Some of the letters from French soldiers, scrawled in the squalor
of the trenches by men caked in filth and mud, are human documents
in which they reveal themselves with extraordinary intimacy, and in
which they put the whole truth, not disguising their terror or their
blood-lust in the savage madness of a bayonet charge, or the heartache
which comes to them when they think of the woman they love, or the
queer little emotions and sentiments which come to them in the grim
business of war....
"I send this letter," writes a young Zouave, "as I sit huddled under
an earth-heap at twenty yards from a German trench, less to be envied
than a rabbit in its burrow, because when the hunter is far away it
can come out and feed at pleasure. You who live through the same
agonies, old friend, must learn and rejoice that I have been promoted
adjutant on the night of November 13 on the banks of the Yser. There
were seventy men out of 250--the rest of the company sleep forever
round that ferryman's house which the papers have made famous.... What
moral sufferings I have endured! We have now been brought to the south
of Ypres and continue this depressing life in advanced trenches. Not
a quarter of an hour's respite; shells, shrapnels, bombs and bullets
fall around us continuously. How courage has changed with this modern
war! The hero of olden times was of a special type, who put on a fine
poise and played up to the gallery because he fought before admiring
spectators. Now, apart from our night attacks, always murderous, in
which courage is not to be seen, because one can hardly discern one's
neighbour in the darkness, our valour consists in a perfect stoicism.
Just now I had a fellow killed before a loophole. His comrades dragged
him away, and with perfect quietude replaced the man who is eternally
out of action. Isn't that strange? Isn't it courage to get the brains
of one's comrade full in the face, and then to stand on guard in the
same place while suffering the extremes of cold and dampness?... On the
night of the 13th I commanded a section of corps which a mitrailleuse
had raked. I had the luck to escape, and I shouted to these poor devils
to make a last assault. Then I saw what had happened and found myself
with a broken rifle and a uniform in rags and tatters. My commandant
spoke to me that night, and said: 'You had better change those clothes.
You can put on an adjutant's stripes.'"...
"The greater number of the bodies," writes a soldier, "still lie
between the trenches, and we have been unable to withdraw them. We can
see them always, in frightful quantity, some of them intact, others
torn to bits by the shells which continue to fall upon them. The stench
of this corruption floats down upon us with foul odours. Bits of their
rotting carcasses are flung into our faces and over our heads as new
shells burst and scatter them. It is like living in a charnel house
where devils are at play flinging dead men's flesh at living men, with
fiendish mockery. The smell of this corruption taints our food, and
taints our very souls, so that we are spiritually and physically sick.
That is war!"
"This horrible game of war," writes another man, "goes on passionately
in our corner. In seventy-four days we have 'progressed' about 1200
yards. That tells you everything. Ground is gained, so to speak, by the
inch, and we all know now how much it costs to get back a bit of free
France."
Along the French lines Death did not rest from his harvesting whatever
the weather, and although for months there was no general advance on
either side, not a day passed without new work for the surgeons, the
stretcher-bearers, and the grave-diggers. One incident is typical of a
hospital scene near the front. It was told in a letter from a hospital
nurse to a friend in Paris.
"About midday we received a wounded general, whom we made as
comfortable as possible in a little room. Although he suffered
terribly, he would submit to no special care, and only thought of the
comfort of two of his officers. By an extraordinary chance a soldier
of his own regiment was brought in a few moments later. Joy of the
general, who wanted to learn at once what had happened to his children.
He asked to see the soldier immediately:
"'Tell me--the commandant?'
"'Dead, mon général.'
"'And the captain?'
"'Dead, mon général.'
"Four times questions were asked, and four times the soldier, whose
voice became lower, made his answer of death. Then the general lowered
his head and asked no more. We saw the tears running down his scarred
old face, and we crept out of the room on tiptoe."