PETITES MARMITES,[14] ON THE ROAD TO LOMBAERTZYDE.
_August_, 1915.
Commandant de Jonquières invited my comrade, Guéneau, and myself,
to luncheon at the Sub-commandant's Post North--a spot that had a
villainous reputation. The house is riddled with bullet and shell-holes.
A room is still habitable and there is found, admirably prepared, the
commandant's table, with white linen napkins properly placed at each
plate like a metropolitan restaurant.
What a menu! The Marines dine well. The second course has been served
when a loud explosion occurs in the vestibule: a 105 has burst in the
house and the dining-room is filled with dust and smoke.
Commandant de Jonquières without rising from his chair cries out:
"Anybody hit, men?"
A Marine investigates and replies:
"Nobody, commandant, but there is some plaster in the cream. Shall I
replenish it?"
"Call the chef."
The chef, a big, robust individual, comes in immediately.
"Commandant?"
"Listen. You have forgotten to write '_Petite Marmite_' on our menu.
Another time don't forget it. That's all!" And, turning to us, he said,
as if nothing had happened:
"You know I saw a movie in Toulon that was absolutely amazing, but I
have seen better in Paris, some months before the war----"
THE SADDEST THING IN THE WAR, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
_August_, 1915.
A listening post between the Passchendael and Evacuation canals. It is
night--a night very black and without moon. I find a group of Marines
seated on the ground chatting and I listen----
"What is the saddest thing you have seen, you?"
"It was at the beginning--we were in Belgium. It made me cry to see
the burning towns, the poor people fleeing with everything they could
carry, and that was not much. It was sad--and it gave one the blues! It
hit them hard so suddenly--poor people----"
"And you, Pierre, what's the saddest tale you know of?"
"The death of Commandant Jeanniot, at Dixmude----"
There was deep silence, for they all recalled it. A man, aside from the
others, had listened closely without speaking--the others turned toward
him:
"And you, _le vieux_, what would you say?"
"The saddest? _Allons_, you have forgotten then our friend wounded
between the lines who babbled 'mother' all night, and whom we could not
rescue; the same whom we put out of misery!--when at dawn he called to
us, 'Kill me--I suffer too much!'"
"And you shot him?" I asked.
"Yes, lieutenant, we killed him--but it is the saddest thing in my
war----"
_Tenez_, it seemed to be a night just like this and I could almost
hear the cry "mother" in a plaintive voice that grew farther and
farther away----
THE RED LANTERN AT THE FIRST AID STATION, NIEUPORT.
_August_, 1915.
There were casualties to-day. I am waiting for Thiébaut, my sergeant,
and a squad of men, with whom I am going into the cantonment to-night
at Nieuport.
We are to meet at the First Aid Station and a few men are stretched
out on litters moaning. There is one particularly, who is suffering
terribly: he has been shot through the stomach and the surgeon says
in a hushed voice he will die on the way to the rear. Poor chap, his
breathing is labored. They are waiting for an English ambulance to
carry them, which will arrive soon, I hope----
The odor of ether and dressings, mingled with the smell of blood,
sickens me----
I go outside from time to time, to see if my men have not come up. A
company of Fusiliers are being relieved and they file past me. One
hears the hurried shuffling of feet. Then an artillery duel starts up.
It is very dark in the street. The lantern hanging there casts sinister
shadows on the men. Intermittently the sky is brightened up by enemy
star-shell. Their lines are less than a mile away.
A soldier passing says to his friend:
"Look, _mon vieux_, at the red lantern--one of Nieuport's brothels!"
THE LOCK-KEEPER'S HOUSE, NIEUPORT.
_August_, 1915.
Two of my men, Poulet and Chandonnay, were living in the cellar of the
lock-keeper's home where they were guarding some material I had sent
up. Also, there was a picket of Territorials.
I left Poulet and Chandonnay this particular morning at the moment they
themselves went to have dinner with their comrades a short distance
away. I had given them leave until after breakfast because I wanted to
make some changes in the arrangement of my precious storehouse.
It was one of those little Flemish brick homes where the roof and two
stories had been shattered by bombardment, nevertheless in much better
condition than the neighboring ones.
I, also, went to dinner on the other side of the locks, where the
Marines held the sector.
The bombardment had slackened somewhat, but from time to time 420's
came over, and, exploding, shook everything.
At the time I had fixed for the return of my _poilus_ to the cellar of
the lock-keeper's home, I was not a little surprised to see them coming
to meet me.
"How is it," I said, "that you are not at your post where you should
be, or in the dugout in safety?"
"Our post," they replied, stupefied, "our post--what post, lieutenant?"
"The lock-keeper's house."
"It's gone!"
I was a bit angry, but we at last arrived at the spot where it should
have been. They were perfectly right. There was no more lock-keeper's
house! A 420, during our absence, had literally fallen right on the
roof of the cellar.
"And the Territorials?" I asked.
"Chopped meat, lieutenant, chopped meat----"
A BOCHE WHO HAD ENOUGH, THE GREAT DUNE.
_August_, 1915.