MOVING, NIEUPORT.
_July_, 1915.
My _poilus_ were disagreeably surprised this morning. The proprietress
of one of the villas occupied by a certain number of my men arrived at
Nieuport this morning accompanied by a Belgian gendarme. General Hély
d'Oissel, commanding the Division, had authorized the latter to make a
search for some wine she had left in the house.
This is what is extraordinary: it is true the wine was there, but
imagine and understand the despair of the _poilus_--they did not
suspect the existence of the treasure! Some good _pinard_[10] was
placed in a hole under the stairway, into which one descended by means
of a trap door, also skillfully camouflaged by a morsel of linoleum.
And to think they had slept several months over this precious _pinard_
without knowing it!
Luckily the good woman's carriage could not enter the city on account
of the barricades, and other defense works, so my good-natured _poilus_
profited by it, and aided her in moving. In this manner they saved a
few bottles, which probably would have been broken by the jolting of
the conveyance.
THE MAN CUT IN TWO, THE TRIANGULAR WOOD.
_July_, 1915.
This cursed road is terribly torn up.
When one returns to the city of Nieuport by automobile it is necessary
to go at top speed along there. The road is almost obliterated by
shell-holes and the bombs which fall there incessantly. One must "fly"
past the Triangular Wood.
This trip is impressive enough, because it is rare that one is not
circumvallated by falling shells. It is very exciting!
One day when I was returning to Nieuport, the bombardment was extremely
violent. I was sitting alongside the chauffeur. We had regulated our
speed with that of a motorcyclist who preceded us by two hundred yards.
At the moment when we were leaving the Triangular Wood and had about
reached the outskirts of the city, the motorcyclist was in a strange
manner literally yanked from the machine by the force of an explosion
and cut in two. He disappeared in a great cloud of smoke and dust.
The wind was blowing rather hard and it cleared away quickly. We saw
a Territorial on duty and he signaled with his rifle to stop at the
side of the man who had been killed. The time and place had been well
chosen, but there was nothing to do but obey, so my driver set the
brakes.
The _poilu_ said very calmly:
"I stopped you to tell you that you've got to go very fast along here.
You see that man cut in two. It's a wicked spot. I've been here for
two hours with instructions to tell that to everyone who passes here.
That's the order!"
THE FOURTH ZOUAVES' BATHTUB, NIEUPORT.
_July_, 1915.
For several months I lived among the ruins of Madame S----'s villa,
having my quarters on the first floor. My orderly replaced the
shattered window panes with bits of linoleum. Opening on the sea, the
rooms were only partially destroyed. When Commandant Peigné left for
Oostdunkerke, he turned this sumptuous apartment over to me.
From every angle, in my opinion, it was certainly the most comfortable
spot of any in Nieuport-Baths, and particularly in the villa: the rest
of it having been more or less wrecked by bombardment.
On the ground floor there was a grand piano which could still be played.
The furniture in my bedroom was still in place, also there was a
magnificent bathtub, of the portable kind, which certainly had not been
used for a long time.
One fine day I discovered with chagrin that the bathtub had disappeared
from the apartment! Immediately I inquired every place, besides
protesting vehemently against this inexplicable theft. As we had
our mess in the house, I could not help but believe that someone had
entered my rooms without the knowledge of our cooks and secretaries and
taken my one luxury.
* * * * *
Finally I had an explanation of this mystery. One day, very early in
the morning, I was in a first-line trench, held by the 4th Zouaves, and
was preparing to go into the cantonment for breakfast, when one of my
comrades stopped me and insisted that I wait for _jus_,[11] which would
soon come up, and have some with him.
It arrived shortly, boiling, carried by two men, in milady's exquisite
bathtub; and she would have blushed to the roots of her hair could she
have seen those scoundrels----
THE BRICK BRIDGE, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
_July_, 1915.
Why is this wooden bridge called the "Brick Bridge"?
The latter is not exactly the right name. Perhaps it is because the
little wooden bridge thrown over the evacuation canal at some time has
been taken for one of brick by an officer of the Intelligence Corps
while studying the map, and he has so baptized it.
One afternoon, I was sitting in a communicating trench at the side of
Reymond, a few paces from the Brick Bridge.
It was a bright, sunny day and the boches were bombarding us with
105's. The shells passed ten or twelve feet over our heads, whistling
loudly and exploded in the brickyard 200 yards on the other side of the
Passchendael canal----
"If they lower their fire we are gone," said Reymond.
The sport lasted an hour and they did not change the elevation of
their artillery, fortunately. I was prepared that day to await calmly
anything that came. One gets accustomed, progressively, to chatting
unconcernedly and without a trembling of the voice when waiting for a
mocking death that does not come----
"But I have it," said Reymond. "I know why it is called the Brick
Bridge--because the brickyard is opposite----!"
So we were satisfied that day.
THE QUEEN'S FLAG.
_July_ 21, 1915.
To-day it is the anniversary-fête of the independence of Belgium,
and as we are at the extreme point of the Allied line of defense, on
Belgian territory, a captain of the 8th Tirailleurs and myself had the
idea of raising a little Belgian flag on the listening post at the
Great Dune.
The enemy's listening post faced us and was only fifteen yards from our
own. It was there we exchanged, in ordinary times, bread, packages of
tobacco, newspapers, hand grenades and rifle shots----
We went to search for a flag that was red, yellow and black, at the
dugout of the chaplain of the 16th Territorials, who had ornamented the
altar of his chapel with French colors and those of the Allies.
The breeze was fresh enough and our little flag waved haughtily in the
face of our adversary.
All day the Germans, as if enraged, fired volleys at our flag. The
cloth was riddled with bullets, the staff itself split in two pieces.
When it fell one of our Tirailleurs went crouching out and replaced it.
That night I took it down myself, rolled it up and carried it back.
The following day I sent the flag to Dr. Depage at La Panne. A few
hours later it graced the boudoir of Queen Elizabeth.
"Ah," said our Tirailleurs, "it brings him good luck, this souvenir of
July 21--she has kept it!"
MR. VEDOVELLI'S BOXES, NIEUPORT.
_August_, 1915.
To-day the sun is atrociously hot and the river Yser and the canals
exhale nauseating puffs from decaying bodies and carrion flesh which
are not very agreeable to the nostrils.
Toward nightfall I found an ideal spot to rest: the Sub-commandant's
Post North, on the road to Lombaertzyde.
I am comfortably seated in a wicker armchair by the side of Commandant
Martel and we have seen the penumbra deepen as darkness falls. Jupiter
sparkles in the heavens; in the distance vagrant flashes of fire appear
like a lingering hunting party.
We are waiting for a squad of Territorials to bring up several portable
storage batteries (Vedovelli's system) to light the commandant's post.
They were contained in cumbersome boxes and the good man had provided
adjustable handles in order to make the work easier for the men. These
he had shown to us.
But I was not a bit surprised when my Territorials did not arrive at
the appointed time, because, in spite of Vedovelli's "handles," the
boxes were so heavy as to be scarcely movable.
Finally I saw two of them coming, dripping with sweat, puffing, their
eyes bulging, equipped naturally with their packs and with warm winter
clothing for the approaching winter campaign.
At last they arrived. Letting the box with the adjustable handles fall
brutally, they cried in unison as if compensated for the load:
"_Nom de Dieu de tous les noms de Dieu_, I hope this damned box with
its dirty handles bursts in the inventor's stomach!"
A SHELL IN MY HOME, NIEUPORT.
_August_, 1915.
I am just about to start writing in my room, when suddenly, a boche
shell explodes some place in the house.
A loud detonation--smoke--shell fragments and debris strike around
me--a little dust on my uniform--that's all----