(Salut Aux Morts!)
How many sad hearts are in France this night of the Jour des Morts (All
Soul's Day), in this third dolorous year of the Great War? All over the
country, from earliest hours, thousands upon thousands of black-clad
mourners have placed their homage of respect and love on the tombs of
those who have died in the past twelve months. Churches held constant
services, chants and prayers rose in unbroken succession; bells tolled,
people flocked to the cemeteries; everywhere the "soul of the French"
has been in communion with its dead and this great national and
religious festival has been observed as never before.
In Paris and its suburbs nearly a million accomplished this sacred
duty. Every town and village was filled with sorrowing throngs.
Seeing all this desolation and sadness, one wonders how they can so
steadfastly look forward to another year of war.
When one remembers how many beautiful lives have been sacrificed in the
last twelve months, how much of talent, art, intellect and science has
been ruthlessly destroyed when these promising men died, does it seem
strange that the whole nation has gone forth to honor their dead? How
many young fellows, just leaving the Lycée thoroughly prepared by years
of hard study to accomplish great things in their chosen profession,
have been wounded, or killed, or maimed? What humanity has lost will
never be known, but that the loss is stupendous is acknowledged by
everyone.
Each man and woman has someone to grieve for tonight. Countless young
widows are facing the future, deprived forever of the companionship
of their helpmates, some so young as to have had only a few months
happiness. To how many childish eyes is shown (in tears and sorrow) the
photograph of le pere mort pour la patrie (the father who died for his
country). Poor little ones, they will never know his loving care, his
solicitude for their welfare, his devoted protection. To them he will
always be a wonderful heroic being, remote and impersonal, who cannot
share their little pleasures and troubles, can never play with them or
be their friend!
The poor old fathers and mothers, how bent and tragic they are! All
they cherished on earth has gone! Slowly and painfully they move
amongst the be-flowered graves, and life holds no further happiness for
them. Let me describe the procession as it passed on the way to the
burying ground. First came the school children in two long files on
either side of the boulevard, leaving the center free, the little boys
walking two by two, clutching their sprays of chrysanthemums, gay and
laughing as if on a frolic, but sobering suddenly when the teacher's
eye veered in their direction; following them a hundred little girls,
much more demure, stepping daintily, well clad, even the poorest
putting on their best for this great national fete.
The Mayor is escorted on either side by the French and Belgian
"Commandants de Place," one in Belgian khaki and the other in
horizon-blue, (the latter limping badly, a hero from Verdun where
he won the Croix de Guerre and the Medalle Militaire), the doctors
in uniform and the Red Cross nurses whose white dresses, blue caps
and veils add a note of color, and present a cheering appearance in
contrast to the convalescing Belgians who follow, very sombre, in their
black uniforms and black caps.
[Illustration: Procession on the Way to the Cemetary]
[Illustration: French Cemetaries Decorated on the "jeur des Morts"]
Two hundred-odd Frenchmen, striding after them, are very different in
appearance and behavior. The Belgians are gloomy and taciturn, moving
along in silent ranks; the Frenchmen, on the contrary, are full of life
and nerve (their wounds notwithstanding), attired in delicious shades
of blues and reds and creamy-white—the light blue of the Hussars, the
darker shades of the Chasseurs Alpins, the brilliant Zouaves, the
red trousers of the Fantassians; even the black-faced scarlet-clad
Senegalais give a lively note, for these men are convalescing, and old
clothes are good enough, their new horizon-blue uniforms being kept for
their return to the front.
A very pleasant crowd they form, with an eye towards the pretty
Bretonne in her peasant coiffe and costume, with a laugh for a comrade,
and a merry word for the bystander. Behind these plucky fellows
(perhaps on the battlefield tomorrow) come the townspeople and peasants
from the neighboring country. The procession moves on to the cemetery,
where prayers and speeches, patriotic and religious, are made, wreaths
placed on the little wooden crosses. White-coiffed heads are bowed in
silent communion, and over all tolls the solemn notes of the church
bell.
All over France today there has been a great coming and going. Flowers
are placed lovingly and regretfully on the mounds. But to how many,
even this last service is denied, for the northern battlefields hide
many unknown graves. Only in spirit can these afflicted ones visit the
last resting-place of father, husband, son, or fiancé. But who shall
say that the great army of heroic souls, so lately passed over, are not
present, consoling and comforting by their spiritual presence, their
grieving people? The French have often been considered a frivolous
race, but no one who has seen the solemn way in which they fulfil this
pious duty can ever believe it again.
"One could kneel before our soldiers," said one of our great chiefs
in one of the most tragic moments in the long agonizing siege before
Verdun. In face of the most violent attacks, under the infernal
bombardment, such acts of heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion took
place, that one realized how deep is their sense of duty, and how great
their determination, expressed in their own battle-cry, "They shall not
get through." (Ils ne passerons pas!)
This same martial spirit is found all along the line. What can be
more novel and inspiring than the aviators who fight their fantastic
duels 3000 metres above the earth? Again, the sangfroid, the supreme
devotion of the artillery, who amidst apalling losses and the heaviest
bombardment, stick to their posts, regulating their fire and working
their guns, taking every risk without a moment's hesitation. The
infantry, that backbone of the army with their "élan" carry forward the
banner of France or die heroically in no-man's land.
In every attack, glorious acts are done, often by the humblest of
soldiers, whose abnegation and modesty is only equalled by their
scorn of death! One is amazed at this wonderful state of mind. Men of
all ages and all conditions excel in these heroic qualities. Fathers
of families, who know how anxiously they are awaited in the home;
young men, with the call of life ringing in their ears, go gaily into
the combat—they have counted the cost—and lay down their lives with
simplicity and dignity; with no other thought than their duty to their
country; with no other ambition than "to be there when we get them
(d'etre la quand on les aura)."
Pessimists and pacifists will say, "Oh, yes, that is very noble, very
sublime; but when the heat of the battle is past, when excitement and
furor has disappeared, what is left to the poor fellows, suffering from
wounds, fever and pain? They must be greatly disillusioned then, these
gay soldiers." Yet he who speaks thus, let him go to any ward in any of
the great hospitals in Paris or elsewhere and there receive his answer.
Here is a soldier of the class of 1914. When he left for the war, his
family was in easy circumstances. His father a well-to-do merchant,
his mother and sisters lived comfortably and happily in their charming
home. Since then the father has died, poverty came, his sisters now
are working for their living, supporting the mother, and he, young,
vigorous, intelligent, and well-educated, who in ordinary times would
have replaced the father, has received a terrific wound in the head,
and is blind for life.
Does he whimper or complain? Hear his answer: "I ought to have been
killed" he said pleasantly, "when they drew the bullet from my head.
I might have remained an idiot or an epileptic, but, thank God, I am
getting better and better, and I shall learn a trade. I am told there
are good ones for the blind and I shall help support my dear ones."
Here again is a lad, a young soldier of the last class of 1916 sent to
the front. He is almost a child, but he has the patience and courage of
a man. A terrible wound in the spine, cutting it open to the marrow,
did not cause him to despair. To his weeping parents he said: "Don't
weep, dearest mother, I shall recover, I shall get well, I shall go
home with you, to be your little boy again," and in panting voice he
went on to praise the skill of the doctors, the tenderness of the
infirmière, saying, "Yes, she hurts me terribly at times, so I must cry
out, but she is so good, so kind, I forgive her when the dressing is
over."
Further on, a man with a shattered shoulder suffers atrociously, but
tells me with a cheerful grin that he is glad to have seen it, to
have found himself surrounded by Germans with raised arms shouting
"Kamerad!" One of the lady visitors offering to be his amanuensis (as
he cannot write), he accepted with joy, and then, blushing, said: "But
you see, Madame, it is a bit difficult, I am accustomed to calling
my wife by a pet name; if I began my letter otherwise she would not
believe it was from me."
"Yes, and how do you wish it to begin?" asked the lady. "Well, Madame,
I always called her 'my little Rat'."
"All right, here goes for 'my little Rat'."
One more instance: A pale, emaciated man of middle age, with both hands
amputated, suffering a martyrdom without a murmur, without a reference
to what happened to him on the battlefield, accepts with gentle
politeness the cakes and chocolates offered to him. Seeing a large
letter on his bed, I asked if he had news from home. "No, madame, it is
from the government announcing that I am decorated with the Médaillé
Militaire and the Croix de Guerre. Please read it to me."
"N———, cannon-servant, was admirable for devotion and sang froid;
when a shell wrecked his cannon and killed all his companions,
severely wounded himself in both hands, he remained at his post alone,
notwithstanding his atrocious pain, to guard the remains of his
companions and his cannon."
To people upheld by such ideals, inspired with such patriotism, to
whom France means all that is sacred and beautiful, "defeat cannot
come." Until the detested enemy has been thrown across the Rhine, no
suggestion of peace would be welcome; they will even call on the dead
to defend their beloved land, as witnessed in the following story,
vouched for by General Zurlinden, from whom I have also obtained some
of the above facts:
It would interest all men to know how the now famous cry, "Stand Up,
You Dead!" was first shouted forth. On April 8th, 1915, Adjutant
Pericard, acting lieutenant of the 95th Regiment of Infantry, found
himself in a perilous position. A trench having been taken the day
before by the 1st and 3rd Batallions was the object of a violent
counter-attack, the occupants were withdrawing, and the trench on the
point of being taken by the enemy. Lieutenant Pericard was in reserve,
but seeing how badly things were going called for volunteers, and with
his little band rushed to arrest the enemy. He succeeded in retaking
the trench, but feeling himself abandoned, he looked back and saw only
dead and wounded, not another man on his feet. It was then he shouted
his famous war-cry: "Stand Up, You Dead!"
Dinard, November 1st, 1916.