A Zouave, baggy trousers, fez, clear bronze complexion, aquiline
features, flashing eye, stood before me.
"Madame will permit that I seat myself on her bench?" he said.
"But certainly," I replied, looking with interest at this injured youth
from afar. "Whence came you, mon petit?" ("my little one") I said, "you
do not look any too strong to stand this winter gale."
"Quite true, Madame," he replied, "but we Zouaves are accustomed to the
cold and storm."
"But surely you came from a warm country, mon soldat? The Zouaves are
from Africa are they not?"
"True, I am from Tunis," he replied.
"On such a day you must long for your country?" I asked.
"Helas, oui. The orange trees are forever in bloom there, the
heliotrope and hibiscus blossom all winter. The rose-scent hangs heavy
on the air, there in my home! Even now I think of the deep blue sky,
the long dusty road leading out into the desert; again I see the palms,
the cacti; that is, if I close my eyes. Sometimes when it is dark and
cold, and one is sad in the trenches, I cannot help wondering if ever
again I shall sit beneath the awnings of the Cafe de France, or shall
see the dusky women, in linen, walking to the fountain, or shall smell
the dry heavy dust, or shall sit tranquilly in the blazing sun of 'La
Tunisie.' Ah, oui, Madame, all that is many miles away from this cold,
gray land of yours.
"But at the front that was another story. See, I have been wounded
twice, and am here convalescing. All I dream of is to go back to the
trenches. Ours is at Neuport. Only 1 metre (13 feet) separates us from
the 'boches.' they call to us often from their side (they speak good
French, too) ordering us to surrender for they are bound to win, and we
are only losing time. We answer, too. We give them something to think
about."
"But what were you before the war, soldier?" I asked.
"An antiquaire, Madame. I sold Persian carpets, brass lamps, leather
goods to the tourists who came to my beautiful Tunisie."
"What will you do afterwards, my soldier?"
"That is as God wills, madame. Who knows? Can I even know where I shall
be a week hence? All I want now is to get back to my regiment. To the
front." With a military salute he left me.
At the hospital they were very busy. About 180 had just arrived from
the great battle in Champagne; almost all wounded in the legs, many
with only one to limp on.
"How comes it," I asked, "that you are all injured in the legs?"
"That is simple," answered a cheery looking fellow, "the boches just
turned the mitrailleuses on us, like a man playing a hose on the lawn,
but low down you see, so it caught us in the knees mostly. However, we
have hands and arms still—a man can do a lot with them, even if he must
have false legs or use crutches."
One pale, emaciated fellow said: "Madame, would you help me to the
window to look at the sea. I have never seen it, and since, in July, I
was wounded with 34 eclats d'obus (34 shell wounds) they have promised
me, I should come to that great wonder, the sea!"
As I put my arm under his skeleton one, felt how thin and bony it
was, looked at his poor pale young face and tried to realize what
life in the future held for this battered young creature, my soul
felt sick within me at all this useless waste and destruction. He did
not complain, this little soldier. He only wanted to look on the cold
northern ocean, which he had never before seen. The future was for him
perhaps as gray, as cheerless, as sad, but, however despairing his
thoughts may have been, he did not speak them. He did not whimper. Once
for all he had given his all for France, and now in his feebleness
he counted on kind souls to help him. Hundreds, nay thousands like
him exist today, all over this sad old continent of Europe, vigorous
young men now condemned forever to the dull and painful existence of a
cripple. One hears on all sides of the courage and self-sacrifice of
both the French and English Roman Catholic priests, how they cheer and
encourage the men, bringing peace to the dying, nursing the wounded,
holding services within the firing line, showing by example the highest
patriotism.
An officer belonging to Nantes, in a letter to his wife on September
20th, describes a moving ceremony he had attended that morning:
"At 8 o'clock I heard a Mass said by the chaplain of the —th
Territorials, a plank had been nailed up between two trees, and behind
had been placed some leafy branches the best that our men could do
under the circumstances. The chaplain began by addressing us a few
words in which he told us that God would make allowance whilst work was
being done for France; that he could not hear all our confessions, and
that we should, therefore, make an act of contrition and a firm purpose
of confessing our faults as soon as possible.
"All the 300 of us then signed that we wished to be included in the
general absolution, which he gave us. After he exhorted all to receive
the Holy Communion, which he would give us as he passed along the
trenches. He then began the Mass, which was served by a lieutenant.
Shells were bursting over-head as the Mass continued and during his
short address after the Gospel. Never had I heard more fervent singing.
At the Communion half of our number went up to the altar to receive,
some with tears in their eyes, what was to many their Viaticum. The
ceremony will be to me an unforgetable memory and a sweet consolation."
Let me quote a notice from the Tablet of October 30th, about an English
priest. The following account of the devotion to duty shown during the
fighting hound Hill 70, by Father John Gwynn, S. J., who died of wounds
received in a dug-out, is given in a letter from an Irish Guardsman:
"Father Gwynn was known among the boys as 'the brave little priest.'
Early in the war he was seriously wounded but refused to return to
England. During the terrible fighting recently, Father Gwynn was again
at his post. I saw him just before he died. Shrapnel and bullets were
being showered upon us in all directions. Hundreds of our lads dropped.
Father Gwynn was undismayed, he seemed to be all over the place trying
to give the last sacrament to the dying. Once I thought he was buried
alive, for a shell exploded within a few yards of where he was, and the
next moment I saw nothing but a great heap of earth. The plight of the
wounded concealed beneath was harrowing. Out of the ground came cries,
'Father! Father! Father!' from those who were in their death agonies.
"Then, as if by a miracle, Father Gwynn was seen to fight his way
through the earth. He must have been severely wounded, but he went on
blessing the wounded and hearing their confessions. The last I saw of
him he was kneeling by the side of a German soldier. It was a scene to
make you cry. The shells continued to explode about the wounded, but
they could not stop a little English priest from doing his duty, even
to a dying German."
One more item to add to these vignettes of our soldiers. I have told
you of the volunteer, the lieutenant, the zouave and the priests. Now
of a soldier (by profession) of the Colonial infantry. He had served
nine years, having received two medals for the Moroccan campaign.
Last October, the 30th, a very dangerous reconnaissance was necessary
before a certain action in the Argonne. The colonel called for
volunteers, Petit immediately volunteered. He was given ten men, warned
of the desperate nature of his work, and wished God-speed. The Germans
were supposed to be intrenched behind a small wood over the crest of a
hill There was a long slope to climb, a road to cross, another abrupt
ascent to the wood.
It was brilliant moonlight. The men crept forward, seeking every shadow
or bush or hollow to cover them.
They had climbed the first slope, crossed the road and were well up the
second hill when they were suddenly swept by German rifle fire.
Petit glanced behind. All but two were lying bleeding and dead. He
called to the other two to race back to their trenches, if possible,
but he himself continued to creep through the straggling undergrowth
up the crest. After some minutes, having discovered what he came to
seek, the position and force of the enemy, he hastily retreated down
the hill. Of the two survivors, one had already cleared the road and
escaped. The other was lying, a moaning heap, on the white moonlit
highway.
The Germans were firing at his flying figure, but a few steps more
and he would have crossed the road—when he fell. Presently he picked
himself up. One eye was gone, the blood streaming down his cheeks.
But he determined, as he said, to revenge his comrades and himself.
Staggering to the road he, with great difficulty, dragged his wounded
companion off the road and to the shelter of some bushes. Fortunately,
at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon, and they were able to lie
hidden for a while. Then, with many struggles, he succeeded in getting
his one remaining companion on his shoulders, and dragged himself back
to the French lines. His information was of importance, but he did not
know of it, for he lost consciousness immediately on delivering it.
The next day his company went into action and was annihilated. Of the
200 men, he and the man whose life he saved were the only survivors.
Months afterward I was able to welcome this gallant son of France back
to Dinard. He is my maid's only brother, and the night he arrived we
had a fitting supper awaiting him. My brother and I, and my cheery
little French maid drank his health and listened to this story from his
own lips. I am happy to say he is strong and well and active, and makes
light of the wound.
"After all, Madame," he said, "a man can see all he wants with one eye,
and if later I find some pretty girl to marry me, she may find that one
eye will see only good in her, whereas, perhaps, as the years went by,
I might have perceived, with two eyes, some faults."
One fine day this autumn I was invited to a little ceremony. The
general commanding this region, surrounded by the pickets, the soldiers
able to hobble about, the Red Cross nurses, and some of Petit's
personal friends. It was to decorate him for conspicuous bravery
under fire. The bugle shrilled loudly, an adjutant read the official
announcement, the general stepped up and pinned on Petit's breast the
Médaillé Militaire and the Croix de Guerre. Thus France recognizes and
rewards her valiant soldiers.
October, 1915.