On the roads around the city there is a great bustle of camions, gun
carriages and caissons. Then there is the hasty shuffling of troops
going into action to-night, and who will relieve their comrades holding
the line over there.
All these movements are made silently, without cries, without useless
words, but everything moves rapidly----
I direct myself toward the city, when suddenly a small machine stops at
my side. A man of athletic stature, who was seated at the chauffeur's
side, jumps lightly out of the machine and approaches me.
He flashes his electric pocket lamp, no doubt to see who I am. At first
I had taken him for an Englishman, by reason of his khaki uniform.
"Officer?" he said to me.
"Yes, what can I do for you? You are English?"
"No, American."
"American!"
"Yes, I'm a K. C."
"_Cassé!_[23] Who is it that is hurt?"
I said this with such an accent of chagrin and almost of despair, that
he broke into a loud laugh.
"No, not _cassé_, but K. of C.," and he held up his sleeve on which
were found the two letters.
He then spoke volubly enough in English, of which I could not
understand a single word, but which certainly must have been of lively
interest, to judge by the heat of his discourse. Fortunately he
continued in French:
"Lost the road----"
"Where are you going?"
"Fort Souville----"
"What are you doing?"
"We are picking up the wounded of the Second Army. We must go
quick----"[24]
"Yes, time is money----"
"No, time is blood."
"I will give you one of my men who will accompany you----Thiébaut, take
these gentlemen to Fort Souville, by the Etain road----"
"Thank you!"
"One second! I wish I could talk English so that I could commend you
for what you are doing. Then, you Americans have crossed the ocean to
mix in this hell and to succor our wounded----Wait! You are a fine
type, and I am proud to grasp your hand! Good luck!"
"Good-bye--Good luck to you!"
SOUILLY.
_February_ 28, 1916.
An uninterrupted file of camions extends from Bar-le-Duc to Verdun. It
is like an endless chain which never stops day or night.
A _poilu_, who is breaking stones in the road, says to his neighbor:
"This battle will be called in history, 'the Battle of Camions.'"
THE DETERMINED POILUS, VERDUN, BEVAUX BARRACKS.
_March_ 1, 1916.
I have just left "General Quarters" and meet two _poilus_ of the 20th
Corps.
"Where are the trenches?"
"What trenches----?"
"The trenches where they are fighting."
"We are returning from vacation and want to be in it!"
"It is twelve miles from here."
"We can do that easily on foot--we will be guided by the sound of the
cannon."
THE SUMMIT OF DEAD MAN'S HILL.
_March_ 2, 1916.
There is nothing to say, but we desired to keep in touch with some
_poilus_ in a bombardment dugout 225 yards from the spot where we now
are. The communicating trench is blocked up and it is in full view that
we have to leap over this stretch of ground----
It was toward the end of the day, but one could yet see very well.
Scarcely had we gone a step along the road to Béthincourt than Guéneau,
LeBlond and myself were seen by the boches. They turned their cannon
and machine-guns on us--yes, three 105's which came over seemed
deposited by hand. The first covered us with earth at some yards to our
left; the second fell a short distance to the right on the edge of the
road.
"Let's get out of here, _les copains_,[25] fifty yards farther--quick!"
In a few bounds we were away from that dangerous spot. The third shell
burst, in effect, exactly on the place we had just left----
We are at this instant at the point where the road from Béthincourt
starts to the top of Dead Man's Hill. A little wagon is turned
upside-down, with the stiffened remains of the horse and its swollen
belly still in the shafts.
We just had time to crawl into a shell-hole behind the carcass which
hid us from the enemy and served as a shield. Our protector gave off
nauseating puffs of a very rich scent:
"It is _drôle_," observed Guéneau, "that Dead Man is nothing but a
rotting horse!"
CARNAVAL! DEAD MAN'S HILL.
_March_ 7, 1916.
The cannonade was elaborate to-day--What desolation! This moonlighted
scenery would sadden you profoundly--enough that man be that heartless
he can utterly destroy and ruin nature beautiful, even to the very
roots. The machine-guns sputter intermittently. Someone shouts:
"Ah! Wonderful! How strange it is!"
"What is the matter with you?"
"Lieutenant, to-day is _Mardi Gras_!"
IMAGINATIVE EXPRESSIONS, VERDUN.
_March_, 1916.
The sector is being frightfully bombarded and all one can do is to wait
for the attack----
"Good morning, _mon petit_, is it going?----"
"Yes, lieutenant, it's bad in the aquarium--has been that way all
morning. I've changed my sex three times since you saw me a short while
ago----"
[Illustration: Ravin des Fontaines (Verdun) during bombardment.]
MY ORDERLY HABERT, VERDUN.
_March_, 1916.
I have just returned from Verdun, worn out by fatigue, at the beginning
of the afternoon, with the idea of getting a few hours sleep in the
silent and empty house of Monsieur Louis. Habert, alone, had not left
it. I had taken him as an orderly for the reason he was the father
of five children. Besides, he is not a warrior and it is plainly
uncomfortable for him to wait on us when the shells break around _Rue
sur-l'eau_.[26]
I am dying with envy to get into bed. I climb the stairs to the
first floor where the bed is made. Habert has found a pretext not to
accompany me----
The shells whistled angrily and fell thick and fast on the city. They
seemed to say: "Ah! you wish to sleep--but just try it." At the end of
a few seconds I slept profoundly----
What good sleep, what a deep sleep, during which Death itself would
come without one knowing it----
I had, nevertheless, the vague sensation of having been shaken and left
dizzy by an explosion that prevented my making a movement. I finished
by opening my eyes. The room was yet filled with dust and smoke; the
window frame and part of the wall were thrown on the quilt! It was with
difficulty that I could extricate myself and I shouted:
"Habert! Habert!"