CAMPAIGN DIARY OF A FRENCH OFFICER
BY
SOUS-LIEUTENANT RENÉ NICOLAS
OF THE FRENCH INFANTRY
_Translated
By Katharine Babbitt_
[Illustration: A black-and-white oval illustration of a seated nude
figure resting on a stone bench, leaning forward and playing a flute
beneath a tree, rendered in a classical woodcut style.]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
_The Riverside Press Cambridge_
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published March 1917_
_Aux grandes âmes d’Amérique qui ont si
bien su comprendre et aimer la France._
PREFACE _of a_ FRIEND
A Campaign Diary, do you say, Reader? If the original were before you,
you would not find it, like these printed pages, clean and whole. On it
are the marks of war—bloodstains and smears of mud, and, from cover to
cover, a hole made by a tiny piece of steel. These you may not see, but
for the rest no change has been made. The author is presenting to you
his notes just as he set them down at the front. The facts are true,
though the form is brief, almost impersonal, and entirely without the
literary flourishes that it would have been so easy to add _après coup_.
He is very young, this French officer. When the war broke out he was
still at the university, a member of that inner circle of the École
Normale Supérieure, where he was completing his studies in literature.
After the mobilization, he qualified rapidly for an officer’s commission
and started for the front. His first months there were spent in the mud
and desolation of that barren plain known as _la Champagne Pouilleuse_.
They were months made difficult by frequent skirmishes with the Boches,
and by a constant struggle with that other and more relentless enemy—the
mud of Champagne. In April, 1915, his regiment left the trenches, and
crossed on foot, by daily stages, the great Forest of Argonne, all
fragrant with the spring. We meet him again early in May before Arras,
on the eve of the Artois offensive. Only the beginning of this offensive
is described in the Diary. On May 9th, he fell, seriously wounded,
between the French and German lines, ten yards from the enemy’s trench.
He himself will describe to you that terrible day and his agonizing
return to the French positions.
And that is all—three months of the war. It is not much, but it is
enough to quicken for all time the pulse of the man who has lived it.
If, among these pages, there are some that for a moment make you feel
the horror and the thrill of war, then say to yourself, Reader, it is
not one man alone who has thought these thoughts and endured these
sufferings. It is the history of the youth of a whole nation.
L. PLANTEFOL
_École Normale Supérieure_
Paris, 1917
FOREWORD
During the long hours of idleness spent in the trenches or behind the
front, almost all the soldiers write in their _carnets de route_. And
the slender notebook which they keep constantly by them is their
greatest friend. It is the confidant of their troubles and their joys,
of their heroism and their discouragement, which they describe
naïvely—the reflection of their innermost thoughts. As for myself, I
tried to jot down my experiences as objectively as possible, bringing
together the impressions and details that counted most to me. In so far
as I have succeeded in depicting only myself, may it be remembered that
my ego, if it is not the centre of the world, is necessarily the centre
of this journal, written without any thought of publication.
When I visited America recently I came to realize the widespread
interest in the European War shown by the citizens of the New World. To
relieve the misfortunes that follow in the trail of war, they have
brought to bear the great strength of their sympathy and of their
material resources. But, not content with this, they give proof of a
keen desire to know “just how they do things over there.” And the many
questions I have been asked, and the earnest attention accorded to my
accounts of the war, are my excuse for publishing this journal.
I was not a soldier at the moment the war broke out; I was called to the
colors in the first days of August, 1914, and went through the training
for the infantry. Then my university degrees, together with an
examination, made it possible for me to join a training-class for
officers. At the end of this course, I was given the rank of Second
Lieutenant on probation and started for the front.
Except for a few trifling omissions, this book reproduces exactly the
notes I took at the front, though the last two chapters were written
rather a long time after the events they describe—the reader will
understand why. Nor is the form finished: for how shall one point
phrases to the tune of grapeshot? But the story is a true one, lived and
lived intensely. In this fact lies the little merit the work may
possess.
RENÉ NICOLAS
CONTENTS
I. ARRIVAL IN THE ARMY ZONE—IMPRESSIONS BEHIND THE FRONT 1
II. THE MARCH TO THE TRENCHES 13
III. DESCRIPTION OF THE TRENCH—LIFE IN THE FIRST LINE—BOMBARDMENT,
GERMAN ATTACK 22
IV. RECUPERATING—LIFE IN CANTONMENT AND IN CAMP 41
V. MUD—CORPSES—TAKING A GERMAN TRENCH—IN THE SECOND LINE—RETURN
TO THE FIRST LINE—PARADE MARCH BEFORE THE FLAG 50
VI. ENCAMPMENT—IN THE FOURTH LINE—FATIGUE DUTY—VISIT TO THE
ARTILLERY 72
VII. IN THE FRONT LINES—THE TRENCH CANNON—GAS BOMBS—CAPTURE OF A
BOCHE TRENCH—GRENADES—HILL 181—IN THE SECOND LINE—OUR LAST
DAYS IN CHAMPAGNE 89
VIII. A MONTH AWAY FROM THE TRENCHES 106
IX. BEFORE THE GRAND OFFENSIVE (ARTOIS, MAY 1–8, 1915) 119
X. THE ATTACK 139
XI. EVACUATION—THE SANITARY TRAIN—THE HOSPITAL 155
CAMPAIGN DIARY OF A
FRENCH OFFICER
_February-May, 1915_
CHAPTER I
ARRIVAL IN THE ARMY ZONE—IMPRESSIONS BEHIND THE FRONT
_February 12._ On the train, which at last is bearing us away to the
war. My companions are asleep, wearied by a day and night of this
endless journey. But I cannot sleep for joy. One thought possesses me. I
am on my way to fight! If I had so wished I could have remained with the
General Staff as interpreter, but what I crave is action—the intense,
mad action of battle. The enthusiasm of the first days of the war has
not left me, but grew greater during the long months I had to spend in
training-camps, where I learned first to be a soldier, then an officer.
As soon as I received my appointment to the grade of second lieutenant
on probation, I asked for and obtained permission to start for the
front. Am I cherishing illusions? Is it real, this glory of war that
makes my head swim?
But I am happy. The sadness of saying good-bye to my mother I have left
far behind. The weight already began to lift when we made our triumphal
departure from that little snow-covered town through which we marched,
with the band at our head and the Marseillaise on our lips and in our
hearts, amid the cheers of the people.
Just now the train is going through a beautiful bit of country. Never
has the valley of the Saône, that I know so well, seemed so fair to look
upon. Truly, _La doulce France_ is a mistress we may proudly live and
die for. Die? No. I have a conviction that I shall not be killed in the
war; I feel sure I shall be able to do my duty to the end, and once my
task is finished, return to my mother and my own life.
_February 13._ We have just got out of the train. I am writing in the
friendly warmth of a room some peasants have put at my disposal.
This morning, in the fog and chill of early February dawn, our train
stopped in the middle of a vast plain, grizzly and wet, whose monotony
was unbroken except for a few clumps of trees. The bugler gave us the
signal to detrain by playing our regimental march. Instantly the men
streamed out, still heavy with sleep, and benumbed by these two days of
travelling. I hurried to the cars of my section, lined up my men and
stacked arms while waiting for orders. Fatigues were detailed at once to
get rations and unload the cars.
But where were we? No one but the commander knew our itinerary in
advance, for of course it has to be kept secret. We had a vague idea we
were bound for Champagne. The station bore a name I did not know:
Cuperly. I looked on my map and found that this village was right in the
field of Châlons, several kilometres to the south of the villages of
Perthes and Hurlus, which have so often been mentioned in the dispatches
of late. So we are to be launched in the midst of an offensive! What
joy!
I hastily scribbled a card to my mother and gave it to a trainman, who
promised to mail it.
As we stood waiting in the cold, our attention was drawn to the
autobuses of a provision convoy going along the road phantom-like
through the fog. And we noticed also a dull rumble like a prolonged roll
of thunder. It was cannon.
“Sling knapsacks! Take arms! Fours right! Forward! March!” And the
battalion swung into a road that was broken up and covered with mud, a
gray, filthy, liquid mud that seemed to flood the whole countryside. An
artillery convoy came by and spattered us badly. It was cold.
Two kilometres farther on we halted at the edge of a village where we
were to breakfast. I promptly attended to the kitchens of my section;
two men from each squad went to get wood, and before long four fires
were burning merrily. Pans were brought forth from their places above
the knapsacks, and soon the portions of coffee and sugar provided us
with a “juice”[1] that was much appreciated in the dampness of the
winter morning. I gave orders to warm some canned beef in wine for the
men, and they had a real feast. While our soldiers were resting after
their meal, we section commanders, together with the other officers,
accepted the hospitality of some artillery officers, who made us welcome
with several bottles of champagne. The festivity was at its height when
the bugle sounded. It was time to start out once again. For what
destination? We did not know.
Footnote 1:
_Jus_, soldiers’ slang for coffee.
We marched two hours along the slippery road before coming to La Cheppe,
where we were to await the return of the brigade that was in the
trenches. We took possession of our quarters. My section was comfortably
billeted in a large barn well supplied with straw, and I chose to make
my abode among my _poilus_. I should like to be in closer contact with
them and I am determined to make friends with them if possible. When the
regiment left the training-camp I was able to procure a few little
extras that they wanted, and this evening they came and invited me to
dinner. The artful member of the third squad had succeeded in getting
into the good graces of an old peasant woman, who gave him two chickens.
The men insisted on my doing the honors, and I accepted with pleasure.
We chatted together familiarly and I told them how glad I was to be at
the front, and enlarged especially on the great things I expected of
them. “With you, lieutenant, we will go anywhere,” said a corporal, and
they all applauded. Of course I was much pleased.
And then what a welcome the peasants gave us! My old hostess was
determined to give up her bedroom to me, but I told her I would rather
sleep on the straw with my men. At least I am making use of her warm
kitchen where I am scribbling these lines in my diary after writing to
all my family.
But to-morrow? What of to-morrow? The roar of the cannon is very loud.
An attack is to be made to-night and I shall have no share in it. But my
turn will come soon, I hope.
_February 14._ The booming of the cannon all night kept me from
sleeping. However, I was snug and warm in my bed of straw beside my dear
friend Henry. We are glad to be together at the war after being chums in
college.
I am on duty this morning with my section. We are posted for police duty
at a crossroads, and we are instructed, in addition to keeping order in
the village, to regulate the movements of the convoys which pass
incessantly. What an infernal whirl! Not a minute passes without
something going by—a great ammunition train, heavy cannons drawn by
motor tractors, a regiment of infantry returning from the trenches,
muddy but triumphant. The _poilus_ are radiant. We surround them. They
give details. Good news! “Hot fight, all right, but the Boches are
catching it like fun.”
And then there go our old Paris autobuses, transformed into meat wagons.
Some of them still flaunt their signs: Madeleine—Bastille, Neuilly—Hôtel
de Ville, Clichy—Odéon. One is marked “complet,” and the places, if you
please, are filled by huge cattle. O valiant autobuses of Paris, you
forget your luxurious existence of Parisian bourgeois and jolt bravely
on through the mud of Champagne, accepting these hardships to save your
country. We take off our hats to you in your coat of mud, for you also
are doing your duty.
I went outside a moment to have a look around the village. It is very
nearly intact, as it is out of range of cannon. The inhabitants are
either peasants or refugees from the invaded districts. Every one is
busied in some way with the soldiers. Many have opened little shops and
sell provisions, underclothing, and various other articles. Wine
merchants are not very numerous, and the sale of spirits is strictly
regulated. It is necessary to get permission of the officers, and they
occasionally give it, wishing to improve the army ordinary. But the
commissariat is generous and each soldier receives a pint of wine a day.
We officers have a special mess. We eat at the house of a peasant who
has loaned us his rooms. Our cook has been a chef in the big hotels of
Nice. He is excellent, and has just brought me at my post a most savory
roast of mutton.
Weather still lowering. I took out of my little chest my old volume of
Rabelais and I occupy my leisure moments feasting on the exploits of
Picrochole. I have brought along a few books that are easy to handle,
mostly our great classics that I have been neglecting these latter
years. I wish to keep up my intellectual life.
_February 16._ Noise of battle in the distance. Convoys pass back and
forth incessantly.
This evening the battalion had manœuvres; the men must not be left idle.
Not that any one wants to loaf. We are all burning to get into action.
It is tiresome to be so near the fight and know only its echoes.
After supper I went for a walk with my friend. Twilight and absolute
calm brooded over the plains of Champagne. The cold, round moon, palely
reflected in the mud and ruts, cast glints as of steel. Nature, so
indifferent to the deeds of men, helped us to forget them for a time,
and our talk grew intimate and turned on old times as we walked along in
the silence of the night.
_February 17._ The regiment returns to-day from the trenches. We are
getting better acquainted with the peasants, who are the very soul of
kindness. They have been telling us of their sufferings: how the Boches
occupied the village,—without destroying it however, for they expected
to settle there for a long time,—and then the endless files of Germans
who kept calling out as they passed that the gates of Paris were open to
them; finally, the return of these same Germans, shamefaced, pushed back
by the irresistible thrust of our victory of the Marne. And these good
people went mad with joy when behind the fleeing enemy they saw the
first lines of the French with the bugler marching at the head, their
native land coming back to them.
We have just inspected supplies and equipment. Each soldier has twelve
biscuit, cans of “bully” beef, coffee, sugar, and bouillon cubes,
without counting his own provisions, which are plentiful. The reserve
supplies are sacred; they are never to be touched except under express
orders. Each man has also one hundred and fifty cartridges. All these
material details have been attended to, but this is not the whole of our
readiness. We are also filled to bursting with enthusiasm,
determination, and eagerness to fight. We start soon for the firing
line.
_February 19._ We are ordered to go and join a different regiment; our
battalion is detached and we are to fill in the vacancies made by the
recent fighting. I hope I shall be able to stay with my men. It is my
most earnest desire.
_February 20._ This morning we left La Cheppe to go to S. S. Weather
dry; landscape still depressing, a desolate, muddy plain with a few
scattered trees.
At Suippes we had our first real impression of war; the town is half
demolished and the château and factories are dismal ruins—destruction
wherever you look. And cannon thunder in the distance. A shell fell with
a great crash on the railroad track near by, and a great mass of earth
rose slowly into the air. The Boches are very fond of aiming at this
track, but their _marmites_ will have a hard time stopping this enormous
traffic. What an endless number of cars and sheds, what mountains of
merchandise! And the procession of trains never stops.
At last we reached S. S. and came in touch with our new regiment. I
belong to the Eleventh Company and command the second section. I am to
keep my men. The officers received us kindly. We are lucky enough to
arrive at a moment of activity, and we shall not lack work.
_February 21._ The village is largely in ruins. The church has been
turned into a hospital. Its steeple is hidden by a covering of branches,
and from a distance it probably looks to the enemy aviators just like
the neighboring trees. A little farther on was a shower-bath, which was
welcome, for we were pretty well plastered with mud.
The cemetery, in the midst of the fields, is full of little wooden
crosses. This evening I saw the funeral of an officer—a pine coffin
followed by a bare handful of men—the regiment was probably in the
trenches. A soldier priest with the military medal on his breast
pronounced the benediction.
We have no news of anything or anybody. No mail of any kind has come
through yet. Shall I have to go into the trenches without receiving a
single letter? I do not need encouragement, but I wish I could have had
some word from home. Well, we start for the trenches to-morrow.