_November_, 1915.
"Good morning, St. André--that you? Come in, _mon petit_, I'm glad to
see you again."
"Yes, captain, here I am."
It is at Eparges, during the month of November, 1915. We are in
Captain Gunther's dugout, who commands the 14th Company, 15th Corps of
Engineers.
The weather is horrible. Outside the rain falls incessantly. The mud,
the mud, the rotten, cursed mud is everywhere.
[Illustration: Captain Gunther, who commands the 14th Company, 15th
Corps of Engineers.]
Our shelter is damp. Water filters through the board walls and falls in
large drops. A dim candle light. The sector is very quiet.
St. André stands in the threshold. He is covered with mud from head to
foot. What a trip it is to get here! His stalwart face is dripping with
rain; this brave young lad of nineteen radiates health and good nature.
"Did you spend a nice vacation?"
"Not very good, captain."
"Not very good? Where did you go?"
"To Rennes."
"Did they not welcome you as they should?"
"No, captain, they treated me like a slacker. They said, 'What! not
wounded or killed--you're not a real _poilu_!'"
"But, _mon petit_, you should have said you came from Eparges, the
wickedest sector along the front."
"No chance to talk with those people. Our conversation ended in blows."
"At least, you have done your bit for France by giving her 'little St.
André's,' _poilus_ and sturdy like yourself?"
"Yes, captain, I'm not married--but I've got two sons."
"You are not married? You are going to marry her right away, my boy.
You could easily have an accident here, and you would not embarrass
your little friend----"
"That's true, captain----"
"I am going to give you two days' vacation so you can marry her, but I
will have to get the certificate from the mayor."
"Captain--I want to tell you--I would rather marry by proxy."
"By proxy! That's a strange idea--and why?"
"Because then it would only be good for the duration of the war."
THE PASSWORD, DIEUE-SUR-MEUSE.
_November_, 1915.
It is night--I return in a covered automobile with Colonel d'Auriac.
At the road which crosses that to St. Mihiel, a sentinel waves his
lantern--the machine stops.
"The password?"
"Marne!"
"That's not it!"
"What! That's not it? Call the head of the post," said the colonel
nervously.
In a few moments that seemed long enough to us, the _poilu_ brought the
head of the post, who dragged his feet as if half asleep.
"The password?"
"Marne!"
"Pass!"
"Wait! How is this, sergeant, when I give the word to the sentry, he
does not let me pass through; on the other hand when I give it to you,
you permit me to continue?"
"Well, you see, colonel, neither the sentry or myself know the
password!"
AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF AUSTERLITZ, EPARGES.
_December_ 1, 1915.
It is the eve of Austerlitz. To-night and to-morrow we are going to
celebrate the memory of our forefathers, the Emperor's Old Guard, who
will shake in their graves with joy.
It is snowing. The night is bright with moon. Rifle shots resound
loudly in the darkness. From time to time, are exchanged by one and
then the other, rounds of machine-gun fire at fleeing shadows during
the slow descent of star-shell.
I arrive from Verdun and my automobile is filled with everything I
could hastily collect in the stores. We have a basket of oysters, fine
white bread and fresh butter----
The florist in Verdun, a big fellow, always restless and uneasy, who
will foretell the worst misfortunes until the end of his life, has
given me an armful of roses and mimosas, that will look pretty there.
There will be cigars for our friends and for our _poilus_, and
champagne, naturally----
We have been arranging for this little fête for a long time; there
will be quite a lot of us: thirteen or fourteen infantrymen, sappers,
artillerists, all old habitués of the sector.
We are taking with us all those who have been sent back for rest. When
we pass Mont-sur-les-Côtes, the sentinel stops and becomes pensive at
seeing seven or eight officers piled together in the little machine. It
is terribly crowded. What loud bursts of laughter! How wonderful life
is among young men of the same age who have made the supreme sacrifice
of their existence and know the least of that fugitive joy that falls
to a soldier's lot.
Each one brings something to the dinner, some have _pâté de foie gras_,
others _petits pois_, and pastry.
How late it was when our automobile brought us a half-mile from the
first line--this is what caused a reprimand from the "general staff"
some days later!
The boches are very quiet: not a rifle shot, not a cannon shot. The
St. Remy searchlight which generally plays on the Eparges road is out
to-night.
We have climbed Eparges hill--we pass through the ruins of the village
and they are silhouetted like Christmas eve decorations. The enemy is
very near to us and it is drôle to think we have scaled the height to
pass an evening, a real live pleasure party.
When we arrive finally at Captain Gunther's dugout, there are cries of
joy--. All his staff assist us with the numerous packages. The brave
Ménard, with his commanding presence, his flowing mustache and kindly
eyes, spares no pains to see that we are settled.
Our dugout has become quite comfortable since the installation of
electric lights. Everything is perfect; there is not a hitch.
It is so crowded, elbow to elbow, that we throw off our tunics.
What a dinner! The oysters and champagne are the best. Oyster forks in
this region made us all think--Ménard had a Prince Albert coat on over
his uniform. Where did he get it? Mystery!
There is singing, laughing. They become grave when speaking of the
comrades who are no more----
From time to time the ruffled form of one of our _poilus_ passes out
the door. They know we have not forgotten them. They carry a bottle, a
pâté, or a box of cigars--and so the fête extends even to the advanced
posts of the first line.
From the listening post to-morrow they will throw oyster shells at
German heads. What faces they will make. Surely they will place them in
their geological museum at Berlin.
The flowers on the table, a fantasy of color, cause some to weep with
emotion. We have the most profound respect for them: "How come you here
in the center of death and destruction--you come to us from the warm,
beautiful countryside----"
I glance at my friends, Berthet, Blanc, Grabinski, the brave Grab,
Flament, the doctor, and the staunch face of my captain----
We speak of the great Emperor and compare our army with his--How proud
he would be of our _poilus_! What would he have done if he had had
airplanes?
The time for champagne has come; Gunther drinks to all: the infantry,
artillery, engineers, and the absent comrades. His voice trembles with
emotion--"High Hearts! The road will be yet long. France has her eyes
on us! Our lives belong to her. We will be happy to give them. If we
are killed our children will be proud of us!"
In my turn, I speak to them of the Eparges--At this anniversary I feel
the blood of my ancestors tingling in my veins, because I am a great
grandson of a veteran of the First Empire.
I drink to Eparges, for each one of its letters is the beginning of a
word representing the military virtues we must practice here:
ENCOURAGEMENT.
PERSEVERANCE.
ARDOR.
RESOLUTION.
GREATNESS.
ENERGY.
SUBLIMITY.
* * * * *
Champagne and liquor have their effect--now the music commences!
First the "Marseillaise" rings out. Could the boches have heard us
from the bottom of their pits they would realize we were all ready to
conquer or to die.
Then each one sings his little _chanson_--these pretty French songs
full of verve and spirit. How odd it is to hear sung "The Marriage of
Mademoiselle Fallières," here in this dugout, mute witness to so much
drama----
* * * * *
The hour to separate has come. Each must take up his duties, save those
who return to the rear.
It is midnight--and it is clear and calm.
I leave with Captain Gunther to go into the first line. It is well that
our _poilus_ see that we are at their side--are they not our brothers?
We wish as well to know what the boches are doing!
We enter a mine gallery where the work goes on actively. Our sappers
are digging fast for the enemy is working feverishly also. It is he who
explodes it first--as usual!
"They are ahead of us--they're digging their hole," said one of
Grenet's men.
He spoke with calm and indifference.
On the menaced part of the front the number of men has been lessened,
save only in the little posts, where they wait events stoically.
Coming outside, a _poilu_, with an undefinable accent, says:
"Then they're going to spring it to-night?"
"Who told you that story?"
"Well, there's no need in hiding it--I'm not blind and I know what it
means to go back there--On a night like this it wouldn't bother me a
bit to be shot like an arrow up to the stars!"
Our rounds are finished. We can go back to our dugout and profit by the
hours of quiet to get much needed rest.
In going into Sap 13 again, I look up at the heavens. My brain is so
tired that I seem to see a cortège of soldiers. Are they the Old Guard
and our _poilus_, our brave _poilus_? Yes, decidedly, the Old Guard is
feasting up there, the Old Guard of Austerlitz----
The earth, in this clear and luminous night, appears in bold relief and
one sees between the torn tree trunks, arms reaching out of the ground,
arms lifted to the German heaven, and our own dead fallen on this
cursed soil of the Eparges--they seem to contemplate the great fête up
there----
* * * * *
It is the morrow.
What horrible weather! It is raining in torrents. Everything is soaked.
Again we shall have to flounder about in mud up to the middle.
However, it is impossible to complain of your fix when you have flowers
in your dugout!
During the morning a heavy detonation shakes the entire hill. It is
these German pigs, decidedly, who have exploded the first one. They
choose their time well.
Everyone dashes down to lend a hand to our comrades who are on duty. We
shall have to reëstablish the trench and evacuate the wounded.
If you attempt to go fast you get nowhere. The mud glues itself to your
feet. The ground smells bad.
But it was not serious, only a warning, and soon I am back in the
dugout, dripping from the neck down. It is the time to write.
I am alone with Cadet Flament, who, stripped of his tunic and wearing
his blue jersey, has rather the air of a collegian. He is, however, a
brave young fellow, our little Flament----
"Say, Flament, you had better write a letter home. It is three weeks
now since you have given them any news."
"You're right, lieutenant."
And little Flament began at once to write a long letter to his mother.
She must be proud of her son. He is the only child. She lives at
Château-Thierry. But what uneasiness, knowing he is at Eparges----
After having written the first letter, Flament writes the second. This
one also is to a woman! The smile on his lips when he writes leads me
to believe that this young rascal has a little friend or a fiancée----
I am certain of it when I see him place in a little box an aluminum
ring which he has made himself, and some flowers from the Eparges,
mingled with those we had at our banquet last night----
"Lieutenant, when you go down to-night, it will be very kind of you, if
you will take these letters and this little package----"
"Gladly, _mon petit_," and I placed in my pocket, the letter for his
mother, the one for the "other," and the little box destined for her
also.
Flament begins to put on his shoes which he has vainly tried to dry
out--. It will be necessary to keep them in the stove for three days to
obtain this result.
Without question he has written to the woman he loves--he grumbles at
the weather, the rain, at the cursed mud, at the boches----
Ah! what wouldn't he give to pay those boches back for having began
this holocaust----
Suddenly an explosion, more violent than the one before, shook us in
our chairs.
It is they this time who have sprung the mine. There will be many
casualties!
We jumped up and left the dugout.
It was raining; but at the same moment the cannonade raged. French and
German shells tore through the air with frightful screams, an acrid
smoke hung between Montgirmont and Eparges, machine-guns kicked up a
deafening tumult--you damned coffee-mills--_va!_
Flament preceded me--he walked with his head high. How good-looking he
is with his Tam O'Shanter cocked over one ear in the midst of bursting
projectiles, face to the enemy----
* * * * *