A SOLDIER OF THE LEGION
[Illustration: E. Morlae.]
A SOLDIER OF THE LEGION
BY
EDWARD MORLAE
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published June 1916_
PREFACE
When Sergeant Morlae turned up at the _Atlantic_ office and, with
his head cocked on one side, remarked ingratiatingly, "I'm told this
is the highest-toned office in the United States," there was nothing
to do but to assure him he was right and to make him quite comfortable
while he told his wonderful story. That story, however, was not told
consecutively, but in chapters as his crowding recollections responded
to the questions of his interlocutor. It was a story, too, which could
not be told at a sitting, and it was not until the evening of the
second day that Sergeant Morlae recounted the exploit which won the
Croix de Guerre pinned to his chest--a cross which he said, with the
sole touch of personal pride noticed in three days passed largely in
his company, had above it not the copper but the silver clasp.
Sergeant Morlae is a Dirk Hatteraick of a man to look at, and the
education of that beloved pirate was no more rugged than his own. His
father was a Frenchman born who had seen service in '70 and won a
captain's commission in the "Terrible Year." After the war, Morlae,
senior, settled in this country and his son was born in California. As
young Morlae grew up, finding the family business of contracting on a
small scale somewhat circumscribed, he sought more hazardous
employment in active service in the Philippines and in more than one
civilian "scrap" in Mexico. It was good training. August, 1914, found
him again in Los Angeles. For two days his French blood mounted as he
read the newspapers, and on the morning of August 3 he packed his grip
and started for Paris to enlist in the Legion. Since he had already
seen service, he was soon made a corporal and later a sergeant.
Morlae, says a letter from a Harvard graduate who served under him in
those days, was "an excellent soldier," "a strong, efficient,
ambitious man," though, as the reader of this and letters from other
Legionaries may infer, he was neither sentimental in his methods nor
supersensitive with his men. Maintaining discipline in so motley a
crew as the Legion is rather a rasping process, and Sergeant Morlae
was born disqualified for diplomatic service. Future reunions of La
Légion are likely to lack the sweet placidity which wraps the Grand
Army of the Republic on the anniversaries of Chancellorsville and
Gettysburg.
But to the story. The things that war is are not often told except in
generalization or in words of fanciful rhetoric. It would be hard to
find elsewhere, crammed into a brief narrative, so much of the sense
of actuality--that realism made perfect which even readers who have
known no such experience feel instinctively is true. Yet the story is
not made of horror. The essence of its life is the spirit that
delights in peril. The "Soldier of the Legion" has in it that spinal
thrill which has electrified great tales of battle since blood was
first let and ink spilled to celebrate it.
ELLERY SEDGWICK.
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE SOLDIER _Frontispiece_
AS THEY SWUNG INTO COLUMN THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE 25TH OF SEPTEMBER 18
AMERICANS IN THE FOREIGN LEGION SHOWING
TYPE OF HAND-GRENADES 38
AMERICANS IN THE FOREIGN LEGION RECEIVING
NEWS FROM HOME 100
A SOLDIER OF THE LEGION
I
One day during the latter part of August, 1915, my regiment, the 2me
Étranger (Foreign Legion), passed in review before the President of
the French Republic and the commander-in-chief of her armies, General
Joffre. On that day, after twelve months of fighting, the regiment was
presented by President Poincaré with a battle-flag. The occasion
marked the admission of the Légion Étrangère to equal footing with
the regiments of the line. Two months later--it was October 28--the
remnants of this regiment were paraded through the streets of Paris,
and, with all military honors, this same battle-flag was taken across
the Seine to the Hôtel des Invalides. There it was decorated with the
cross of the Legion of Honor, and, with reverent ceremony, was placed
between the flag of the cuirassiers who died at Reichshofen and the
equally famous standard which the Garibaldians bore in 1870-71. The
flag lives on. The regiment has ceased to exist.
On the battlefield of La Champagne, from Souain to the Ferme Navarin,
from Somme Py to the Butte de Souain, the ground is thickly studded
with low wooden crosses and plain pine boards marked with the
Mohammedan crescent and star. Beside the crosses you see bayonets
thrust into the ground, and dangling from their cross-bars little
metal disks which months ago served their purpose in identifying the
dead and now mark their graves. Many mounds bear no mark at all. On
others again you see a dozen helmets laid in rows, to mark the
companionship of the dead below in a common grave. It is there you
will find the Legion.
Of the Legion I can tell you at first-hand. It is a story of
adventurers, of criminals, of fugitives from justice. Some of them are
drunkards, some thieves, and some with the mark of Cain upon them find
others to keep them company. They are men I know the worst of. And yet
I am proud of them--proud of having been one of them; very proud of
having commanded some of them.
It is all natural enough. Most men who had come to know them as I have
would feel as I do. You must reckon the good with the evil. You must
remember their comradeship, their _esprit de corps_, their pathetic
eagerness to serve France, the sole country which has offered them
asylum, the country which has shown them confidence, mothered them,
and placed them on an equal footing with her own sons. These things
mean something to a man who has led the life of an outcast, and the
Légionnaires have proved their loyalty many times over. At Arras there
are more than four hundred kilometres of trench-line which they have
restored to France. The Legion has always boasted that it never shows
its back, and the Legion has made good.
In my own section there were men of all races and all nationalities.
There were Russians and Turks, an Annamite and a Hindu. There were
Frenchmen from God knows where. There was a German, God only knows
why. There were Bulgars, Serbs, Greeks, negroes, an Italian, and a
Fiji Islander fresh from an Oxford education,--a silent man of whom it
was whispered that he had once been an archbishop,--three Arabians,
and a handful of Americans who cared little for the quiet life. As
Bur-bekkar, the Arabian bugler, used to say in his bad French, "Ceux
sont le ra-ta international"--"They're the international stew."
Many of the men I came to know well. The Italian, Conti, had been a
professional bicycle-thief who had slipped quietly into the Legion
when things got too hot for him. When he was killed in Champagne he
was serving his second enlistment. Doumergue, a Frenchman who was a
particularly good type of soldier, had absconded from Paris with his
employer's money and had found life in the Legion necessary to his
comfort. A striking figure with a black complexion was Voronoff, a
Russian prince whose precise antecedents were unknown to his mates.
Pala was a Parisian "Apache" and looked the part. Every man had left a
past behind him. But the Americans in the Legion were of a different
type. Some of us who volunteered for the war loved fighting, and some
of us loved France. I was fond of both.
But even the Americans were not all of one stripe. J. J. Casey had
been a newspaper artist, and Bob Scanlon, a burly negro, an artist
with his fist in the squared ring. Alan Seeger had something of the
poet in him. Dennis Dowd was a lawyer; Edwin Bouligny a lovable
adventurer. There was D. W. King, the sprig of a well-known family.
William Thaw, of Pittsburg, started with us, though he joined the
Flying Corps later on. Then there were James Bach, of New York; B. S.
Hall, who hailed from Kentucky; Professor Ohlinger, of Columbia;
Phelizot, who had shot enough big game in Africa to feed the regiment.
There were Delpeuch, and Capdeveille, and little Tinkard, from New
York. Bob Soubiron came, I imagine, from the United States in general,
for he had been a professional automobile racer. The Rockwell
brothers, journalists, signed on from Georgia; and last, though far
from least, was Friedrich Wilhelm Zinn, from Battle Creek, Michigan.
The rest of the section were old-time Légionnaires, most of them
serving their second enlistment of five years, and some their third.
All these were seasoned soldiers, veterans of many battles in Algiers
and Morocco. My section--complete--numbered sixty. Twelve of us
survive, and of these there are several still in the hospital
recovering from wounds. Zinn and Tinkard lie there with bullets in
their breasts; Dowd, with his right arm nearly severed; Soubiron, shot
in the leg; Bouligny, with a ball in his stomach. But Bouligny, like
many another, is an old hand in the hospital. He has been there twice
before with metal to be cut out. Several others lie totally
incapacitated from wounds, and more than half of the section rests
quietly along the route of the regiment. Seven of them are buried at
Craonne; two more at Ferme Alger, near Rheims. Eighteen of them I saw
buried myself in Champagne.
That is the record of the first section of Company I. Section III, on
the night of the first day's fighting in Champagne, mustered eight men
out of the forty-two who had fallen into line that morning. Section IV
lost that day more than half of its effectives. Section II lost
seventeen out of thirty-eight. War did its work thoroughly with the
Legion. We had the place of honor in the attack, and we paid for it.
II
Two days before the forward movement began, we were informed by our
captain of the day and hour set for the attack. We were told the exact
number of field-pieces and heavy guns which would support us and the
number of shells to be fired by each piece. Our artillery had orders
to place four shells per metre per minute along the length of the
German lines. Our captain gave us also very exact information
regarding the number of German batteries opposed to us. He even told
us the regimental numbers of the Prussian and Saxon regiments which
were opposite our line. From him we learned also that along the whole
length of our first row of trenches steps had been cut into the front
bank in order to enable us to mount it without delay, and that our own
barbed-wire entanglements, which were immediately in front of this
trench, had been pierced by lanes cut through every two metres, so
that we might advance without the slightest hindrance.
On the night of September 23, the commissioned officers, including the
colonel of the regiment, entered the front lines of trenches, and with
stakes marked the front to be occupied by our regiment during the
attack. It was like an arrangement for a race. Starting from the road
leading from Souain to Vouziers, the officers, after marking the spot
with a big stake, paced fifteen hundred metres to the eastward and
there marked the extreme right of the regiment's position by a second
stake. Midway between these two a third was placed. From the road to
the stake, the seven hundred and fifty metres marked the terrain for
Battalion C. The other seven hundred and fifty metres bearing to the
left were assigned to Battalion D. Just one hundred metres behind
these two battalions a line was designated for Battalion E, which was
to move up in support.
My own company formed the front line of the extreme left flank of the
regiment. Our left was to rest on the highroad and our front was to
run from that to a stake marking a precise frontage of two hundred
metres. From these stakes, which marked the ends of our line, we were
ordered to take a course due north, sighting our direction by trees
and natural objects several kilometres in the rear of the German
lines. These were to serve us for guides during the advance. After all
these matters had been explained to us at length, other details were
taken up with the engineers, who were shown piles of bridging, ready
made in sections of planking so that they might be readily placed over
the German trenches and thus permit our guns and supply-wagons to
cross quickly in the wake of our advance.
The detail was infinite, but everything was foreseen. Twelve men from
each company were furnished with long knives and grenades. Upon these
"trench-cleaners," as we called them, fell the task of entering the
German trenches and caves and bomb-proofs, and disposing of such of
the enemy as were still hidden therein after we had stormed the trench
and passed on to the other side. All extra shoes, all clothing and
blankets were turned in to the quartermaster, and each man was
provided with a second canteen of water, two days of "iron rations,"
and one hundred and thirty rounds additional, making two hundred and
fifty cartridges per man. The gas-masks and mouth-pads were ready;
emergency dressings were inspected, and each man ordered to put on
clean underwear and shirts to prevent possible infection of the
wounds.
One hour before the time set for the advance, we passed the final
inspection and deposited our last letters with the regimental
postmaster. Those letters meant a good deal to all of us and they were
in our minds during the long wait that followed. One man suddenly
began to intone the "Marseillaise." Soon every man joined in singing.
It was a very Anthem of Victory. We were ready, eager, and confident:
for us to-morrow held but one chance--Victory.
III
Slowly the column swung out of camp, and slowly and silently, without
a spoken word of command, it changed its direction to the right and
straightened out its length upon the road leading to the trenches. It
was 10 P.M. precisely by my watch. The night was quite clear, and we
could see, to right and to left, moving columns marching parallel to
ours. One, though there was not quite light enough to tell which, was
our sister regiment, the 1er Régiment Étranger. The other, as I knew,
was the 8me Zouaves. The three columns marched at the same gait. It
was like a funeral march, slow and very quiet. There was no singing
and shouting; none of the usual badinage. Even the officers were
silent. They were all on foot, marching like the rest of us. We knew
there would be no use for horses to-morrow.
[Illustration: AS THEY SWUNG INTO COLUMN THE NIGHT BEFORE THE 25th OF
SEPTEMBER]
To-morrow was the day fixed for the grand attack. There was not a man
in the ranks who did not know that to-morrow, at 9.15, was the time
set. Every man, I suppose, wondered whether he would do or whether he
would die. I wondered myself.
I did not really think I should die. Yet I had arranged my earthly
affairs. "One can never tell," as the French soldier says with a
shrug. I had written to my friends at home. I had named the men in my
company to whom I wished to leave my personal belongings. Sergeant
Velte was to have my Parabellum pistol; Casey my prismatics; Birchler
my money-belt and its contents; while Sergeant Jovert was booked for
my watch and compass. Yet, in the back of my mind, I smiled at my own
forethought. I _knew_ that I should come out alive. I recalled to
myself the numerous times that I had been in imminent peril: in the
Philippines, in Mexico, and during the thirteen months of this war. I
could remember time and again when men were killed on each side of me
and I escaped unscratched. Take the affair of Papoin, Joly, and Bob
Scanlon. We were standing together so near that we could have clasped
hands. Papoin was killed, Joly was severely wounded, and Scanlon was
hit in the ankle--all by the same shell. The fragments which killed
and wounded the first two passed on one side of me, while the piece of
iron that hit Bob went close by my other side. Yet I was untouched!
Again, take the last patrol. When I was out of cover, the Germans shot
at me from a range of ten metres--and missed! I felt certain that my
day was not to-morrow.
Just the same, I was glad that my affairs were arranged, and it gave
me a sense of conscious satisfaction to think that my comrades would
have something to remember me by. There is always the chance of
something unforeseen happening.
The pace was accelerating. The strain was beginning to wear off. From
right and left there came a steady murmur of low talk. In our own
column men were beginning to chaff each other. I could distinctly hear
Soubiron describing in picturesque detail to Capdeveille how he,
Capdeveille, would look, gracefully draped over the German barbed
wire; and I could hear Capdeveille's heated response that he would
live long enough to spit upon Soubiron's grave; and I smiled to
myself. The moment of depression and self-communication had passed.
The men had found themselves and were beginning their usual chaffing.
And yet, in all their chatter there seemed to be an unusually sharp
note. The jokes all had an edge to them. References to one another's
death were common, and good wishes for one another's partial
dismemberment excited only laughter. Just behind me I heard King
express the hope that if he lost an arm or a leg he would at least get
the _médaille militaire_ in exchange. By way of comfort, his chum,
Dowd, remarked that, whether he got the medal or not, he was very sure
of getting a permit to beg on the street-corners.
From personal bickerings we passed on to a discussion of the Germans
and German methods of making war. We talked on the finer points of
hand-grenades, poison gas, flame-projectors, vitriol bombs, and
explosive bullets. Everybody seemed to take particular pleasure in
describing the horrible wounds caused by the different weapons. Each
man embroidered upon the tales the others told.
We were marching into hell. If you judged them by their conversation,
these men must have been brutes at heart, worse than any "Apache"; and
yet of those around me several were university graduates; one was a
lawyer; two were clerks; one a poet of standing; one an actor; and
there were several men of leisure, Americans almost all of them.
The talk finally settled upon the Germans. Many and ingenious were the
forms of torture invented upon the spur of the moment for the benefit
of the "Boches." "Hanging is too good for them," said Scanlon. After a
long discussion, scalping alive seemed the most satisfactory to the
crowd.
It had come to be 11 P.M. We were at the mouth of the communicating
trench and entering it, one by one. Every so often, short transverse
trenches opened up to right and left, each one crammed full of
soldiers. Talking and laughing stopped. We continued marching along
the trench, kilometre after kilometre, in utter silence. As we moved
forward, the lateral trenches became more numerous. Every fifteen to
eighteen feet we came to one running from right to left, and each was
filled with troops, their arms grounded. As we filed slowly by, they
looked at us enviously. It was amusing to see how curious they looked,
and to watch their whispering as we passed. Why should we precede them
in attack?
"Who are you?" several men asked.
"La Légion."
"A-a-ah, la Légion! That explains it."
Our right to the front rank seemed to be acknowledged. It did every
man of us good.
We debouched from the trench into the street of a village. It was
Souain. Houses, or ghosts of houses, walled us in on each side.
Through the windows and the irregular shell-holes in the walls, the
stars twinkled; while through a huge gap in the upper story of one of
the houses I caught a glimpse of the moon, over my right shoulder.
Lucky omen! "I'll come through all right," I repeated to myself, and
rapped with my knuckle upon the rifle-stock, lest the luck break.
Not one house in the village was left standing--only bare walls. Near
the end of the street, in the midst of chaos, we passed a windmill.
The gaunt steel frame still stood. I could see the black rents in the
mill and the great arms where the shrapnel had done its work; but
still the wheel turned, slowly, creaking round and round, with its
shrill metal scream.
The column turned to the left and again disappeared in a trench. After
a short distance we turned to the right, then once more to the left,
then on, and finally, not unwillingly, we came to a rest. We did not
have to be told that we were now in the front line, for through the
rifle-ports we could see the French shells bursting ahead of us like
Fourth-of-July rockets.
The artillery had the range perfectly, and the shells, little and big,
plumped with pleasing regularity into the German trenches. The din was
indescribable--almost intolerable. Forty, even fifty, shells per
minute were falling into a space about a single kilometre square. The
explosions sounded almost continuous, and the return fire of the
Germans seemed almost continuous. Only the great ten-inch long-range
Teuton guns continued to respond effectively.
We looked at the show for a while, and then lay down in the trench.
Every man used his knapsack for a pillow and tried to snatch a few
hours' sleep. It was not a particularly good place for a nervous
sleeper, but we were healthy and pretty tired.
The next morning, at 8 A.M., hot coffee was passed round, and we
breakfasted on sardines, cheese, and bread, with the coffee to wash it
down. At 9 the command passed down the line, "Every man ready!" Up
went the knapsack on every man's back, and, rifle in hand, we filed
along the trench.
The cannonading seemed to increase in intensity. From the low places
in the parapet we caught glimpses of barbed wire which would glisten
in occasional flashes of light. Our own we could plainly see, and a
little farther beyond was the German wire.
Suddenly, at the sound of a whistle, we halted. The command,
"Baïonnette au canon!" passed down the section. A drawn-out rattle
followed, and the bayonets were fixed. Then the whistle sounded again.
This time twice. We adjusted our straps. Each man took a look at his
neighbor's equipment. I turned and shook hands with the fellows next
to me. They were grinning, and I felt my own nerves a-quiver as we
waited for the signal.
Waiting seemed an eternity. As we stood there a shell burst close to
our left. A moment later it was whispered along the line that an
adjutant and five men had gone down.
What were we waiting for? I glanced at my watch. It was 9.15 exactly.
The Germans evidently had the range. Two more shells burst close to
the same place. We inquired curiously who was hit this time. Our
response was two whistles. That was our signal. I felt my jaws
clenching, and the man next to me looked white. It was only for a
second. Then every one of us rushed at the trench wall, each and every
man struggling to be the first out of the trench. In a moment we had
clambered up and out. We slid over the parapet, wormed our way through
gaps in the wire, formed in line, and, at the command, moved forward
at march-step straight toward the German wire.
The world became a roaring hell. Shell after shell burst near us,
sometimes right among us; and, as we moved forward at the
double-quick, men fell right and left. We could hear the subdued
rattling of the mitrailleuses and the roar of volley fire, but, above
it all, I could hear with almost startling distinctness the words of
the captain, shouting in his clear, high voice, "En avant! Vive la
France!"
IV
As we marched forward toward our goal, huge geysers of dust spouted
into the air, rising behind our backs from the rows of "75's"
supporting us. In front the fire-curtain outlined the whole length of
the enemy's line with a neatness and accuracy that struck me with
wonder, as the flames burst through the pall of smoke and dust around
us. Above, all was blackness, but at its lower edge the curtain was
fringed with red and green flames, marking the explosion of the shells
directly over the ditch and parapet in front of us. The low-flying
clouds mingled with the smoke-curtain, so that the whole brightness of
the day was obscured. Out of the blackness fell a trickling rain of
pieces of metal, lumps of earth, knapsacks, rifles, cartridges, and
fragments of human flesh. We went on steadily, nearer and nearer. Now
we seemed very close to the wall of shells streaming from our own
guns, curving just above us, and dropping into the trenches in front.
The effect was terrific. I almost braced myself against the rocking of
the earth, like a sailor's instinctive gait in stormy weather.
In a single spot immediately in front of us, not over ten metres in
length, I counted twelve shells bursting so fast that I could not
count them without missing other explosions. The scene was horrible
and terrifying. Across the wall of our own fire poured shell after
shell from the enemy, tearing through our ranks. From overhead the
shrapnel seemed to come down in sheets, and from behind the stinking,
blinding curtain came volleys of steel-jacketed bullets, their whine
unheard and their effect almost unnoticed.
I think we moved forward simply from habit. With me it was like a
dream as we went on, ever on. Here and there men dropped, the ranks
closing automatically. Of a sudden our own fire-curtain lifted. In a
moment it had ceased to bar our way and jumped like a living thing to
the next line of the enemy. We could see the trenches in front of us
now, quite clear of fire, but flattened almost beyond recognition. The
defenders were either killed or demoralized. Calmly, almost stupidly,
we parried or thrust with the bayonet at those who barred our way.
Without a backward glance we leaped the ditch and went on straight
forward toward the next trench, marked in glowing outline by our fire.
I remember now how the men looked. Their eyes had a wild, unseeing
look in them. Everybody was gazing ahead, trying to pierce the awful
curtain which cut us off from all sight of the enemy. Always the black
pall smoking and burning appeared ahead--just ahead of us--hiding
everything we wanted to see.
The drama was played again and again. Each time, as we approached so
close that fragments of our own shells occasionally struck a leading
file, the curtain lifted as by magic, jumped the intervening metres,
and descended upon the enemy's trench farther on. The ranges were
perfect. We followed blindly--sometimes at a walk, sometimes at a
dog-trot, and, when close to our goal, on the dead run. You could not
hear a word in that pandemonium. All commands were given by example or
by gesture. When our captain lay down, we knew our orders were to be
down too. When he waved to the right, to the right we swerved; if to
the left, we turned to the left. A sweeping gesture, with an arm
extended, first up, then down meant, "Halt! Lie down!" From down up,
it meant, "Rise!" When his hand was thrust swiftly forward, we knew he
was shouting, "En avant!" and when he waved his hand in a circle above
his head, we broke into the double-quick.
Three times on our way to the second trench, the captain dropped and
we after him. Then three short, quick rushes by the companies and a
final dash as the curtain of shells lifted and dropped farther away.
Then a hand-to-hand struggle, short and very bloody, some using their
bayonets, others clubbing their rifles and grenades. A minute or two,
and the trench was ours. The earthen fortress, so strong that the
Germans had boasted that it could be held by a janitor and two
washerwomen, was in the hands of the Legion.
As we swept on, the trench-cleaners entered the trench behind and
began setting things to rights. Far down, six to eight metres below
the surface, they found an underground city. Long tunnels, with
chambers opening to right and left; bedrooms, furnished with
bedsteads, washstands, tables, and chairs; elaborate mess-rooms, some
fitted with pianos and phonographs. There were kitchens, too, and even
bathrooms. So complex was the labyrinth that three days after the
attack Germans were found stowed away in the lateral galleries. The
passages were choked with dead. Hundreds of Germans who had survived
the bombardment were torn to pieces deep beneath the ground by French
hand-grenades, and buried where they lay. In rifles, munitions, and
equipment the booty was immense.
We left the subterranean combat raging underneath us and continued on.
As we passed over the main trench, we were enfiladed by cannon placed
in armored turrets at the end of each section of trench. The danger
was formidable, but it, too, had been foreseen. In a few moments these
guns were silenced by hand-grenades shoved point-blank through the
gun-ports. Just then, I remember, I looked back and saw Pala down on
his hands and knees. I turned and ran over to help him up. He was
quite dead, killed in the act of rising from the ground. His grotesque
posture struck me at the time as funny, and I could not help smiling.
I suppose I was nervous.
[Illustration: AMERICANS IN THE FOREIGN LEGION
Showing type of hand-grenades]
Our line was wearing thin. Halfway to the third trench we were
reinforced by Battalion E coming from behind. The ground in our rear
was covered with our men.
All at once came a change. The German artillery in front ceased
firing, and the next second we saw the reason why. In the trench
ahead, the German troops in black masses were pouring out and
advancing toward us at a trot. Was it a counter-attack? "Tant mieux,"
said a man near me; another, of a different race, said, "We'll show
them!" Then as suddenly our own artillery ceased firing, and the
mystery became plain. The Germans were approaching in columns of
fours, officers to the front, hands held in the air, and, as they came
closer, we could distinguish the steady cry, "Kameraden! Kameraden!"
They were surrendering. How we went at our work! Out flew our knives,
and, in less time than it takes to tell it, we had mingled among the
prisoners, slicing off their trousers buttons, cutting off suspenders,
and hacking through belts. All the war shoes had their laces cut,
according to the regulations laid down in the last French "Manual,"
and thus, slopping along, hands helplessly in their breeches pockets
to keep their trousers from falling round their ankles, shuffling
their feet to keep their boots on, the huge column of prisoners was
sent to the rear with a few soldiers to direct rather than to guard
them. There was no fight left in them now. A terror-stricken group;
some of them, temporarily at least, half insane.
As the Germans left the trenches, their artillery had paused, thinking
it a counter-attack. Now, as file after file was escorted to the rear
and it became apparent to their rear lines that the men had
surrendered, the German artillery saw its mistake and opened up again
furiously at the dark masses of defenseless prisoners. We, too, were
subjected to a terrific fire. Six shells landed at the same instant in
almost the same place, and within a few minutes Section III of our
company had almost disappeared. I lost two of my own section, Casey
and Leguen, both severely wounded in the leg. I counted fourteen men
of my command still on their feet. The company seemed to have shrunk
two thirds. A few minutes later, we entered the trench lately
evacuated by the Prussians and left it by a very deep communication
trench which we knew led to our destination, Ferme Navarin. Just at
the entrance we passed signboards, marked in big letters with black
paint, SCHÜTZENGRABEN SPANDAU.
This trench ran zigzag, in the general direction north and south. In
many places it was filled level with dirt and rocks kicked in by our
big shells. From the mass of débris hands and legs were sticking
stiffly out at grotesque angles. In one place, the heads of two men
showed above the loose brown earth. Here and there, men were sitting,
their backs against the wall of the trench, quite dead, with not a
wound showing. In one deep crater, excavated by our 320-millimetres,
lay five Saxons, side by side, in the pit where they had sought
refuge, killed by the bursting of a single shell. One, a man of about
twenty-three years of age, lay on his back, his legs tensely doubled,
elbows thrust back into the ground, and fingers dug into the palms;
eyes staring in terror and mouth wide open. I could not help carrying
the picture of fear away with me, and I thought to myself, That man
died a coward. Just alongside of him, resting on his left side, lay a
blond giant stretched out easily, almost graceful in death. His two
hands were laid together, palm to palm, in prayer. Between them was a
photograph. The look upon his face was calm and peaceful. The contrast
of his figure with his neighbor's struck me. I noticed that a paper
protruded from his partly opened blouse, and, picking it up, I read
the heading, "Ein' Feste Burg ist Unser Gott." It was a two-leaved
tract. I drew a blanket over him and followed my section.
The trench we marched in wound along in the shelter of a little ridge
crowned with scrubby pines. Here the German shells bothered us but
little. We were out of sight of their observation posts, and,
consequently, their fire was uncontrolled and no longer effective. On
we went. At every other step our feet pressed down upon soldiers'
corpses, lying indiscriminately one on top of the other, sometimes
almost filling the trench. I brushed against one who sat braced
against the side of the trench, the chin resting upon folded arms
naturally--yet quite dead. It was through this trench that the Germans
had tried to rush reinforcements into the threatened position, and
here the men were slaughtered, without a chance to go back or forward.
Hemmed in by shells in both front and rear, many hundreds had climbed
into the open and tried to escape over the fields toward the pine
forest, only to be mown down as they ran. For hundreds of metres
continuously my feet, as I trudged along, did not touch the ground. In
many of the bodies life was not yet extinct, but we had to leave them
for the Red Cross men. We had our orders. No delay was possible, and,
at any rate, our minds were clogged with our own work ahead.
Making such time as we could, we finally arrived at the summit of the
little ridge. Then we left the cover of the trench, formed in Indian
file, fifty metres between sections, and, at the signal, moved forward
swiftly and in order.
It was a pretty bit of tactics and executed with a dispatch and
neatness hardly equalled on the drill-ground. The first files of the
sections were abreast, while the men fell in, one close behind the
other; and so we crossed the ridge, offering the smallest possible
target to the enemy's guns. Before us and a little to our left was the
Ferme Navarin, our goal. As we descended the slope, we were greeted by
a new hail of iron. Shells upon shells, fired singly, by pairs, by
salvos, from six-gun batteries, crashed and exploded around us.
We increased the pace to a run and arrived out of breath abreast of
immense pits dynamited out of the ground by prodigious explosions.
Embedded in them we could see three enemy howitzers, but not a living
German was left. All had disappeared.
We entered the pits and rested for a space. After a moment we crawled
up the side of the pit and peeked over the edge. There I could see
Doumergue stretched on the ground. He was lying on his back, his
shoulders and head supported by his knapsack. His right leg was
doubled under him, and I could see that he had been struck down in the
act of running. As I watched, he strained weakly to roll himself
sideways and free his leg. Slowly, spasmodically, his leg moved. Very,
very slowly the foot dragged itself along the ground, and finally the
limb was stretched alongside the other. Then I saw his rough, wan face
assume a look of satisfaction. His eyes closed. A sigh passed between
his lips, and Doumergue had gone with the rest.
As we waited there, the mood of the men seemed to change. Their
spirits began to rise. One jest started another, and soon we were all
laughing at the memory of the German prisoners marching to the rear,
holding up their trousers with both hands. Some of the men had taken
the welcome opportunity of searching the prisoners while cutting their
suspenders, and most of them were now puffing German cigarettes. One
of them, Haeffle, offered me a piece of K.K. bread,[1] black as ink. I
declined with thanks, for I didn't like the looks of it. In the
relaxation of the moment, nobody paid any attention to the shells
falling outside the little open shelter, until Capdeveille proposed to
crawl inside one of the German howitzers for security. Alas, he was
too fat, and stuck! I myself hoped rather strongly that no shell would
enter one of these pits in which the company had found shelter,
because I knew there were several thousand rounds of ammunition piled
near each piece hidden under the dirt, and an explosion might make it
hot for us.
[1] _Kriegs Kartoffel Brot_.
As we sat there, smoking and chatting, Delpeuch, the _homme des
liaisons_, as he is called, of the company, slid over the edge of the
hollow and brought with him the order to leave the pit in single file
and to descend to the bottom of the incline, in line with some trees
which he pointed out to us. There we were to deploy in open order and
dig shelter-trenches for ourselves--though I can tell the reader that
"shelter" is a poor word to use in such a connection. It seems we had
to wait for artillery before making the attack on Navarin itself. The
trench "Spandau," so Delpeuch told me, was being put into shape by the
engineers and was already partially filled with troops who were coming
up to our support. The same message had been carried to the other
section. As we filed out of our pit, we saw them leaving theirs. In
somewhat loose formation, we ran full-tilt down the hill, and, at the
assigned position, flung ourselves on the ground and began digging
like mad. We had made the last stretch without losing a man.
The Ferme Navarin was two hundred metres from where we lay. From it
came a heavy rifle and mitrailleuse fire, but we did not respond. We
had something else to do. Every man had his shovel, and every man made
the dirt fly. In what seemed half a minute we had formed a continuous
parapet, twelve to fourteen inches in height, and with our knapsacks
placed to keep the dirt in position, we felt quite safe against
infantry and machine-gun fire. Next, each man proceeded to dig his
little individual niche in the ground, about a yard deep, twenty
inches wide, and long enough to lie down in with comfort. Between each
two men there remained a partition wall of dirt, from ten to fifteen
inches thick, the usefulness of which was immediately demonstrated by
a shell which fell into Blondino's niche, blowing him to pieces
without injuring either of his companions to the right or the left.
We were comfortable and able to take pot shots at the Germans and to
indulge again in the old trench game of sticking a helmet on a
bayonet, pushing it a little above the dirt, and thus coaxing the
Germans into a shot and immediately responding with four or five
rifles. I looked at my watch. It said 10.45--just an hour and a half
since we had left our trenches and started on our charge; an hour and
a half in which I had lived days and years.
I was pretty well tired out and would have given the world for a few
hours' sleep. I called to Merrick to toss me Blondino's canteen. Mine
was empty, and Blondino had left his behind when he departed with the
105-millimetre. Haeffle remarked that Blondino was always making a
noise anyway.
The artillery fire died down gradually and only one German battery was
still sweeping us now. Our long-range pieces thundered behind us, and
we could hear shells "swooshing" overhead in a constant stream on
their way to the German target. Our fire was evidently beating down
the German artillery fire excepting the single battery which devoted
its attention to us. The guns were hidden, and our artillery did not
seem able to locate them. Our aeroplanes, long hovering overhead,
began to swoop dangerously low. A swift Morane plane swept by at a
height of two hundred metres over the pine forest where the German
guns were hidden. We watched him as he returned safe to our lines.
Soon the order came down the line to deepen the trenches. It seemed we
were to stay there until night.
The charge was over.
V
Time passed very slowly. I raised my arm to listen to my wrist-watch,
but couldn't hear it. Too many shells!
I knelt cautiously in my hole, and, looking over the edge, counted my
section. There were but eighteen men. The Collettes, both corporals,
were on the extreme left. Next came Capdeveille, Dowd, Zinn, Seeger,
Scanlon, King, Soubiron, Dubois, Corporal Mettayer, Haeffle,
Saint-Hilaire, Schneli, De Sumera, Corporal Denis, Bur-bekkar, and
Birchler. On my left, two paces in the rear of the section, were
Neumayer, Corporal Fourrier, and Sergeant Fourrier. Both these were
supernumeraries. The second sergeant was over with Section II. I began
now to realize our losses. Fully two thirds of my section were killed
or wounded.
I wanted information from Corporal Denis regarding the men of his
squad. Throwing a lump of dirt at him to attract his attention, I
motioned to him to roll over to the side of his hole and make a place
for me. Then, with two quick jumps I landed alongside him. As I
dropped we noticed spurts of dust rising from the dirt-pile in front
of the hole and smiled. The Germans were too slow that time. Putting
my lips to his ears, I shouted my questions and got my information.
This hole was quite large enough to accommodate both of us, so I
decided to stay with him awhile. Corporal Denis still had bread and
cheese and shared it with me. We lunched in comfort.
Having finished, we rolled cigarettes. I had no matches, and as he
reached his cigarette to me to light mine, he jumped almost to his
feet, rolled on his face, and with both hands clasped to his face,
tried to rise, but couldn't. I've seen men who were knocked out in the
squared ring do the same thing. With heads resting on the floor, they
try to get up. They get up on their knees and seem to try to lift
their heads, but can't. Denis tugged and tugged, without avail. I
knelt alongside him and forced his hands from his face. He was covered
with blood spurting out of a three-inch gash running from the left eye
down to the corner of the mouth. A steel splinter had entered there
and passed under the left ear. He must stay in the trench until
nightfall.
I reached for his emergency dressing and as I made the motion felt a
blow in the right shoulder. As soon as I had got Denis tied up and
quiet, I unbuttoned my coat and shirt and picked a rifle-ball out of
my own shoulder. The wound was not at all serious and bled but little.
I congratulated myself, but wondered why the ball did not penetrate;
and then I caught sight of Denis's rifle lying over the parapet and
showing a hole in the woodwork. The ball seemed to have passed through
the magazine of the rifle, knocked out one cartridge, and then hit me.
When I was ready to return to my own hole, I rose a little too high
and the Germans turned loose with a machine gun, but too high. I got
back safely and lay down. It was getting very monotonous. To pass the
time, I dug my hole deeper and larger, placing the loose dirt in front
in a quarter-circle, until I felt perfectly safe against anything
except a direct hit by a shell. There is but one chance in a thousand
of that happening.
The day passed slowly and without mishap to my section. As night fell,
one half of the section stayed on the alert four hours, while the
other half slept. The second sergeant had returned and relieved me at
twelve, midnight. I pulled several handfuls of grass, and with that
and two overcoats I had stripped from dead Germans during the night, I
made a comfortable bed and lay down to sleep. The bank was not
uncomfortable. I was very tired, and dozed off immediately.
Suddenly I awoke in darkness. Everything was still, and I could hear
my watch ticking, but over every part of me there was an immense
leaden weight. I tried to rise, and couldn't move. Something was
holding me and choking me at the same time. There was no air to
breathe. I set my muscles and tried to give a strong heave. As I drew
in my breath, my mouth filled with dirt. I was buried alive!
It is curious what a man thinks about when he is in trouble. Into my
mind shot memories of feats of strength performed. Why, I was the
strongest man in the section. Surely I could lift myself out, I
thought to myself, and my confidence began to return. I worked the
dirt out of my mouth with the tip of my tongue and prepared myself
mentally for the sudden heave that would free me. A quick inhalation,
and my mouth filled again with dirt. I could not move a muscle under
my skin. And then I seemed to be two people. The "I" who was thinking
seemed to be at a distance from the body lying there.
My God! Am I going to die stretched out in a hole like this? I
thought.
Through my mind flashed a picture of the way I had always hoped to
die--the way I had a right to die: face to the enemy and running
toward him. Why, that was part of a soldier's wages. I tried to shout
for help, and more dirt entered my mouth! I could feel it gritting way
down in my throat. My tongue was locked so I could not move it. I
watched the whole picture. I was standing a little way off and could
hear myself gurgle. My throat was rattling, and I said to myself,
"That's the finish!" Then I grew calm. It wasn't hurting so much, and
somehow or other I seemed to realize that a soldier had taken a
soldier's chance and lost. It wasn't his fault. He had done the best
he could. Then the pain all left me and the world went black. It was
death.
Then somebody yelled, "Hell! He bit my finger." I could hear him.
"That's nothing," said a voice I knew as Collette's. "Get the dirt out
of his mouth."
Again a finger entered my throat, and I coughed spasmodically.
Some one was working my arms backward, and my right shoulder hurt me.
I struggled up, but sank to my knees and began coughing up dirt.
"Here," says Soubiron, "turn round and spit that dirt on your parapet.
It all helps." The remark made me smile.
I was quite all right now, and Soubiron, Collette, Joe, and Marcel
returned to their holes. The Red Cross men were picking something out
of the hole made by a 250-millimetre, they told me. It was the remnant
of Corporal and Sergeant Fourrier, who had their trench to my left. It
seems that a ten-inch shell had entered the ground at the edge of my
hole, exploded a depth of two metres, tearing the corporal and the
sergeant to pieces, and kicking several cubic metres of dirt into and
on top of me. Soubiron and the Collettes saw what had happened, and
immediately started digging me out. They had been just in time. It
wasn't long before my strength began to come back. Two
stretcher-bearers came up to carry me to the rear, but I declined
their services. There was too much going on. I dug out the German
overcoats, recovered some grass, and, bedding myself down in the
crater made by the shell, began to feel quite safe again. Lightning
never strikes twice in the same spot.
However, that wasn't much like the old-fashioned lightning. The enemy
seemed to have picked upon my section. The shells were falling thicker
and closer. Everybody was broad awake now, and all of us seemed to be
waiting for a shell to drop into our holes. It was only a question of
time before we should be wiped out. Haeffle called my attention to a
little trench we all had noticed during the daytime, about forty
metres in front of us. No fire had come from there, and it was
evidently quite abandoned.
I took Haeffle and Saint-Hilaire with me and quietly crawled over to
the trench, round the end of it, and started to enter at about the
middle.
Then all of a sudden a wild yell came out of the darkness in front of
us.
"Franzosen! Die Franzosen!"
We couldn't see anything, nor they either. There might have been a
regiment of us, or of them for that matter. I screeched out in German,
"Hände hoch!" and jumped into the trench followed by my two
companions. As we crouched in the bottom, I yelled again, "Hände hoch
oder wir schiessen!"
The response was the familiar "Kameraden! Kameraden!" Haeffle gave an
audible chuckle.