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
_March 27._ I am writing my journal in a big underground shelter,
comfortably stretched out in a hammock that someone has rigged up of two
old tent-sheets. We are in an ugly sector, and are using the mine
galleries as dug-outs, for grenades are falling thick and fast.
We are in the same trench as the enemy,—next-door neighbors in fact, and
not a bit civil. Nothing but a barricade of bags of earth separates us
from the Boches. Near the barricade stand the sentries, attentive and
silent. No sound is heard on either side except for the whizzing of
grenades that are continually being tossed back and forth. But the
sentries are well protected in the sides of the trench, like saints in
niches, and they defy the German “turtles.”
The first German and French lines are in immediate contact. The reason
is that our side has not been able to seize the whole of the trench, of
which the enemy still occupies the eastern end. But this situation will
not last, I think, and we shall increase our gains.
The trench is clean, except for bodies imperfectly buried here and
there. We no longer pay any attention to them, but the really deplorable
thing is that many corpses fell in the mud, the mud has hardened, and
the trench is less than five feet deep. It is impossible to make it
deeper, for the least stroke of a pick brings up a piece of cloth or a
bit of flesh. To move about, we have to bend like hunchbacks. It is both
painful and dangerous, so the men don’t move around much but stay in the
shelters.
There is something very amusing here—a trench cannon, a little one such
as people fire during popular celebrations. You put powder in it, then a
77 shell (German projectiles that get sent back to them), then a fuse
that is lighted with a tinder—noise—smoke—the shell goes off in one
direction, the cannon in the other. The little fiend ought to take
lessons of the 75’s to cure it of going on its dance after each shot.
But there is plenty of time to reaim, and a man especially detailed for
the work takes charge of it. Of course, I couldn’t resist firing it a
few times. The pedestal is gruesome. It is a corpse, a body well encased
in mud, except that the feet are sticking out. It is a Boche. The soles
of his shoes are shod with iron just like horseshoes. This fact has
caused a good deal of merriment. The shells are sent to the trenches
over opposite. For the German trench at our side we use hand grenades,
and not stingily either. They too, of course, are making the best of
their opportunities, though up to now we have no wounded. But we have
had some unpleasant escapes from being overcome by gas. The Germans vary
the monotony of the missiles that come over the barricade by sending gas
bombs. These bombs in bursting emit an acrid smoke that smells of
sulphur and fills the whole trench. We discovered that we could ward off
the worst of the danger by putting handkerchiefs before our mouths. When
these bombs burst against the wall of the trench, they leave a yellow
splotch.
I remain quiet very little in the trench. I have a horror of inactivity,
and I don’t seem to want to read, so I wander back and forth a good deal
from one end of my sector to the other, keeping an eye on everything.
A little while ago one of my _poilus_ came to me and said: “I think,
Lieutenant, the Boches are busy mining our trench.” I listened but heard
nothing. Then I went into his shelter and I did, for a fact, hear
muffled blows, struck regularly. Evidently they were working underneath
us. It is very disagreeable when you are already underground to feel
this hidden, slow work, impossible to prevent, that may blow you up at
any minute. And the tiresome part of it is that since that moment, every
one is convinced that he hears the strokes that are digging the abyss
underneath him. Such is the power of imagination, O Pascal. But the
captain was notified and telephoned in turn to headquarters. An officer
of the engineering corps came and listened with a microphone, and said
we were in no danger; in the trench beside us a French mine gallery has
already been pierced underneath that mine. In front of all the network
of trenches there are underground listening-posts where the sappers
listen with their microphones and register the least sound. This officer
told me that two days before he had blown up a Boche mine. In order to
do that, the exact location of the enemy’s gallery must be ascertained,
then a hole is bored toward it with a drill similar to the one used in
boring wells. When the right spot is reached, it is packed and blown up
with a bickford. The explosion chamber of the German mine goes into the
air along with its inhabitants. The same fate awaits the mine we have
been worrying about. In mine warfare, the essential thing in the
conflict is just the opposite of the war in the air, where it is a
question of getting above the enemy aviator. The counter-mine, on the
contrary, must go beneath the enemy mine; when it reaches it at the same
height, they blow it up. It sometimes happens that the miners suddenly
find themselves face to face with the enemy. Then they kill one another
as best they can, with hammers if they have no revolvers.
It is not very edifying, this kind of warfare. I am going to console
myself by inviting my sergeants to tea.
For the fun of it, I have concocted a letter and thrown it into the
Boche trench beside us. In my most polite German I invited those who
were tired of waging war to come and surrender. They would be well
treated by the French. They would simply need to present themselves,
_unarmed_, in front of the barricade of bags of earth and whistle the
first measures of a tune known to all Germans, “_Ich hatt’ einen
Kameraden._” In a little while the sentry brought me a paper. It was the
answer. Here is the translation: “We shall be relieved to-night about
one o’clock. We will take advantage of the confusion to come, three of
us together, and surrender. At midnight we shall be on sentry duty near
the barricade. We count on your promise to treat us well.” I carried
this paper to the captain and translated it to him. The information as
to changing troops was interesting; he is going to telephone it to
headquarters.
_March 28._ What a riotous night! And by the same token, what a good
piece of work we did! We took all the trench beside us, about fifty
metres, and a machine gun.
The first part of the night was uneventful, except for an abominable
shower of grenades the Boches kept basting at us. Three of my men were
wounded, slightly, I think, for they were able to walk to the
dressing-station. About half-past ten the captain came to look over the
situation, and I suggested that it might be a good idea to attack the
trench at the moment they were changing. The various possibilities were
considered, and finally my superior officer told me to do as I saw fit,
leaving me the entire initiative in the matter. All I asked of him was
to forbid the second line to fire. I sent for my friend H. and entrusted
to him the command of my section after carefully discussing the various
contingencies. The most devoted and intelligent of my corporals was to
go with me, and I called for volunteers from the squads to help in an
undertaking that might prove dangerous. Almost all the men offered. I
chose six, who armed themselves with their bayonets, and took ten
grenades apiece. Then I went to the barricade and, with the aid of a
periscope and trench rockets, was able to get an exact idea of the
German trench. One thing bothered me—a machine gun placed not far from
us. I ordered a score or so of grenades thrown at it. Men were hit, but
the gun seemed intact.
Shortly after eleven o’clock I heard them whistling the popular air of
the Uhlans. I whistled it in turn, when presently three great gawks
appeared on the barricade with their arms raised above their heads, and
jumped into our trench. I put them under strong guard and questioned
them. It seems their comrades were leaving at that very moment; they
were being sent away before the arrival of the other troops. These three
had managed to be put on sentry duty and at that moment no one was
guarding the entrance to the trench. For a second the idea flashed
through my head that this was a trap, and I threatened to have them shot
if they were lying. But I went to the barricade and saw that the trench
was for a fact empty, except for the machine gunners who were on duty
beside their gun. I quickly gave orders to tear down the barricade and
we ran into the Boche trench. The men of my section, according to my
instructions, set up a furious fire in order to distract the attention
of the enemy from the sector we were trying to take. As we ran, we threw
grenades at the machine gunners, who sank down before being able to turn
their guns against us. In a twinkling we reached the end of the trench,
intersected at right angles by a communication trench. A few grenades
went after the last Boches who were going off to recuperate. Like
lightning we piled up four or five bodies and rolled down several bags
of earth from the parapet, brought up the machine gun, and from behind
the barricade of dead men and earth fired three rounds into the
retreating Germans. They were thrown into a panic. A good many must have
been killed, for daylight disclosed to our gaze that trench piled with
dead. The whole thing had not lasted more than two minutes. We were
deluged with grenades, a continuous _zip_, _zip_; one of our men was
killed, three or four wounded. Everything was in a wild tumult,—trench
rockets going up, guns firing at the double-quick, a hasty report to the
captain who came to shake hands with me. Barbed wire was rushed into
place, and the trench reversed—minutes of mad excitement and insane
activity. We were without consciousness of danger, hypnotized by the
work to be done.
We expected a counter-attack, but the German machine gun we had put at
the entrance to the communication trench defended it too well for a
Boche to be able to venture in that direction. Toward the trench
opposite all the soldiers had their loopholes and were on the watch
ready to fire.
We waited. There were false alarms. A man who is a little nervous begins
to fire rapidly, his neighbor follows his example, then the squad, then
the section, then the whole company gets on the rampage. The machine
guns begin to clatter, the second-line troops take alarm, the artillery
steps in with a few shells and—the Boches over opposite, bewildered by
the hubbub, send up into the sky large interrogation points in the shape
of trench rockets, whose rays illumine the grass growing green in the
spring, the tangle of wire and several poor dead bodies lying with hands
outstretched toward the opposite trench, as if pointing the path of duty
to the ones behind.
The counter-attack did not come, but shells upon shells were rained upon
us. I gave my canteen of wine to my prisoners, for, after all, they were
somewhat to be thanked for our success. It is nothing at all, fifty
metres of trench, and yet, it is a few feet of France won back again.
I received my reward; two packages and five letters. In one of the
packages was a big April Fool’s day fish made of chocolate, all stuffed
with candy. I divided the candy among my men, by way of thanks for their
splendid conduct, and then I feasted on the letters. Oh, the comfort of
letters and words of affection that come to find us out in the midst of
our barbarous days!
_March 29._ Hill 181, in reserve. Shelters deep underground. From the
northern crest of this hill can be seen the whole system of trenches,
both French and German, in the basin of Perthes. I posted myself with my
field-glass between two clumps of bushes: a maze of white lines, much
twisted and tangled; from time to time rise blackish clouds. The ruins
of Perthes become every day more mournful. I was driven from my post by
shells.
Every hour, exactly and methodically, two batteries fire their twelve
shells. Forewarned, forearmed. When the moment is past, there is nothing
more to fear for one hour. Unfortunately, one of the lieutenants was
killed by a shell that was so very unmindful of usage as to seek him in
his dug-out.
I had the honor this morning to be shaved under fire. The barber of the
company was busy relieving me of a two days’ growth of beard when shells
began to fall not far from us. “Go on,” I cried; and though my barber’s
hand shook, he cut off neither my nose nor my ears.
I have discovered a stove with some stovepipe. The infirmary didn’t want
it, and simply threw it away. I had it set up in my dug-out where the
air is decidedly chilly. With the pine boughs from the woods roundabout
which my orderly stuffs in, it keeps me warm and enables me to make some
good chocolate.
It is cold. To-night we shall have to go to the first line to take
planks and wire. But what a good cup of tea I shall have when I come
back!
_March 30._ Last night a blizzard came down upon us. It was doubtless
due to the violent displacement of air caused by the terrible
bombardment that never for a moment ceases.
I came in late—about three o’clock. We had to do a lot of trotting
about; the communication trenches took up the snow and were beginning to
be muddy again. Oh, this abominable Champagne mud!
To-day we were bombarded even more than usual. Several men imprudently
went to walk in full view of the enemy. Naturally shells came after
them, so now the men are forbidden to go out of the shelters.
I slept all the morning in front of my snoring little stove. Played
cards this evening. I feel as if I were rapidly sinking to the level of
the brute. For variety we go to the trenches to-night.
_March 31._ Our last days in Champagne. It seems we are to be laid off
to recuperate and will change sectors afterward. One would say that
before we go the authorities want us to become profoundly familiar with
the landscape of this desolate region. We are in the second line, and in
front of us stretches the panorama of all the trenches we have held,
beginning with Hill 181. The weather is clear. The snow did not last. We
can see the woods, stripped bare by shells, as well as the whole
labyrinth of trenches and communications, then the ruins of the stricken
village of Perthes. With my glass I can make out the first trench I
occupied. I recognize it from certain little details, but we have gone a
long way ahead since then, more than a kilometre.
Day comparatively calm. Nothing to do except be ready to sustain a
possible attack. We sleep, read, or play cards.
The Boches are still bombarding Perthes and Hill 181. The big _marmites_
send up into the night splendid luminous volcanoes, or else burst above
the trenches in clouds that whirl off down the wind. The curious thing
is that you see the explosion long before you hear it, and the hiss of
the bomb sounds directly overhead at the very moment when it is bursting
in the distance. I had to explain this phenomenon to my men, whose
knowledge of acoustics is not very extensive.
I have just witnessed a magnificent and terrible sight—a German attack
in close formation crushed in less time than it takes to tell it. To the
east, in the direction of Beausé-jour, was an intense bombardment; then
through my glass I could see gray masses emerge, gesticulating and
densely crowded together. This attack was caught between two curtains of
fire. The raging 75’s hurled a curtain of fire in front of them, keeping
them from advancing, and one behind them that made it impossible for
them to get back to their trenches. They were wiped out to the very last
man. There was a mad dance in the air of scattered limbs, mingled with
clouds of dirt and smoke. The incredible part of it is that nothing was
left on the ground, or next to nothing. It was as if the bodies of those
men had been volatilized and made one with the air. We were transfixed
with horror and filled with rapturous hope. May the fight in the open be
not delayed! Our 75’s will quickly give us the victory.
_Holy Thursday._ Our aviators are floating gracefully about in the
twilight—a twilight divinely calm. It is Holy Week. The strains of the
great Johann Sebastian and of “Parsifal” keep running through my head.
Orders have come. We are to be relieved this evening. We are going to
recuperate and then, they say, to Alsace. I shall be so happy to have a
chance to fight on the soil we have won back.
This is our last day in Champagne. I am leaving without regret this land
of desolation where I have known difficult hours and a few splendid
moments. What tried me most sorely was this mole-like existence, I who
am always longing for large action and open and intense fighting with an
enemy who is before your eyes.
The Boches have been bombarding rather violently. That is to be expected
since it is Holy Thursday. But in spite of everything, there has been
something religious in the calm of the elements these latter days.
Nature is at her devotions. This evening is superb. Shells are bursting
in great numbers, and the little church of Perthes totters as if it were
about to fall. Through the loopholes comes the mew of spent bullets, but
these noises disturb but little the heavenly serenity of the twilight.
Larks are singing, full-throated, a sublime pæan of life and joy. In the
distance lie the dead, and the frightful, mangled corpse of the village
of Perthes.