[From The New York Tribune.]
PARIS, Jan. 9.--The most picturesque description of night fighting in
the trenches written by any French correspondent at the front is
published today in Le Figaro. It comes from Charles Tardieu, Corporal in
an infantry regiment, and is a detailed record, half hour by half hour,
of a night of attacks and counter-attacks from 6 o'clock in the evening
until dawn. After describing three successive German assaults, during
which searchlights and flashlights played important parts, the Corporal
notes:
2:25 A.M.--All the Corporals run back for ammunition. We had expended a
hundred rounds each. Away we go to our ammunition reserve, hid in a big
hole twenty yards to the rear, and we come running back and distribute
packages of cartridges. Each man cleans his rifle. An hour passes in
silence, broken only by the intermittent volleys and by the moaning of
the wounded and dying, some of whom exclaim: "Kamarades, kamarades,
drink, drink!" We will look after them when the day breaks.
3:15--Here they come at us again. Bullets whistle over our heads. Our
Captain passes the order in whispers not to open fire until the bouches
sales reach our wire network, then to shoot like hell. We smile grimly
and keep still. Every minute the firing draws nearer. We await behind
our loopholes, now and then risking a peep through them. These loopholes
are only fifteen or twenty centimeters wide, but if a bullet comes
through them it is a skull pierced and certain death. This silent
waiting is a tremendous mental and nervous strain.
We keep still as mice, with clenched teeth. Luminous fuses, like roman
candles, burst forth in every direction, exploding in dust over our
heads. A moment later a dazzling signal light rocket bursts fifty yards
high, just above our trenches, lighting them up as clear as day for
several seconds. We crouch down under the lower parapet like moles.
Immediately afterward a mad fusillade, and the German .77 guns, having
got a better range than during the previous attacks, throw shells that
burst, luckily for us, nearly one hundred yards behind our trenches.
This attack must be general, for we hear fusillades cracking far away to
the right and left.
Suddenly we tremble in spite of ourselves. The hoarse sound of the short
German bugles pierces the night with four lugubrious notes in a minor
key, funereal, deathly. It is their charge. Yells, oaths, and
vociferations are heard in front of us. Our Captain commands us to fire
by volleys: "Aim! Fire!" "They must have felt something," drawls out
some one of us in a nasal, Montmartre-like voice. Then again: "Aim!
Fire!" What sport! Then comes the cric-crac-cric-crac, sewing
machine-like hammering of our mitrailleuses. Our Captain passes the
word: "Fire low! fire low! Aim! Fire!" Volley follows volley. The
enemy's dash seems checked. Their fire slackens. We hear their officers
swearing and yelling at their men in shrill, high-pitched, penetrating
voices. Joyful exaltation gives us a sort of fever. "Aim! Fire!" But the
bouches sales make another rush at us. Driven on by their infuriated
officers, they again reach our wire network. Our Captain commands, "Fire
at will." Then, "Fire at repetition, fire until the magazine is
exhausted." Just as the Germans, in wavering, hesitating groups,
presenting vague outlines, try to cut our networks they tumble over like
marionettes. Already some of our men, intoxicated with fury, stand up in
the trenches.
Our Captain commands, "En avant à la baionnette!" ("At them with
bayonet.") A fierce roar from our chests, and the only bugler left alive
in our company sounds the charge. Away we go with our bayonets. We
scarcely reach them when the bouches are put to rout. Some of them
escape helter-skelter, throwing down rifles and knapsacks. "Halt!"
commands our Captain. We lie down and keep up the firing on the
retreating remnants of the enemy. "Back to the trenches!" is the next
command. A few more volleys in the direction of the Germans, then comes
the command, "Cease firing. Take your haversacks, eat, and rest." All
becomes silent again except for the harrowing moans of the wounded. We
learn that the German assault has been repulsed all along the line.
Their losses must have been awful.
5 A.M.--Gray, misty dawn breaks from behind the orme trees. Soon we are
able to see what has happened. Over three hundred bouches are on the
ground in front of our company's trench, lying dead or wounded. Our
cooks with their soup pots get out of our hole and go to the rear to
prepare in the underground kitchens our well-earned coffee and cabbage
soup. Our Captain rubs his hands with satisfaction. A strong patrol goes
out of our trenches to reconnoitre the enemy's positions in the pine
wood. The rest of us try to get some sleep.