Certainly Bitter, the head of the 11th Company, could not be counted
among those who cherished cordial feelings for the French. The authority
who had put into his hands the fate of two hundred and fifty men might
rejoice that he had never shown culpable weakness towards any of the
prisoners. He was a small man, with a worn face; he had a weak heart,
and before the war was exempt from military service; he had only been
recalled a few months since. His illness made him sometimes as pale as
death, and sometimes purple. His wicked little eyes were black, his
hair, reduced to the least possible limit by a military hair-cutting
machine, and his bristling moustache was also black. He was a private
soldier. He had never been under fire, and therefore was far more
pitiless than those who had been to the front. It is generally agreed
that the sufferings endured in fighting, far from filling the hearts of
the combatants with bitterness, bring them together through the
remembrance of common hardships.
One of Bitter’s habits was to break into the huts in the early hours,
when the men were still in bed, and make the place noisy with his angry
voice. His company held the record for punishments, and it was a torture
to be put into it. Bitter insisted that all the N.C.O.’s, the adjutant
included, should salute him and stand at attention in his presence.
Blinded by the position of authority into which he had been put, he
exercised on those in his power a veritable tyranny.
In consequence, disagreements sprang up and violent scenes, for the
commander knew no moderation, and his anger was terrible. For some time
he terrorises his company in this manner, treating each man as he
pleases, and giving punishment whenever he finds the shadow of a
pretext. He does not show the least interest in the men entrusted to
him. Anything is good enough for the French; they have no need of
clothes, and never share in any way in the things distributed from time
to time by order of the military authorities among the neighbouring
companies.
The men under Bitter can neither rest nor profit from the hours of
leisure to play together, read, write or mend their clothes. At every
instant he falls upon them like a bird of prey and sends them on fatigue
duty.
The French, braving punishments, take a delight in missing musters; they
go and mingle with the men of a neighbouring company, hide themselves at
the hour of roll-call, escape from fatigue, stay the least time possible
in their cantonment, where they run the risk of being caught. But when
there are rainy days a permanent watch is placed at the door, whose
duty it is to signal as soon as Bitter is seen in the distance. A
whistle, and the hut is empty.
One day, tired of opposition, Bitter decides to employ force to recruit
men for fatigue duty. He is preceded by three sentinels, whose duty it
is to guard the doors and prevent any one from going out. The sentinels,
looking fierce and sullen, have been at their posts a few minutes. The
Frenchman on watch, who has seen them coming, signals their approach.
The men are puzzled. They hold a council, then all go towards the exits
to verify with their own eyes the truth of what their companion says. At
this moment Bitter bursts in. This time there is no chance of escape.
Some try to rush through a door. Too late! They see the way barred, and
are obliged to retreat before the threatening bayonets of the soldiers.
They re-enter and find Bitter like a veritable sheep-dog, chasing the
French towards the exit by the central door, shouting at them and
swearing. There these men are immediately surrounded by other soldiers,
who undertake to conduct them to the fatigue. Bitter is at the end of
his strength, his face is bloodless. He has the men formed in fours, and
the march begins. The French are crestfallen at having been thus caught.
This time Bitter has won and is exultant.
But that is not the end, for the French are never finally at a loss. The
comrades of a neighbouring camp, when they learn of the affair,
undertake to play a trick on the detested brute and to lend a helping
hand to the prisoners. On the road the fatigue party follows they gather
in a dense crowd round the notices posted up by the Boches. They block
up the way and make it impossible for the column to pass; there is
hustling. Disorder reigns; the sentinels, who shout, swear and curse, no
longer control the men under their charge. A great number succeed in
mingling with the ranks of the loungers. When it leaves this human
whirlpool the column is diminished by half. The French counter-attack
has succeeded!
The next day, the same business! The hut is again raided. Happily the
alarm is given in time. Then might be heard the tramp of many hundreds
of shoes, of men running away in all directions. There is a frantic rush
for the windows; it resembles a pigeon-house from which the birds have
all been frightened by the shot of a gun. Bursts of noisy laughter greet
the falls of the awkward, who in too great a hurry miss their footing
and tumble in the ditch which surrounds the huts. In a twinkling all
have fled--the healthy and the sick, the young and old, the nimble and
the wounded, whose suppleness and quickness astonish us.
A few red trousers disappear through the windows with the swiftness of
lightning, and from the outside comes the noise of the last sabots
falling heavily on the ground, when Bitter, a smile on his lips, makes
his entry. No one shall escape him. He begins to shout to terrorise the
men of his company, when he stops, stupefied. Absolute silence reigns.
Not a living soul in the hut. The attack has failed! The shouts of
laughter coming from the neighbouring cantonment reach his ears. They
must be listening to the account of that commanding officer’s ill-luck.
Beside himself with rage, he nervously makes a sign to his men to
reinstate the guard. There will be no fatigue that day. Woe to the man
who makes a mistake!
* * * * *
The next day one sees round the huts two rows of barbed wire, which
prevent the windows from serving as means of exit. Force has succeeded.
Thus it is that the fight continues without truce between the commanding
officer and his company, with varying success on one side or the other.
As weapons, the one side uses punishments and tasks, the other there is
only ridicule which cuts, and practical jokes which exasperate.
* * * * *
One day, however, Bitter arrives paler than ever, but changed. To the
astonishment of all he crosses the hut without shouting or making a
scene, and actually looks almost amiable. Every man gazes at him in
astonishment. He must be ill, say some. He has received a reprimand,
suggest others; he will be less of a bear. And the tongues begin to wag!
He goes on his way and soon reaches the small room of the sergeants.
They, faithful to the habit that force has compelled them to adopt, rise
and salute; but already he makes a sign to them to sit, not to disturb
themselves. Amiably he addresses himself to the interpreter, and in a
gentle voice, his lips parted in a smile, begins to speak of one thing
and another. He declares loudly that he, Bitter, never wanted the
N.C.O.’s to salute him, but that he was obliged to respect the orders
given him. The interpreter did not know what to think. His relations
with Bitter--on which he prided himself, moreover--had always been
restricted to details of service, and here was the company commander
talking of the war and seeming to be interested in its duration, in the
privations and sufferings that the combatants must endure. Two sergeants
who were playing chess, and who till that moment had always professed
not to understand German, so as to avoid being bothered, could not
believe their ears, and little by little left off their game and
followed with interest the conversation to which they were not
accustomed. The German had lost his stiffness, he had become talkative,
friendly; he seemed suddenly seized with a need to unbosom himself, he
questioned, and little by little gave himself away. The interpreter
scarcely replied, and when he was obliged to say something spoke almost
regretfully; he was not one of those to forget the vexations they had
been forced to endure, and he could not pardon the Boche for having made
his comrades suffer. He would willingly have kept silence altogether,
but he scented vengeance, and felt that if the German became
confidential, he would perhaps gain something by listening, and thus be
able to help his comrades. In any case it denoted a weakness on the part
of the Boche, and it was necessary to profit by it. But the German had
soon finished smiling, and his face took on a serious expression. The
conversation was certainly not about pleasant things, but it did not
serve to explain the anguish so clearly shown on the fellow’s face.
Bitter seemed uncomfortable and fearful, like one who wants to ask a
favour and is ill at ease about it. At last, having thrown away his
dignity as chief of a company, he announced with a groan that he had
just been ordered to leave for the front. The news, as soon as it was
translated, spread like wildfire, and was commented on by the French
with enthusiasm that would have been edifying to the German, could he
have understood it. I do not yet know what feeling of delicacy
restrained the N.C.O.’s, and kept them from lifting the roof off with
the prolonged and frantic cheers and cries of: “Bitter is going away.”
But it was a serious matter, and the Boche searched in vain for some
sign of pity on the faces of those who surrounded him. However, the
astonishment that he read there sufficed; he took it for interest, or
rather he wished so to imagine it, for he wanted to be communicative and
to gain information; it was a matter of self-interest to him. Now he
felt that the prisoners he guarded were men like himself. A certain
feeling of respect must have sprung up within him for these Frenchmen
who had seen death near, had been in danger under fire and had conducted
themselves as brave men do.
He shuddered on hearing them speak calmly of the horrors of war, of the
sufferings of a soldier’s life, of the tortures of hunger and thirst, of
the noise of the guns, of the bayonet charges, of the hand-grenades, of
mortal wounds. Nothing that could terrify him was spared, and horrible
detail followed horrible detail, each more realistic than the last.
Every man improved upon his neighbour’s story, and those who, a few
hours ago, needed to have recourse to the interpreter to understand the
orders given, were suddenly found to have enough knowledge of the
language of Goethe to be able to sow horror in the heart of this future
warrior. A convulsive movement of his maxillary muscles clearly showed
that Bitter was making a strong effort not to be altogether cast down,
and to hide the anguish that was choking him. All the same, it was a
poor creature that the French N.C.O.’s had before them in the place of
him who had been for weeks their nightmare and terror.
Mockingly the Frenchmen praised his spirit of order and method, his
undoubted authority, which could not fail to make him an excellent
chief, if only his warlike qualities were equal to his qualifications as
a jailer. A bright career was opening before him. Bitter listened; he
would have liked to escape, having had his fill of horrors, but he was
obliged to empty the cup to the dregs if he wished to gather the fruit
of his visit, which was to have a favour granted that he still hesitated
to ask.
“You are in luck’s way,” said a sergeant; “if you are made prisoner, you
will be with the French. You will at least be treated as a human being,
and you will have as much as you want to eat, while we continue to die
of hunger.”
A Parisian wit utters a wish: “If you are a prisoner I hope you may have
a chief who will have as much consideration for you as you have had for
us.”
The astonished Boche looks at him searchingly; but he wasted his time,
for he could not find on that sergeant’s face the trace of a smile.
The thought that he might be made prisoner forces him to examine his
conscience. He realises that he has not been a “father” to the French
under his charge, so he hesitates. Then, as it was the subject on which
he wished to touch, he decided not to let it drop.
With the most innocent air he inquires of the French the least dangerous
and the surest way to be made prisoner.
The N.C.O.’s are more and more surprised. The Boche inspires them with
growing repugnance which every minute becomes almost unbearable. Before
them they have the spectacle of a shameless coward who is already
preparing to cry “Kamerad,” and to yield at the command of “Hands up!”
The sight of this German preparing for treason had amused the French for
a moment, at once thereafter to fill them with disgust.
This revolting and ignominious scene was not, however, yet over; this
poltroon had not shown the full extent of his baseness. He had the
audacity, he who, during his rule over two hundred and fifty Frenchmen,
had in a way martyrised them, and treated them worse than he would have
treated animals; he who had been rough, violent, brutal, pitiless and
severe, actually he had the audacity to make a request, to beg for the
meanest of favours from those whom he had downtrodden. He now began to
cringe, and he inspired us with supreme disgust when he begged the
interpreter to be so kind as to give him a letter of recommendation
which he could use in case he fell into the hands of the French.
There was general consternation among the N.C.O.’s on hearing this
request. Some of them in disgust proposed to kick him out of the room.
He understood well the scorn that he excited, but still he sat there,
insensible to shame, swallowing the opprobrium his demand had aroused,
provided that he obtained satisfaction.
All protest; they cry with all the strength of their lungs the judgment
they would like to see meted out to the Boche for his conduct; they
insist that one ought not to give anything to safeguard the life of this
shameless tyrant, who had done everything to bring suffering on his men.
But already a sergeant was standing up, holding in his hand a piece of
paper on which he had just been writing something.
“What is it?” some one asks him.
“The desired letter of recommendation.”
“No, you are joking. You will never have the ‘face’ to recommend that
animal to the French.”
But the sergeant gravely replies: “I do what I think I ought to do. Let
me alone.”
All the N.C.O.’s were astonished; the sergeant was a man respected for
his high moral qualities and the position he had held in the civil
world. He enjoyed the best reputation of all the sergeants for his
kindness, humanity, his pity for the sufferings of others. Many times he
had had the courage to champion his comrades unjustly punished. Often
they had heard him deplore the deaths of the heroes the war was carrying
off, whose efforts united might have brought about universal goodwill;
but they had never thought him sensitive to the extent of protecting the
life of a man whose brutality and cowardice were so notorious.
Addressing the interpreter he said: “Will you translate? I must speak to
the Boche.”
The other did as he was asked.
The Boche had understood, and already began to feel happy at the success
of his demand.
The words of the sergeant were translated:
“Monsieur, for the two months that the company has been under your
orders I have had the opportunity of appreciating you at your full
value, and I should be sorry, and my companions also, if the chances of
war should reserve you a fate that in all justice should not be yours. I
am convinced that the wishes expressed by me, and written on this paper,
will be fully and literally carried out, if one day you should fall into
the hands of my fellow-countrymen and should be obliged to have recourse
to my certificate.” And to forestall an expression of thanks from the
Boche: “Do not thank me. I have only treated you as you deserve, and I
am happy to have acted as my conscience bids me, and to think that
humanity will have reason to be grateful to me for what I do. No;” said
he, as the Boche advanced to shake hands, “let our relations remain as
they were in the past.”
Bitter was standing ready to leave the room.
“Just a moment,” said the sergeant, “while I read to my friends this
note, which they will certainly approve of.”
With a pale face, but in a clear, firm tone, like a judge pronouncing
sentence, the sergeant began:
“An order is given to the French soldier into whose hands the
soldier Bitter, the bearer of this note, may fall, to give him no
quarter. Bitter has had under his command a company of French
prisoners, and has done all in his power to render insupportable a
captivity already too painful.
“(Signed)
T----.”
Bitter took the note, folded it carefully and slipped it into his
letter-case.
All trace of anger and indignation had left the faces of the French.
Gravely they saluted the German as he went out, with the respect that
they would have shown in the presence of death. But even more than the
man who went out it was the sergeant whom they saluted, for they felt
how much this death-sentence had cost him.
Bent down, worn out by this scene, in which he had had to bear the scorn
of the French, Bitter gained the door. He was no longer the Bitter that
had entered even twenty-four hours ago, arrogant, with head erect and
flashing eyes, the uncontested master before whom all must give way.
This time he was going to meet his destiny, the miserable man; that on
which he had built all his hopes, that bit of paper, to possess which
he had degraded his soul; those few lines contained his death-warrant.
* * * * *
History does not tell what happened to Bitter--if he is still living, if
he finished his race as a hero with an unknown death, or if, after
having shown himself a coward of cowards, he was killed like a dog while
begging for a life which was not worth the meanness he committed to
preserve it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE FIRST OF MAY, 1915]