RECUPERATING—LIFE IN CANTONMENT AND IN CAMP
_March 3._ Great disappointment on reaching our cantonment. No letters!
And yet it is thirty days since I came away. We are still at S. S. in
the same quarters, except that I share a room with my friend Henry; the
men are well fixed and have plenty of straw. I am glad to possess a sort
of home.
We were relieved at 2 A.M. The march in the snow was long and difficult.
At Hurlus the battalion was re-formed and the roll was called near a
wood where there was a giant masked battery—four cannons of 220
millimetres rose formidably under their veil of foliage. The casualties
proved to be slight, perhaps twenty men in all. In my section every one
was present.
Then began the march through the snow. We were all so tired out by it
following upon the days in the trenches that the minute we arrived and
got rid of our equipment, we threw ourselves down and went to sleep.
I woke up at nine, had a bath and a change of linen, and feeling greatly
refreshed, turned my attention to my men. The morning was left free and
many of them slept right through. The afternoon was devoted to cleaning
clothing and arms, and every one had a bath.
I explored the village a little and found the traffic at the station
particularly interesting. I chatted with several staff officers; they
gave me very little information, but one of them handed me a copy of the
“Matin” which I read eagerly.
But I am still tired and sleepy and I am cross at not having any
letters. It seems to me it would have made up for all our hard work of
the last few days.
_March 4._ This morning reveille at eight; review of arms and clothing—a
formality quickly gone through, for the men understand that their gun is
their best friend and they take great care of it. And in spite of
certain accounts in the papers, the soldier is not fond of being dirty.
He does not revel in his mud and filth, but suffers from it. Some of
this misapprehension is probably due to the false derivation credited to
the word _poilu_. It is not derived from the fact that the soldier is
hirsute and unshaven. It is an old word. Under the First Empire they
were the grenadiers with their bearskin bonnets, Napoleon’s best troops.
They called _brave à trois poils_ any one who was worthy to be a
grenadier. To-day the word _poilu_ means simply a good soldier.
Our officers’ mess is very well set up. We are going to have a special
fund for extras during recuperation. The cook is nothing short of a
blessing.
At last this afternoon the baggage-master announced that our
communications with the rear were open. He brought us a quantity of
letters; I had for my share thirty-two. “Joy, joy, tears of joy,” as
Pascal said under slightly different circumstances.
I passed the evening with the interpreting officer, to whom I introduced
myself, offering my services if he needed any help in translating
documents. He was most friendly, gave me champagne, and showed me German
letters and notebooks. They spoke volumes as to the state of their
morale.
To-morrow we go camping in a little woods near La Cheppe. The snow has
melted, the weather is fine, almost spring-like.
_March 6._ In camp. The whole regiment, battalion by battalion, is
gathered together in this woods. We marched to the music of the band,
flag flying, into the village of B.-le-Château and reached this wood
about four. Signboards on trees indicated the places of the companies.
The companies were disposed in a deployed line, the sections being side
by side, and in this way the ground they were to occupy was marked out.
The squads of my section took their places and began to raise their
tents in groups of six. Each soldier carries above his knapsack a
waterproof tent sheet in which he wraps his blanket; four of these
sheets make the tent proper, while the other two are used to close the
openings at each end. Mine I shared with my sergeants and my orderly.
Straw was given to us and the whole thing was perfect.
We had an absolute rest; nothing to do but breathe in the air filled
with the fragrance of the pines, to take walks or go hunting. There are
quantities of rabbits all about, and the men got up battues which
wonderfully improve the army fare. The company mustered once a day,
simply for roll-call and to hear orders read. But we were forbidden to
go very far away, so as to be ready in case of an alarm. The regimental
band rehearsing its pieces gave us pleasant concerts. To be sure, the
repertory is not remarkably choice, but selections from well-known
operas, polkas of Offenbach, and flute solos give a great deal of
pleasure in this rough life. But some of the military marches are really
beautiful, “Sambre and Meuse,” for example, when the whole band and the
bugler play it together.
It is full of charm, this open-air life in the country; in the evening,
when it is cold, we make big fires and sit around them, smoking and
chatting happily. Our morale is excellent; wine brought from the
village, repose, the crackling fire, and the knowledge of duty well
done—much there is to make the heart gay. I have written a great many
letters. I had so many to answer. And I have read anew my “Don Quixote”
with delight.
_March 7. Sunday._ Mass at La Cheppe, the village where we were first
quartered; a little church full of soldiers, a few peasant women in
black, a very old priest who spoke with sublime simplicity of the dead.
I went to call on my former hosts, who were delighted to see me again.
The rain made me hurry back, for the roads were already beginning to be
heavy. I had to cut across lots, and even then my shoes were weighed
down with mud. The rest of the time I spent in our tent chatting,
reading, and smoking.
_March 8._ We start for the firing line again this evening. Farewell
tranquillity and the rustic life. But we go back willingly. It seems
that the sector is no longer the same. The order of the day informs us
that recent attacks made it possible to take the whole system of German
defenses in front of our former trench, which is now the third or fourth
line. We are to occupy positions newly acquired.
_Evening._ We are making a halt for the night. It is impossible to make
at one stretch the whole trip to the first lines in this mud. We started
shortly after noon and marched the rest of the day in a heavy, sticky
mud that is very exhausting. And the rain keeps falling, icy and
monotonous. What will the trenches be like?
We are billeted for the night in a kind of little village of huts made
of earth and wood, completely hidden by the trees from prying cannon,
and we are passably comfortable. I have for myself and my orderly a
little shanty with a place to make a fire, and a comfortable bed of pine
needles. The rain is pattering on the roof. To-morrow we return to the
trenches. Cannon boom heavily. There must be fighting.
_March 9._ It is still raining; the soil is soaked. Our encampment is
called “Cabane-Puits” because in time of peace it used to contain a well
and a cabin. The latter is now inhabited by our brigadier-general. As
for the well, it has been put in order by the engineers and furnishes
water to a very large section; water fatigues are endlessly standing in
line to obtain the precious fluid, which trickles in rather a tiny
stream.
There is a big supply station here. The little railroad that starts from
S. S. ends in the upper part of this wood, and huge sheds have been
built, carefully hidden away under the foliage, in which are stored all
sorts of supplies—wine, canned goods, bread, meat, straw—everything, in
short, that is needed by the regiments of the brigade which occupies
this sector. The traffic is very lively, and I watched the arrival of a
train and the unloading and storing of the goods. I also saw a whole
trainload of artillery ammunition, which is kept in very sheltered
dug-outs.
Eight or ten German machine guns, captured in the recent combats, were
on exhibition. Our machine gunners are studying them, and I too examined
their mechanism; it is well to know how to use the enemy’s engines so as
to be able, on occasion, to turn them the other way about.
A hundred or more prisoners tramped by, looking haggard and dejected,
both their faces and clothing disappearing under a mask of mud. So
things are going our way. Several wounded went by also, some on foot,
others drawn by stretcher-bearers on little vehicles with springs so
arranged that the men are not made to suffer unduly from jolting over
these churned-up roads.
_Evening._ In a few hours we are going to the trenches. We are ordered
to take light equipment; knapsacks are to be left in undergrounds at
Hill 181, in care of the oldest man in each section. The trenches we are
about to occupy are not luxurious, it seems, and the sacks would be in
our way. We have been given a large supply of hand grenades. It is still
raining.