One day while we were in reserve at the Martin Quarries Alan came to
look for me. He was full of joy and showed me a telegram that he had
received from Paris, asking him to compose a poem which he himself
was to read in public at a Franco-American manifestation, for which
he was to receive forty-eight hours' leave. Alan was overjoyed at
the opportunity of obtaining leave, but was too retiring to think of
reading his poem himself; he would try, he told me, to have it read by
some one else.
The eve of the ceremony arrived--I cannot recall the date--but no
leave came. We were in the trenches and chance had placed me near
Seeger in "petit poste" (the small outlook post, some yards in advance
of the first line trench). He confessed that he had lost all hope of
going, and I tried to find all sorts of arguments to encourage him,
that his leave might come at dawn, and that by taking the train at
Ressons at 7 A.M. he could still reach Paris by noon and would
have plenty of time, as the ceremony was at 2.
The morning came, and instead of bringing the much desired permission
to leave it brought a terrible downpour of rain, and the day passed
sadly. He found consolation in the thought that July 4 would soon
arrive, when the Americans with the Foreign Legion might hope for
forty-eight hours' leave, as last year. Alas! He little thought that on
that date....
[The ceremony referred to was held on May 30, in connection with
Decoration Day celebrations. Wreaths to the Americans killed for France
were placed around the statue of Washington and Lafayette, in the Place
des Etats-Unis, Paris. By an unfortunate mistake the forty-eight hours'
leave granted for the event was made for June 30 instead of May 30. The
ode which Alan Seeger composed for the occasion was printed in _The
Sun_ a few days after the author had fallen in battle.]
On June 21 we left the sector of the Thiescourt Woods for an unknown
destination, which proved to be the Somme. We took the train at Estrees
St. Denis and on June 22 about 10 A.M. reached Boves. Under a
blazing sun, in heat that seemed to have escaped from the furnace of
hell, we started for Bayonviller. We had undergone no such march since
the war began.
Weighed down by their sacks, prostrated by the heat, men fell by
hundreds along the road. Hardly twenty of the 200 forming the company
arrived without having left the column. Seeger was one of these few.
He told me afterward of the terrible effort he had had to make not to
give up. At every halt he drank a drop of "tafia" (rum and coffee) to
"give himself heart," and when he reached the end of the march he was
worn out, but proud--he had not left the ranks.
We passed the eight days of repose at Bayonviller, almost always
together, seeking the greatest possible enjoyment in our life at
the moment and making dreams for the future after the war. Alan
confided to me that "after the war" caused him fear--that he could
not tell what destiny reserved for him, but that if the fates smiled
on him it was toward the Orient that he would make. He loved the
Orient--Constantinople, Cairo, Damascus, Beirut had a powerful
fascination for him; their names would plunge him into profound reverie.
"It is in the mysterious frame of the Orient," he used to say, "in its
dazzling light, in its blue, blue nights, among the perfumes of incense
and hashish, that I would live, love and die."
And then the talk would turn again on the war and he would say: "My
only wish now is to make a bayonet charge. After that I shall see.
Death may surprise me, but it shall not frighten me. It is my destiny.
'Mektoub' (it is written)." He was a real fatalist and drew courage and
resignation from his fatalism.
During the night of June 30-July 1 (1916) we left Bayonviller to move
nearer the firing line. We went to Proyart as reserves.
At 8 o'clock on the morning of July 1 there was roll call for the day's
orders and we were told that the general offensive would begin at 9
without us, as we were in reserve, and that we would be notified of the
day and hour that we were to go into action.
When this report was finished we were ordered to shell fatigue,
unloading 8 inch shells from automobile trucks which brought them up to
our position.
All was hustle and bustle. The Colonial regiments had carried the first
German lines and thousands and thousands of prisoners kept arriving and
leaving. Ambulances filed along the roads continuously. As news began
to arrive we left our work to seek more details, everything we could
learn seemed to augur well.
About 4 P.M. we left Proyart for Fontaine-les-Capy and in the
first line. Alan was beaming with joy and full of impatience for the
order to join in the action. Everywhere delirious joy reigned at having
driven the enemy back without loss for us. We believed that no further
resistance would be met and that our shock attack would finish the
Germans. After passing the night at Fontaine-les-Capy we moved in the
morning toward what had been the German first lines. I passed almost
all the day with Alan. He was perfectly happy.
"My dream is coming true," he said to me, "and perhaps this evening or
to-morrow we shall attack. I am more than satisfied, but it's too bad
about our July 4 leave. I cannot hope to see Paris again now before the
6th or 7th, but if this leave is not granted me 'Mektoub! Mektoub'!" he
finished with a smile.
The field of battle was relatively calm, a few shells fell, fired by
the enemy in retreat, and our troops were advancing on all sides. The
Colonials had taken Assevillers and the next day we were to take their
place in first line.
On July 3 (1916) about noon we moved toward Assevillers to relieve the
Colonials at nightfall. Alan and I visited Assevillers, picking up
souvenirs, postcards, letters, soldiers' notebooks and chattering all
the time, when suddenly a voice called out, "The company will fall in
to go to the first line."