ENCAMPMENT—IN THE FOURTH LINE—FATIGUE DUTY—VISIT TO THE ARTILLERY
And then we went off duty. I was determined to be clean before I went to
bed. A soldier employed at the bath-house was obliged to scrub me all
over with a stiff brush. Not a spot on my body had escaped the
treacherous mud. We had two days to rest and clean up and put our
clothing and arms in order. The men were allowed entire freedom.
My billet is comfortable. I even have a real bed—a bed with sheets—that
I share with my friend H. Joy and delight to be able to take off one’s
clothes and crawl into bed between sheets—a luxury we have not tasted
for a month. And such a month!
This morning there was drill. Not very interesting, but according to
theory, the men must not be left idle. I suggested that we organize
games and the idea was approved. Peace-time manœuvres afford little
amusement to men who are just back from the trenches.
Our mess is very jolly. We officers get together and chat, play cards or
have music. I often go and play the little organ in the church. A priest
who is on the hospital nursing staff has asked me to play during
services. I consented with great pleasure. There is a service every
evening which many soldiers attend. They sing the hymns of the liturgy.
I accompany and I amuse myself playing some fugue of Bach or of my
beloved César Franck. The organ is nothing to boast of, but I get a good
deal of satisfaction out of it.
_March 18._ We start to-night for Cabane-Puits which forms the fourth
line of our positions. We are not to go to the trenches, it seems, but
will remain four or five days in reserve. Furthermore, we shall be
assigned fatigue duty. My company is flag escort.
_Evening._ We left B.-le-Château toward noon. The ceremony of departure
was beautiful. The third battalion had the flag and my company was
chosen to escort it. The battalion formed in line of masses, my company
being posted directly in front of the colonel’s house. At noon, bayonets
were fixed, and at the moment the flag appeared on the threshold the
band and the buglers saluted and played the Marseillaise, while every
man presented arms. We defiled through the village with the flag in the
middle of the company, just behind my section. Then the flag was folded
into its black sheath, and we began the march.
The road was better, much better. We met a regiment coming back from the
trenches, and it made us realize what we ourselves had looked like a few
days before.
Cabane-Puits is very curious—a village of primitive tribesmen made up of
half-buried huts of earth and branches. These dwellings are very
comfortable, however, with their fireplaces and thick beds of straw.
There are also dug-outs for each section. For myself I have a private
apartment which has been comfortably arranged by its various occupants.
There is a bed made of woven wire hung like a hammock about twenty
inches from the ground, a rough table, shelves, and a fireplace of big
stones. The baggage-wagons of the regiment have come with us up to this
point, so I have my chest and can profit by my books. Rabelais and
Montaigne have promptly been given the place of honor on the shelves.
There is a shanty for everything here. The infirmary is very well
installed; the offices of the various companies have packing-boxes for
desks. The kitchens are in the open air. Above the fires, hanging on a
stick, great kettles boil and bubble everlastingly. We had tea this
evening, but sad to say, there wasn’t enough sugar. Letters come through
with more or less regularity. I have made friends with the
baggage-master, who scolds me all the time for being one of those who
give him the most trouble; for I have a correspondence of almost
ministerial dimensions.
Take it all in all, this is better than the trenches.
_March 19._ A delicious existence. Weather fine. Nothing to do. I read a
little, write a little, chat a great deal with my friend H. or with the
_abbé-infirmier_, a man of extraordinary intelligence and a heart of
gold. Last evening after going to bed, H. and I lay awake a long time
and talked, with the splendor of the spring flooding in upon us. The
cannon in the distance were raging, and in spite of ourselves we
rejoiced in our comparative security. “Suave mari magno.”[2] Perhaps
Lucretius was not so far wrong. But this kind of selfishness is
conceivable when one thinks of the sufferings of the week just past.
Footnote 2:
“Sweet it is when the winds are ruffling the mighty surface of the
deep to witness the grievous peril of another from the shore.”
_March 20._ A very busy night. My section was detailed to clean out the
communication trenches near Perthes. The mud had dried and filled them
in so that they were no longer deep enough.
We started at 9 P.M. along Hill 181. At the entrance to the trenches,
sheltered behind a hillock, are the headquarters of the commander of the
sector, and likewise a toolhouse. Picks and shovels were piled up
waiting for us. We took an equal number of each alternately, and
proceeded to the trenches. A guide showed us the way. They were in a
very bad state from the point of view of protection, but oh, so easy to
walk in. The sector we were to put in order was about two hundred metres
long. With the aid of my sergeants and corporals, I measured off the
exact space for each pair of men. Every one set to work with a will, and
at the end of two hours the job was finished. Partly to keep warm and
partly to set the example, I took a pick and worked here and there. We
deepened and broadened the trench and put bomb-shields every twenty-five
or thirty metres, so that a bursting shell could be effective only on a
limited area. Moreover, the trench was wide at the bottom, and the walls
were near enough at the top to give less purchase to shrapnel. I had the
satisfaction of feeling that the work had been done rapidly and well. At
1 A.M. we arrived at quarters. I gave the men a swig of brandy to warm
them up, and we all turned in.
An enemy aviator was brought down this morning. He ventured near our
lines and was subjected to a lively bombardment. Swarms of white tufts
circled and unfolded around the ’plane, which made a yellow spot in the
lens of my field-glass. Suddenly I saw it dip, nose downward, and dart
like an arrow to the ground. Meanwhile the smoke of the shell that had
done the deed spread majestically through the sky as if content with its
handiwork. The aviator fell too far away for us to go and see him.
The Russians have taken Przemysl. The news was announced in this
morning’s bulletin. It seems the booty is enormous. To celebrate the
event every soldier has been given an extra ration of wine.
It is one of the first bits of war news we have had. We are narrowed
down to our own sector, and know practically nothing of what is
happening outside. Not much probably. But surely something will be doing
before long now. Every one thinks the grand offensive will take place in
the spring—the decisive blow that will pry the Germans out of their
holes in the ground and bring us the fight in the open for which we are
all longing. And then—victory!
I find myself yielding to the charm of our life here. It is,
indeed, the return to nature and simplicity; it is almost
physical, almost animal. The primitive instincts of the race have
full sway—eating—drinking—sleeping—fighting—everything but loving.
Lacking this, Rousseau would have found his idyl complete. But
however much we are sunk in savagery, memory still is living. As
well ask the spring not to be green as keep one’s thoughts from
wandering among cherished images, kept fresh by almost daily
letters. Beloved little godmothers, precious are your letters and
welcome your delicate gifts to those who fight. We are glad to
fight for you. But at times, the thought of you makes the chains
of war very hard to bear.
However, I am determined not to let my mind grow rusty. I read a great
deal, write quantities of letters, and I have two or three friends with
whom I can converse intimately. What is more, I have a most interesting
study in psychology always close at hand—the study of my _poilus_. I
think I am beginning to know them better and to be their friend; they
tell me their secrets and their adventures, their little family affairs
and their love affairs. Some of them want me to read their letters, or
show me photographs. All this makes it easier to approach each one of
them in the right way to make him do his best. I have grown very fond of
them, for they are fine fellows; they can even be heroes when duty
requires.
I passed the evening out of doors, lying sprawled in the grass, smoking
my old pipe, companion of all my adventures, and chatting with my
friends. The sound of the cannon was scarcely audible, and over the
unruffled air came whiffs of music. We recognized the “Russian Hymn” and
the “Marseillaise” and “God Save the King.” It was a regiment encamped
behind us, celebrating the fall of Przemysl.
It is late. I have loitered outside in the marvellous night, keeping
company with the spring. The air is laden with perfume as I write. But
“_Sat prata biberunt._”
_March 21. Sunday._ This morning mass was said in the open air behind a
great rock, a soldier priest officiating. Stones served as an altar. On
it were two candles without candlesticks—an old-time simplicity. The
gathering was large, and we sang canticles to the deep accompaniment of
the distant cannon.
Nothing has happened to-day, except that a few prisoners filed by.
This evening several men of the company go on fatigue duty to carry wire
and shells to the trenches. I examined the shells. They have tiny wings
and are fired from a cannon in the trench itself, and are very deadly,
it seems. Our _poilus_ call them “cauliflowers.”
My section is on duty, for of course we have to take turns keeping
guard. The service is very simple. Three sentries suffice, one near the
station and storehouses, one near the colonel’s cabin where the flag is,
and the third near the carriages.
_March 22._ Another uneventful day. The battalion had manœuvres in the
woods. If only this gives promise of the fight in the open! A little
alarm—several shells fell on our position. A kitchen was destroyed and a
cook wounded. It is very unpleasant to be bombarded when you are off
duty. In the trenches, it is part of the day’s work, and for that reason
swallowed down cheerfully. Besides, the trench is a protection, but in
encampment where, by the very definition of the word, one has a right to
feel secure, it is annoying. Those Boches have no manners.
_March 23._ Last night I was detailed with half my section to bury the
dead. The task was not a pleasant one, but it was accomplished without
reluctance or hesitation. Having to do the work at night made it a shade
more lugubrious. A guide conducted us to a little thicket all laid bare
by grapeshot, south of Perthes and about three kilometres from the first
lines. There was no moon, and it was very nearly pitch dark. Trench
rockets streaked the sky here and there, and from the distance came the
crack of musketry. Shells went laboring by with the heavy breathing of
wild beasts in a rage. A little trench was made into a large one to
receive the bodies, and then we set out in search of them. They had been
lying there for a very long time, and it was only the recent advance of
our lines that made it possible to bury them. With some difficulty we
managed to make out these motionless heaps on the ground. It was
necessary to search the pockets and take out papers, money, etc., also
to unfasten the identification badges that are worn on the arm like a
bracelet. It was not an easy thing to do. In this, also, I was obliged
to set the example. I had to put my hand into the pockets of a foul mass
that fell to pieces at a touch. I found nothing but a pocket-book and
diary. The men then took courage and overcame their aversion. The bodies
were not offensive until they were disturbed, but the least jar brought
forth an odor that choked you and took you by the throat.
Among them were three Germans. They were all carried in a tent-sheet to
the trench and laid side by side. The articles found on them were kept
carefully in separate packets. Out of twenty-seven, we succeeded in
identifying all but three.
When our task was finished, the _abbé-infirmier_, who had accompanied us
of his own accord, stepped to the edge of the grave and said a blessing.
And that priest, standing out against the darkness, lifting his voice
above the noise of battle in a last solemn duty to those pitiful
fragments, was truly very fine. Every man of us, whether moved by
religious conviction or not, felt the impressiveness of the moment, and
knelt to hear the words of forgiveness and of life.
This evening I went to S. S. by the little train to have the death
certificates made out. The tiny mementoes had to be sent to the
families—letters, purses, notebooks, watches. On one of the bodies was a
letter bearing the inscription: “Will the person who finds my body have
the kindness to send this letter, together with the exact description of
my grave, to the following address....” I took the letter, and wrote a
few words to the family. I did my best to make a drawing of the spot
where the poor fellow was buried, and told them about the blessing that
had been said over his grave. And into the same envelope I put that
sacred letter, bloody, smeared with mud, ill-smelling,—a letter from the
dead.
_March 24._ An artillery officer who was at the village with me
yesterday invited me to go and see his battery. After the daily muster
of the company I started out. I had marked on my map the exact position
of the battery and found it without difficulty.
The captain received me in his dug-out, a regular palace compared to the
squalid quarters of us poor infantrymen. Twenty feet under ground, well
supported by planks, it contained all sorts of modern comforts—a real
bed, a table, chairs, besides a quantity of knick-knacks that indicated
a prolonged stay. Pinned up on the walls were the delicious women of
Fabiano, of Nam and of Préjelan, taken from “La Vie Parisienne”; a
violin was hanging in one corner, and on a table lay the sonatas of
Bach. There were a number of little objects on the shelves made from
fragments of shells. My host gave me tea in china cups. All this luxury
enchanted me. A telephone on the table connected the dug-out with the
battery, the first line, and the colonel’s headquarters. I could not
resist asking him to play, and this pupil of the Polytechnic executed
for me, and executed well, the famous saraband.
“Now, after the chamber-music,” said he, “I’m going to let you hear the
grand orchestra.” And he conducted me to his battery. The four pieces,
all draped in foliage and well covered with earth, were silent. But they
remained fixedly aimed at their invisible objective, a trench some three
kilometres ahead. Thanks to the hydro-pneumatic brake, the 75 does not
need to be re-aimed after firing. To please me, the captain ordered
three shells fired from each piece. I even fired a shot myself. Finally
I saw the little valve that has only to be manipulated in a certain way
to render the piece useless in case it falls into the hands of the
enemy. The gunners are under orders to attend to this.
I took leave, with many thanks to my host for his kindness. I was
gratified to have penetrated a little into the sumptuous domain of the
artillery.
On arriving in camp I learned that the captain had sent in my name for
promotion to the rank of second lieutenant, because of what happened
last week. I am very much pleased.
_March 25._ This morning to our great surprise we were told to return to
S. S. We reached there toward six o’clock. Same quarters as before. I
noticed in passing how rapidly the cemetery has been growing of late.
_March 26._ Review of our brigade this morning. The two regiments
assembled by sections in columns of four, with flags and music. The
general passed along our front at a gallop. Then we defiled. The
impression of strength is immense when one stands in the midst of all
these glittering bayonets above which float the bright colors of our
flag—the wall of steel that is holding back the enemy and will crush him
when the hour strikes. With it all comes the consciousness of one’s own
rôle, which is humble and yet great. For that wall of steel is made of
glittering, separate points, and I am one of them. It is joy untold to
be able to say to one’s self, “All my struggles and all my sufferings
count for something in the great action of the whole.”
The general then went along by the different companies. He stopped to
speak to me, and told me that from to-day I shall rank in the army as
second lieutenant.
Naturally, this event had to be celebrated. I treated my colleagues to
champagne. Just as festivities were well under way, orders came to start
at once for the trenches. Here is the programme for the next few days:—
Two days in the first line.
Two days in reserve, Hill 181.
Two days in the second line.
It is rumored that this army corps is to be laid off a whole month to
recuperate.
Lots of rumors float about, fantastic and otherwise. It’s what they call
“kitchen gossip.” But this one is perhaps true. Meanwhile we are
buckling on our things, and in two hours, off we go.
I am going to write to all my people to announce my promotion.