THE POILUS
Yes, Guillaumin had been quite right! Ever since we had rejoined at
F---- his one care had been the morale of the men! On that, indeed,
depended the fate of the country, united with that of the present
campaign. And this morale, in its turn, depended partly on us, in view
of our responsibility.
A task which was quite new to me. I have said how, at our departure,
I could not conceive myself taking an interest in these dolts. Yes!
But had I not felt them quiver as they marched at my side through the
horror of the fire? The praise surprised on their lips that evening had
made my heart beat--reciprocal esteem--and I had dreamt of something
more.
During the long parches I took steps to get into touch with them, to
overcome their shyness, the remains of their distrust. I was not afraid
of showing a few of them what was in my heart. One of these was Icard,
the miller, a steady, quiet fellow, whose good sense had struck me on
several occasions. Under the present circumstances, the footing we were
usually on, I said, was not enough. Complete harmony of mind and heart
between us all seemed to me necessary for our common safety.
"We're fond enough of you, already, sergeant!"
I smiled.
"Fonder than you were at the beginning?"
"Yes, then we weren't exactly struck on you."
I think he was speaking at his comrades. Their instinct must have made
them realise my friendly intentions. They quickly became more familiar
and expansive. The last barrier had fallen.
I again appreciated Guillaumin's perspicuity. According to him these
people dreaded betraying whatever tenderness and delicacy was aroused
in them, by putting it into words. They were shy of talking about
themselves, and expanded more willingly on a thousand and one abstract
subjects. I had resigned myself to listening to an endless flow of
words and pointless tales. They were flattered by my attention, and I
was surprised to find them ten times less childish and narrow in their
talk than many drawing-room conversationalists. It was the taste,
innate in the French, for discussion and reasoning. Penetration and
logic are ordinary qualities in them. Icard laid before me his views
on the questions which impassioned him: agricultural economy, modern
implements, the introduction of new crops, the causes and consequences
of the population of the country districts, the remedies to be applied
to it--all problems of vital importance to the nation. I who claimed to
be so eclectic had to blush for myself because I had never considered
them.
With him, and with some of the others, I took a delight in broaching
the subject of socialistic doctrines. We were at one in our premises.
Starting from that point I used to get them to talk, curious to see how
much electioneering patter they had retained. More than mere words,
in any case! Some of them were imbued with the party point of view.
Each of them, for that matter, followed wherever his temperament led
him. Prunelle, the jeweller, favoured the view that the state should
interfere as little as possible with individual enterprise. Icard, for
his part, was a staunch advocate of a sort of dominant collectivism:
of the most perfect organisation of society, down to the very smallest
details, by its chosen representatives. He said to me:
"Look at the Bosches. They have it in a sense. That's what constitutes
their strength. It's sad to think the poor brutes have to work for the
King of Prussia!"
I tried, too, to probe their inmost convictions. Were they really keen
about this struggle which would determine the future of their race?
It did not take long to convince me of it. Their patriotism was not an
abstract quality: it was more than that--a tradition, almost a physical
need. A free France was just as vital to them as eating or breathing.
I had the opportunity of admiring the moral unity accomplished by the
work of centuries of history. The Prussians had done these Beaucerons
a personal injury in violating the distant Eastern frontier. No peace
for them before these brigands had been sent back to where they came
from! The question of Alsace-Lorraine affected them in a lesser degree.
It was a long way off--almost an accomplished fact! But nevertheless it
must be won back, if only as a matter of personal pride, for "swank"!
Their memory of the other war had not been at all obliterated, as
I should have expected it to be. Most of them had heard from their
parents what vexations and devastations their province had had to
endure in those bygone days. They had before their eyes the ravages of
the present war. Hang it all! If only the Bosches did not advance too
far! We mustn't be beaten again.
And then as Corporal Bouguet very neatly expressed it, considering
how long we had been pestered by having to put in two or three years'
military service, we should be dolts not to give them a good thrashing
once and for all, for the sake of gaining a quiet life!
Their spirit in fact was marvellous. It must not be forgotten that we
were still retreating! There was never a sign of real discouragement.
It was sometimes upsetting, certainly, to leave superb positions
without firing a single shot. But if it must be! If, as was still
rumoured, it was for tactical reasons to lead the enemy into a trap!
The fantastic exploits attributed to the artillery still continued
to fire our imagination. Once or twice we met convoys of prisoners.
Halloa! Things must be on the mend! And then, why attempt to give any
explanation? Things went well, because they went well. Even in the
first platoon there was never any serious trouble, the bad seed did
not bear. There was nothing worse than a little slackness, rather less
energy.
There was plenty of marching. Yes, but nothing dismal about it most of
the time, especially when we thought we were getting near to the enemy
when there would be a volley of witticisms:
"Halloa! Trichet!" Guillaumin exclaimed. "I suppose you think
Prunelle's sight too good, and that's why you're sticking your gun into
his eye?"
They laughed; the jeweller was short-sighted and wore glasses.
The men were generally allowed to sing. When I saw they were beginning
to flag, I shouted:
"Strike up, Bouguet! Let's have one of your songs."
"Which shall it be, Sergeant?"
The corporal who was the songster of the platoon turned to me gaily. We
were on excellent terms now.
Voices were raised demanding:
"_The Ace of Diamonds!_"
"_The Miller's Wife!_"
The corporal struck up.
"Miller, miller, she betrays you!..."
They exploded, nudging each other, and nodding in Icard's direction who
was the first to appreciate the joke.
Or else it was the _Crocodiles_, doggerel brought into fashion by
Lamalou, and which they never tired of:
A crocodile--on going off to war
Said "Good-bye, Kids"--but not for evermore.
His great tail--looking very elegant
He started off--to fight the elephant!...
Then the refrain!
Everyone joined in the chorus.
Oh the cro-cro-cro-, the cro-cro-cro-, the cro-co-di-iles,
All along the Nile! They have vanished, we'll say no more!
Childish songs, with a good swing to them. Fatigue was forgotten. Mile
followed mile in the heat and dust. A refrain of that kind swept right
along the column. While we drew breath, snatches of couplets reached us
from the distance.
"Like nothin' on earth, those caterwaulers!" Judsi exclaimed.
Oh, that Judsi! What a type he was! The incarnation, the flower of
the race. In each platoon of France's army, from end to end of the
campaign, I bet there was a Judsi. A street-urchin, from Paris or
elsewhere.... An apache yesterday, perhaps--it was quite possible--but
ennobled to-day by circumstances!
He was an admirable source of good-humour. Made to cheer up the others.
He chatted without ceasing for hours and hours at a time, accumulating
eccentricities of mimicry and expression. Nothing pleased him so much
as to see that we were listening. That was the time when we played up
hardest. I swear that by the unexpectedness of his sallies and the
inflections of his hoarse voice, he often attained a pitch of drollery
which was quite priceless. His slightest absurdities gave rise to fits
of hilarious gaiety. The men pressed round him, as if on parade. It
even interfered with the marching order. What should he do but organise
relays! Every quarter of an hour, he said to his neighbours:
"'Ook it lads! Send some other pals along now, an' we'll see if I can't
raise a smile out of 'em."
They gave up their places without any sour looks.
"Ain't 'e a caution!"
"Fit to make yer split, the blighter!"
He was never in better form than when we were in the tightest places,
when all the others were down in the dumps. On the "Beauclair" evening,
when we had to retire, he was worth seeing as he went off shouldering
his rifle, with a Uhlan's helmet, picked up in some house, in his hand,
and the air of a gentleman who had just put an end to the war in the
most brilliant style, and was on his way home where his little wife was
waiting to welcome him with open arms! Or again on the next day.... A
hail of shells, which was beginning, had just set fire to a little bit
of a house. He asked the cook's permission to make the coffee, carried
off the camp kettle, collected some brands from the beams, and boiled
the water on them at the window. The shower of the "Black Marias"
continued. It was a miracle that he was not killed. But his luck, our
luck, held.
What endless queer characters there were! Lamalou, Bouguet, Gaudéreaux.
We've seen them all at work--one might go on naming them indefinitely.
And Bouillon!
He had come one morning to ask my advice as to how to send money orders.
I had taken it as a joke:
"Send them, my dear fellow? This is more the sort of time to receive
them!"
"It's for Marie," he said, "who's stayed behind with the kid!"
"Your kid?"
"I don't know about that!"
He explained that he had lived with a girl, a rag-gatherer like
himself. They had struck up acquaintance when plying their hooks, and
made love across the dust-bins--and they had come to an understanding.
So far, so good. But then at the end of eight months--eight months
exactly, that was the annoying part!--Marie had gone to Boucicaut for
the birth of her child, a little duck, as pretty as could be! The point
was not so much to find out who its father was, as to rear the little
brat! It used to be quite a paying job--but then the great Trafalgar
had come, and Blimey! ever since then there hadn't been none too much
to be scratched up out o' them dust-bins--so he thought that as he had
a bit o' cash he'd better send some to Marie, if it weren't more'n ten
francs.
I realised that he must be economising out of the little tips he
got from me. I was much touched by his story, and promised to make
inquiries.
The matter would depend on the baggage-master. He did not put in an
appearance just then. Bouillon asked me about the matter again. I
mentioned it casually to Henriot who sent me to the captain. He greeted
me affably, and I laid the matter before him. He called me back. He had
learnt, he said, of my brother's death, and he expressed his sympathy
for me. He added that he had watched me at work. "I'm glad to see
you've been making yourself useful."
As for the money order, he undertook to see that it got to its
destination, solemnly took the girl's address, and handed me a receipt.
When he got it, Bouillon turned it over and over, and asked me what it
meant.
The little sum had been doubled by me and doubled again by the captain.
His tanned face contracted; and tears glistened in the corners of his
big eyes. He stammered in his effort to thank me.
"Oh! R-r-rooky!"
I gave him a smack on the shoulder, and told him--and how sincerely I
meant it--that we owed him a hundred times more!