One after the other we pass over the wounded boy, careful not to step
on him----
* * * * *
The attack progresses, but I have the vision of this child continually
before my eyes. I replace my revolver in the holster, and with blows of
my cane I stop a crowd of prisoners we have just taken, who attempt to
flee, throwing down their rifles as they go----
We have attained our last objective. Without losing an instant, we
begin to organize it and get ourselves settled. At the end of a few
minutes, officers and _poilus_ commence to feel the reaction of what we
have just passed through.
Everyone talks at once. We comment on the missing ones. There are
several versions on the death of the friends we have seen fall----
For example, several had seen the little boche. Many remarked about his
youth and his childish face--he yet breathed----
* * * * *
Some hours later, I could not resist--I made my way back two miles to
see if he still lived----
I found without difficulty the path which will forever remain solemn in
my memory. From a distance I saw the trench and the indentation at the
foot of which I was sure of finding him----
* * * * *
He is dead! He has not changed his position, but his face is waxen.
His two arms are extended with fists clenched toward the heaven he has
without doubt cursed!
* * * * *
After having contemplated the dead boy, I retrace my route, with
lowered head, to find my companions----
I had not gone fifty steps before I met, face to face, one of my
comrades of the attack that morning----
"What are you doing here--you, too?"
"I come to help him out----"
"He is dead----"
"Let's go back."
* * * * *
It is night. What quiet after that terrible day of battle. Glorious day!
We are quartered in the German shelters--use whatever we can find to
build a fire----
It continues to rain outside. We have formed a circle and discuss the
events which have just passed endlessly.
In a corner of the shelter several men, lying full length on the floor,
speak in a low voice. They are the colonel's messengers. I hear one who
says to the other:
"I went back to see him--he was dead. I will reproach myself the rest
of my life for not having helped him up this morning when we jumped
over him."
THE HEROIC POILUS, CHAMPAGNE.
_April_ 17, 1917.
Nothing withstood the attack of the 8th Zouaves; we reached our
objective at the given time. We are elated over our success.[33]
The noise of the battle is dying out. The enemy surrenders to us in
little groups. I find myself, cane in hand, standing before a dugout,
from which crawl a dozen or so Saxons with their captain----
Pointing at our _poilus_, covered with mud and magnificent, he said to
me:
"What are these men--lions?"
"No, they are _poilus of France_!"
THE CHIVALROUS POILUS, CHAMPAGNE.
_April_, 1917.
We are at the retaken positions on Mont-sans-nom. Colonel Lagarde
occupies a sumptuous shelter in which he has extended the hospitality
of inviting me to dinner. A bouquet of flowers, sent directly to me
from Châlons, has been placed on the table in a shell-made vase.
The Zouaves, who saunter in and out of the colonel's P.C., are visibly
astonished----
[Illustration: Convoy of ammunition in Champagne.]
They are convinced that it is General Pétain himself who has sent the
flowers to their colonel, in recognition of their success the day
before----
One after the other the roses disappear, the last ones vanishing petal
by petal----
The same day and the next, the 8th Zouaves repelled the enemy
counter-attack with rose petals in their button-holes!
THE JESTING POILUS, CHAMPAGNE.
_May_, 1917.
General J. B. Dumas is passing his troops in review to-day. Our
stalwart _poilus_ have fought admirably, and, before leaving for the
rear, _au repos_, must be honored----
General Dumas, who is popular with his men, stops in front of a
good-looking boy, sturdy, vigorous and superbly healthy!
"You remember me?"
The _poilu_ stares astonished and does not reply.
"_Voyons_, you know, all the same, who I am?----"
". . . . ! ! !"
"_Allons_, speak----"
The poilu said to himself, "If I don't tell him that I remember him,
he'll murder me----"
"Yes, I remember you, general, I remember you perfectly----"
". . . . ? ? ?"
"You are the former station master at Bécon-les-Bruyères!"
A FETICH! MONTE CARLO.
_February_, 1917.
"I have a favor to ask of you, captain, pardon me----"
"Which, mademoiselle, I will be very pleased to grant you----"
"Here is a little kerchief--I give it to you and ask that you wear it
around your wrist, the next time you go into battle."
"I promise it."
"It will bring you good luck and I am certain you will do great things
that day!"
CHAMPAGNE.
_April_, 1917.
"Your little kerchief has been an excellent fetich, mademoiselle. I
wore it on my wrist in the attack of April 17. It is a priceless star
of gold, on my _croix de guerre_, and I hope you will be pleased! I
offer it to you--because, it is _my_ shining star!"
THE RETURN OF JEAN PAUL COCHIN,
GRAND BLESSÉ, PARIS.
_May_, 1917.
It was at the beginning of July, 1915, when the army of the Crown
Prince unloosed its big thrust in the Argonne.
The battle was raging to the north of St. Menehoulde and this sector
became suddenly the most active on the whole front.
Jean Paul Cochin, soldier of the second class in the ---- Regiment
of Infantry was sorely wounded July 7, toward four o'clock in the
afternoon near Vienne-le-Château. A shell burst near the parapet of the
trench in which he was stationed, shattering his two arms.