The Twentieth Regiment now contained a sad and sorry lot of men,
weary, discouraged, shamefaced, and sullen at their double defeat.
But when they heard that the army was to retreat still further, and
abandon all this rich, flourishing northern country to the invaders
without a blow—why, it was incredible! What was the matter? Where were
their reënforcements? Only fifteen days ago they had been marching
enthusiastically up through the lovely forest of Argonne. Now they
were going to retreat into Champagne. But they were too busy with
preparations to spend much time sulking. The officers declared that
they would lead their men to victory yet. So the retreat commenced to
the booming accompaniment of the threatening German artillery.
Little did Georges know of cool old General Joffre and his desperate
plans. Little did he imagine that the endless falling back, falling
back, falling back through Champagne was to go down into history as a
masterpiece of Fabian strategy. All he understood of that campaign
was—day after day of retreating along the hard white roads, then into
the fields and digging trenches; night after night standing ready in
those clayey shoulder-deep holes, waiting for an attack, while the
first line of the rear guard fought constantly with the enemy. So they
did their best to hold back the flood of invaders. So they struggled
with the booming cannon ever following them. It was hard, sour work!
The men, exhausted with the digging and the marching and the watching,
with their few hours’ sleep constantly interrupted by alarms, trudged
hopelessly southward, too glum to talk. Constantly the officers
encouraged them—“Just to that hill there, men! Come on!” but it took
more than their optimism to restore the courage of the troops. Man
after man stopped, absolutely incapable of going further, and slumped
down by the side of the road only to be forced on, kicked on again by
the corps of gendarmes which followed the march. If the column halted
for a minute, half the men fell instantly asleep as they stood.
The minute the trenches were dug they had to prepare to receive the
enemy. Mighty little food these days, and no fresh meat. Even water
was scarce, as the men were forbidden to drink of springs till they
had been inspected. Georges’s regiment was, for the most part of
the retreat, held in the second line of the rear guard, and he was,
therefore, in but one actual engagement. In the general campaign it was
called, probably, only “a sharp skirmish.” But, to Georges, it was one
of those crises when life says: “Come! Move up a notch!”
“I was on sentry duty at the end of the trench where the company was
sleeping,” said Georges. “On Tuesday, the 2nd of September it was,
near Souain. I knew everyone’s life depended on me, and it was a
terrible strain. You know the enemy was always right on our heels,
night and day. M’sieu, I was just all eyes, searching everywhere
through the dark. It must have been about two in the morning, when I
thought I saw something moving on the opposite hillside. At first I
wasn’t quite sure. I had to pull my eyes away deliberately, and rest
them on something else—you know how your eyes get when you stare too
hard and too long; but then, when I looked again quickly, I was sure.
Yes, the ‘Bosches’ were coming! It was horrible. I saw them creeping
from one bush to another like snakes.
“I kicked the sergeant who was snoring at my feet and pointed.
Instantly all our men were quietly awakened. My lieutenant told me to
stay where I was and pretend not to see anything; but to choose my
man and be ready to fire. Yes, monsieur; it was a ticklish job; I felt
rather queer, I confess. I knew that I would be the very first one to
be shot at. That was about the longest fifteen minutes I ever spent.
“Well, we let them crawl up, crawl up, to within a hundred meters and
then just as they all jumped to their feet, the lieutenant shouted:
‘Fire at will!’ I was ready for the foremost man, and I let him have
it right through the forehead. Here is his helmet, monsieur; see that
hole?”
In the hospital at Toulouse, while I listened to his story, he held up
a black helmet, trimmed with brass—with a spiked top. It had never left
him since that day.
Yes, I saw that hole—the hole where he had killed his man. But, when I
saw him look at that German helmet, there was an expression on his face
that baffled me. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew that Coco
wasn’t there—Coco, with the lead pencil! No, this was a new person now
on that bed in front of me. It was Georges Cucurou—and he would never
be a boy again!