We had a great time that night!
THE BEAUTIFUL PARISIAN PRINCESS,
THE GREAT DUNE.
_March_, 1915.
We are going to install an electrical machine on the right bank of
the river Yser. My men are bringing the heavy box in which it was
transported. With its timbers protruding from each end, which makes
the carrying less difficult, the gray covering looks more like a sedan
chair.
And I think of a pretty princess taking her daily promenade along the
edge of the water, which is unusually beautiful----
The weather, alas, is very bad, and the men are tired. The first rays
of the spring sun have not come to warm the earth. In fact my _poilus_
have more the air of carrying a funeral urn.
"Hey," I shouted, addressing them, "what would you say if you had a
beautiful Parisian Princess in that box?"
"What would I say," returned an old corporal, "what would I say? I
would say nothing, but I would put her in my bunk to warm my feet, and
you fellows could battle among yourselves!"
LA CORVÉE, THE GREAT DUNE.
_April_, 1915.
The rumble of the surf and the noise of the big guns do not sound well
together.
This trench is bad to-night--the shifting sand obstructs my progress.
It is the time when the tide ceases to rise and the Territorials begin
their work.
The trench is empty. No, there is someone sitting on the sand. At
his side is a frame shelter made of ammunition boxes. He is alone. I
imagined the boy had lost his way.
"Where have you been?"
"I dunno."
"Where are you going?"
"Over there."
"Who are you with?"
"With the others."
Not another word.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the whole damned army!"[5]
A STRAYED LETTER, THE GREAT DUNE.
_April_, 1915.
I came accidentally in the trench, among a lot of leaves, upon a letter
from a girl. It was almost covered by the sand.
"It is very lonesome, here, without you," it ran, "I think of you night
and day, on the farm, in the fields, always. How wonderful it would be
to clasp you in my arms, very, very tightly. I hope a baby will come.
If it is a boy we will make him a strong _poilu_ like yourself--if
it is a girl we will call her VICTORY--and you see how beautiful the
little one--our little one--will be. I will work a bit harder to bring
her up well----"
A PERPLEXED CHAPLAIN, THE GREAT DUNE.
_April_, 1915.
A group of Zouaves have thrown themselves upon the sand. They are
discussing animatedly German atrocities and cruelties in the invaded
region.
The soldier-chaplain, seated by their side, says nothing, but contents
himself with gazing steadily into the sand at their feet.
"Those cutthroats over there have done everything: they have violated
women, young girls----"
"And the priests?"
"No, you idiot, why bring them into it----"
"--they have burned villages, massacred, killed old men, pillaged,
robbed----"
"We will repay them--an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
"Yes. When we get into their country, we will organize bands. We will
have violaters, pillagers--incendiaries----"
"In what category do you want to be, Father?"
A CORPSE BETWEEN THE LINES, THE GREAT DUNE.
_May_, 1915.
While returning from a night reconnaissance between the lines one of
our Zouaves had been killed; his body lay for several days in the sand
about forty feet from our first line.
His corporal, a very brave Alsatian, could not look over the parapet
without noticing his comrade's body did not shrink fast enough. Morning
and night he was seen very pensive, talking to himself, irritable with
the men----
Then one day when it was quiet, at full noon, he was seen to leave the
trench, a shovel in one hand and a wooden cross in the other. Everyone,
breathless, saw him advance slowly, calmly----
At first the Germans fired at him several times, missing him,
notwithstanding the fact they were only about ninety feet away. Then
they ceased firing to see, no doubt, what this fool was going to do!
He stopped close to the Zouave's body placed his cross on the sand and
staidly began to dig a grave----
When he judged it to be deep enough he put the rigid body of his
comrade in and began covering him with great shovelfuls of sand. Then
he smoothed the tomb, planted the cross and adjusted the red badge of
death----[6]
In an impressive moment of silence--for both sides looked on without
losing a single movement--they saw him advance to the head of the
knoll, his face to the cross, click his heels and give the military
salute----
He came back slowly to our lines and jumped briskly into the trench.
Immediately he began to pace up and down before his squad back of the
parapet, with fixed bayonet, facing the grave his hands had dug.
"Stand at ease!" said he, "listen carefully. My men who fall will not
lack a burial nor will they lie in the open air like rotting dogs.
Break!"
* * * * *
Fifteen days later a German bullet struck him in the head back of a
loophole. He was killed instantly. His comrades interred him in the
Zouave cemetery at Nieuport-Baths. They wrote his name on a piece of
paper, which they rolled up and placed in a bottle----
THE DEATH OF THE TERRITORIAL, NIEUPORT.
_May_, 1915.
It has rained all day. Toward nightfall only did rain cease to fall.
The sky is gray and heavy, but the air is fresh. The Marines in their
dripping oilskins walk to and fro in the trench. The air is so clear
that we can see, over there on the horizon, the silhouette of Bruges,
with its old houses and high towers.
"It is sad to see you so mirage-like and far away, oh! Bruges the
captive, brave city, in all your history you have thirsted for
liberty----"
Two hours pass and it is time to rejoin my comrades at the cantonment.
But I turn again and again to review the panorama before me.
I come at last to Nieuport. As I enter the principal street, I see
going ahead a brave Territorial, who also returns to the cantonment
unshaven and unkempt after his long vigil in the trenches. He is
completely equipped with all his personal belongings, but is in no
hurry. This brave man is leaving the front for good because he is the
father of five children. He precedes me some thirty paces and I hasten
to catch up with him.
We arrive at the top of the Casino, when, suddenly, a whistling
announces the arrival of a shell--explosion, smoke--a jagged piece of
metal strikes him in the head and I see the man fall in front of me.
The acrid smoke gags me, but I am quickly at his side. He is dead:
fractured skull--his face purple--mouth open--his brains strewn on the
pavement----
* * * * *
That night while I am at dinner with my comrades, an orderly comes
to say that there is someone outside who wishes to speak with me. In
the darkened passageway I scarcely recognize the chaplain of the 16th
Territorials, a man very simple and good.
"Lieutenant, you know, without doubt, that we have had one of our men
killed but a short while ago. We are going to bury him at sunrise.
Unfortunately we have no one to play the organ--Figon is in the
trenches--you will be very kind to play something for us."
"Good; you can count on me."
* * * * *
All night long the sight of distant Bruges and the death of the poor
Territorial haunt me. I am seated before the piano in our "Villa" where
we have installed our entire _ménage_.
I begin to improvise a melody, sweet and infinitely sad and the theme
recurs again and again, developing into a funeral chant--yes, very soon
I will play that for him----
* * * * *
Toward dawn a man comes to find me. It is very calm outside and the
sector has a sleepy air.
I enter the church where can be seen large breaches in the walls and
roof. A coffin hastily constructed, and covered with the Tricolor,
red, white and blue, is in the choir, resting on two wooden supports.
The organ is at its side, so close, so close, that I see the man's
blood, which flows drop by drop, through the boards of the rudely built
coffin--a brilliant red spot glistens on the white flagstone.
A few men of the 16th and some stretcher-bearers are kneeling in the
nave; others arrive one by one, helmet in hand, without noise----
Scarcely had the service commenced and the priest begun his chant
for the dead, than German and French shells screaming, pass over the
church, as if they were searching for each other in the air. The shots
progressed angrily, followed by their plaintive mewing.
At the offertory, I played the sad melody on the organ I had improvised
during the night. I put all my heart and emotion into it. But soon
everything seemed to grow dark within me--saw in the distance the
towers of Bruges and, close, a coffin and a sheet of blood----
"_Dies irae, Dies illa_----"
ON PATROL BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
_May_, 1915.
Before starting out I have taken my automatic pistol out of its
scabbard and slipped it in my pocket.
I must go to the other side of the canal to the farm of the "Dead Cow."
An ensign from the cruiser X---- accompanies me with a dozen or so men.
Two of my sappers go along to aid the installation over there of an
infernal machine. As German patrols reconnoiter the farm it will be a
good turn at their game----
As darkness falls we tumble into a boat and cross the evacuation canal.
All this is done with marked silence. We creep along revolver in hand.
There is no one in the ruins of the farm. The patrol spreads itself
around us, and during this interval, with my two _poilus_, I install
the snare for the boches!
The work ended, we fall silently back.
Not a shot!
We have returned to our lines without an incident!
LADY DOROTHY, THE GREAT DUNE.
_May_, 1915.
We are at table. Major Peigné presides at breakfast of the officers of
the 19th Company, 2nd Battalion. The subjects of conversation which
recur each day in a sappers' kitchen have been exhausted: progress of
work along the sector, effect of the last bombardment, news of the
absent ones, criticism of work accomplished by the soldiers, next
_permissions_;[7] then we take up the eternal question, the only one
which counts, assuredly, woman.
There have been many weeks in which not a one of us has seen a woman's
petticoat, not a one, I swear it!
To be in this cursed city of Nieuport is not an enviable "visit at the
seashore"--the enemy systematically persists in destroying it: the
Casino, the villas and the approaches to the pier are completely torn
to pieces. Can you imagine a woman in such a place?
Stories of woman, adventures of woman, anecdotes of woman, serve as
topics of conversations. "When you haven't the object of your desires,"
said a profound philosopher, "you speak of it."
The conversation became general again, when, all at once, Lieutenant
Divisia silenced us with a finger before him. No, it was impossible to
be deceived, my word upon it, a woman's voice was heard in the next
room!
Had a 420 fallen in the midst of us, the silence could not have been
more impressive--of course realizing that it would have flattened
us like pancakes. But, quickly and with remarkable unison, we arose
quietly with the same intention----
Yet, with an energetic gesture, Major Peigné, who never lost a bet,
stopped us and made for the door.
"Remain here," he said, "I will see what it is!" He entered the room
at the side, nimbly closing the door after him. It was very malicious!
We looked at each other with stupor and regret. Then we cautiously
approached the crack in the boards that separated the two spaces. It
was, in effect, a woman, a young woman deliciously beautiful, I assure
you--an indelible vision in this terrible, stricken little city.
Lady Dorothy, with her pretty khaki costume, appeared before us for
the first time! She had the air of a warlike Amazon which became her
perfectly, and, at first sight, we all had fallen in love with her----
She was engaged in a lengthy conversation with our corporal-secretary
to whom she had been sent to do her bit among the soldiers, all unknown
to us.
We all thought: "Little Lady Dorothy, the gold of your blonde hair
which we see through the slit in the partition is as precious a bit as
that you are offering to our corporal----"
After that we saw several times the fugitive vision of this angel with
the blonde locks searching among the ruins for our wounded. She drove
her own automobile with a steady hand, with enemy shells breaking
around her, vainly seeking to blow her to bits.
THE CONSCIENTIOUS POILU, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
_May_, 1915.
The nights are still very cold and to warm ourselves we have builded
a comfortable fire by the sea. Sacks of sand, skillfully fixed by
Richard, mask the flashes from the brazier, for otherwise they would
certainly invite 77's and 105's which the enemy would not lose time
dropping among us to disturb our momentary comfort in the first line.
Reymond and I have many things to discuss and the hours pass
relatively fast; the Marine Fusiliers come and go in the trenches and
communicating lines with a sort of nervous activity that never leaves
them night or day, a trait found only in men that follow the sea.
The sector is extremely calm, the tide has gone out a bit and Reymond
has sent a patrol to the other side of the evacuation canal.
Soon the _poilu_ in charge of the patrol returns and, walking up to his
superior, says:
"Captain, we have been out reconnoitering the enemy; we saw a boche on
sentinel duty; he did not see us--I believe I can get him."
"How far is he?"
"About half a mile away."
"Go--get him!"
We continued the conversation as the _poilu_ went on his errand; it
struck us that the man had been deceived. As on a certain night they
had charged on a blind, about a hundred yards from here----
The night was passing without incident when soon our brave chap
returned and, assuming his former position before his officer, said:
"Captain, I cannot get him--there is a network of barbed wire. Can I
kill him?"
"Why, certainly. Always use your own judgment. You don't usually have
time to come back for instructions----"
Again he started out and the heavens began to pale; we searched once
more for images of the past in the glowing embers of the wood fire
which was fast dying out.
Suddenly, over there, toward the German lines, a rifle shot broke
the stillness of the night, followed by the well-known machine-gun
serenade; immediately rockets, star shell and the artillery came to
life----
Reymond rises, standing very stiff and straight.
"Ah, hang it! The poor devil must be shot to pieces----"
Our own cannon begin to mix in the fray. Reymond decides to send some
men after the others. He is visibly concerned about our soldiers and is
on the verge of going himself.
Just then the poilu stands before him for the third time, saluting
respectfully:
"Captain--I have killed him!"
And he said it with a kind of accent that made a shiver run down the
spine.
The sky commences to resolve itself into long yellow and gray
stripes--ah, Flanders!--ah, Flanders!----
SIGNS ALONG THE YSER, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
_May_, 1915.
The Marine Fusiliers leave everywhere traces of their _esprit_.
They have taken from a home, three-fourths demolished, a little statue
of the Virgin, former protectress of the household.
Carrying it into the first-line trenches with them, they have
constructed a niche for the Virgin in the sandbags.
With her open arms and sad air she seems to say to them:
"Our Lady of the Sandbags, pray for us;
A simple figure in the niche am I,
Pitying my children constantly;
Die or win the war they must!"
* * * * *
Some yards farther is found, a little back of the first line, a large
projectile, about three feet in length, fortunately unexploded, of the
kind the boches have been generously distributing among us with their
"minnenwerfer" for some time. A notice of warning says:
"We beg of you to let the infant sleep!"
* * * * *
The sand creeps into everything; that is why the _poilus_, for the
entire length of the first-line trench, have placed cigar-boxes in
which to keep their cartridges.