Woevre plain is thick with mist this morning and Champlon, seen from
up there, resembles one of these pasteboard villages over which a
miscreant youngster has poured water.
I sense a feeling of real joy, however, on seeing the first glimmerings
of day, because to-night we shall be relieved----
I descend into "Precaution Trench," sweeping into a river of mud, and
find myself nose to nose, at the crossing of Sap 8, with one of my
_poilus_.
On seeing me he cannot refrain from laughing.
"What are you laughing at?"
"Lieutenant, what a sight you are! You've got mud in your hair, and mud
on your eyeglass--you ought to look in a mirror!"
"Listen, _mon petit_, it is not necessary to speak of it, because if
one looks around himself here, he always ends up by finding someone
very unhappy----"
"Very true, lieutenant, because instead of being in a lot of mud we
could easily find ourselves up to our necks in something a whole lot
worse!"
* * * * *
That night I am in the home of M. and Mme. Louis at Verdun.
The good woman has a great wood fire going--May God bless her!
I am so numb with cold that I cannot undress--my shirt is frozen to my
back----
This good and sweet creature assists me and, hearing my teeth chatter,
weeps softly and murmurs:
"What would his poor mother say if she saw him in this condition----"
THE RELIGIOUS POILU, EPARGES.
_December_, 1915.
Accompanied by one of my _poilus_, I ran across the chaplain of the
---- Regiment of Infantry, in front of the P. C.[19] of the colonel.
We are both in a sorry plight.
The preceding days have been such an accumulation of physical and moral
misery, that I could not help but say to the priest:
"Father, I feel death hovering around me--hear my confession!"
"Confess you here? Do not think of it. You make your own hell on earth
in the Eparges. I will pray for you. And you, _poilu_," he added,
turning toward my sapper, "to what religion do you belong?"
"I belong to that which looks God straight in the eyes!"
THE MEN OF BRONZE, EPARGES.
_December_, 1915.
We have just put in some frightful days up there. The mud, the horrible
mud, is infinitely more terrible than any enemy shells.
It is relief day!
What luck to end this nightmare. One is sad, however, for the others
who come to take your place.
The Eparges soil is red--our uniforms of horizon blue, dirty and
covered with this mud, appear tinted with blood.
A sad array. We all have a dejected mien. Several of us will not come
back.
Four _poilus_ are carrying one of our wounded. They advance carefully.
Night has fallen and the lingering red shadows disappear from the
heavens, one after the other, darkening our march.
We meet General Renaux, commanding the Division, who comes to inspect
the sector.
Contemplating us dolefully, he said:
"My poor children, what a state you are in!"
"General," replied a _poilu_, straightening, "that is nothing. It is
we--the men of BRONZE!"
MAJOR HÉLY'S VISIT, EPARGES.
_December_, 1915.
It is reception day, to-day. Major Hély of the General Staff, after
having inspected the sector, will dine with us.
And so, there are fresh flowers on the table--chicken and champagne.
A ray of sun is equally in the party. What luck! The boches are quiet.
It is the end of the dinner.
Ménard brings the _jus_, excellent coffee which he pours in the cups.
The only coffee spoon makes the rounds of the table. Ménard also
deposits a dusty bottle which we all regard in silence but with respect.
Captain Gunther himself will pour the precious liquor in the little
glasses----
Major Hély sips this plum nectar like a connoisseur. He sniffs the
brandy and it causes him to smack his lips----
"Ah! Gunther, where did you unearth this marvelous stuff?"
"In a cellar of the village, under the corpse of an old woman."
PRECAUTION TRENCH, EPARGES.
_December_, 1915.
Precaution Trench leaves a memory of horror with all those who have
frequented it--. There is such an accumulation of German and French
corpses; all huddled together, that one feels a swelling of the heart
if one remains for any length of time in this charnel-house----
But we have to put the trench in condition. With sweeps of the shovel
human arms and legs are dismembered so that free passage may not be
blocked. Legs and bodies are, above all, difficult to disentangle----
At night, when the earth breathes, our men faint occasionally, and it
is necessary to give them menthol-alcohol on bits of sugar----
"Look, _mon vieux_, at that rotting breast----"
"It's possible a woman, dearly loved, has been tightly pressed against
that breast there!"
"This man has been reported missing--he still wears his identification
tag----"
"Perhaps they are waiting at home for him--they are always hoping,
without doubt----"
"Him? Ough! he's shot to hell--but--what about her?"
YOU'RE A SLACKER! EPARGES.
_December_, 1915.
Do you believe all those who have survived this horrible December
winter, at Eparges, are martyrs? Not at all. Listen to what I heard
this morning.
Two sapper-miners were arguing and this is what took place:
"You ought to be ashamed to be always in F gallery--it won't be blown
up by the enemy for two months. It's always the same with you fellows
who go in for this kind of fighting----
"Désiré, you're nothing but a slacker!"
A WALK IN THE FOG, CALONNE TRENCH.
_December_, 1915.