers. One could not find a vacant room
to rent, and the price of provisions soared. All the towns and even
villages, where so many troops were spending their money, were infected
with this fever of success, of easy money, of the riches which rolled
in. Verdun was no exception to the rule. The citadel was choked with
troops: officers and privates, drinking and laughing. To be sure, when
the war goes well, there is no need to be austere.
February reserved its own surprise. The short month, which amounts to
nothing at all, so short that it seems crippled, this one-armed month,
displayed in this particular year the malice of a dwarf.
Suddenly the German line burst into flame. It was like a spark on a
train of powder. Twelve hundred cannon, perhaps more, crashed in chorus.
“_Alerte!_ To arms!”
Ah! Yes! Ground, hacked, mutilated, overrun, those easy-going papas,
the Territorials, fought the best they could; but the Argonne was
the accomplice of the Boche. The drive became irresistible. With
the shell-power of this massed artillery, the lines were broken and
obliterated. Under the storm of shells the trenches were levelled.
It was not an artillery battle, nor merely a violent attack. It was
rather an avalanche of explosives. The molten torrent, crackling with
sparks, fantastic, inhuman, swept all before it. All the massed Krupp
guns in diabolic fury spat their clots of flaming blood. The torn,
disembowelled earth leaped into the air and fell in dust. A bitter
smoke filled the air, dense on the plain and dense on the mountain
summit. Douaumont became a forge, Vaux was a fiery cyclone. Thavannes
was a scarlet glow, le Mort Homme was a continuous roar, and Verdun
heard the approaching thunder in apprehensive dread.
At the call for reinforcements the regiments came in all haste, to bare
their breasts to the cannon. Fiercely the units clung to their ground,
placed their batteries, intrenched themselves, and offered stubborn
resistance. The enemy still advanced. The adversary was not an army
division but all Germany, with the dynasty, the Crown Prince, the old
Haseleer at their head. The defenders were again faced by the terrible
order, “Conquer or die,” as on the Marne and the Yser. Once more that
game was played. Once more it had the upper hand. Destiny, impassive,
looked on.
Three kilometres of retreat brought the French to the Côte de Poivre.
The Boche had orders to take, at all costs, the “strongest citadel of
France.” That success would mean the death of our country. It meant
all France exposed to the foe, Paris captured, Defeat. It meant Crime
triumphant, history violated, supremacy of brutal might, humanity’s
bonds reforged. It meant the flower of the Revolution crushed and
Liberty in chains. It meant the Kaiser’s boot on the neck of the world.
“Do you wish aid?” came the message from England, already preparing to
send succor. France responded proudly: “No! I can hold my ground.”
And she held it. The world knows it.