A young Russian officer in the French dragoons told me that he had
been fighting since the beginning of the war with never more than
three hours' sleep a night and often no sleep at all. On many nights
those brief hours of rest were in beetroot fields in which the German
shrapnel had been searching for victims, and he awakened now and then
to listen to the well-known sound of that singing death before dozing
off again.
It was "Boot and saddle" at four o'clock in the morning, before the
dawn. It was cold then--a cold which made men tremble as with an ague.
A cup of black coffee was served, and a piece of bread.
The Russian officer of French dragoons, who has lived in British
colonies, saw a vision then--a false mirage--of a British breakfast. It
was the thought of grilled bloaters, followed by ham and eggs, which
unmanned him for a moment. Ten minutes later the cavalry was moving
away. A detachment was sent forward on a mission of peril, to guard a
bridge. There was a bridge near Béthune one night guarded by a little
patrol. It was only when the last man had been killed that the Germans
made their way across.
Through the darkness these mounted men leaned forward over their
saddles, peering for the enemy, listening for any jangle of stirrup
or clink of bit. On that night there came a whisper from the cavalry
leader.
"They are coming!... Quiet there!"
A file of dark shadows moved forward. The dragoons swung their carbines
forward. There was a volley of shots before the cry rang out.
"Cessez feu! Cessez feu!"
The cry had been heard before from German officers speaking excellent
French, but this time there was no treachery in it. The shadows who
moved forward through the night were Frenchmen changing from one trench
to another.
The risk of death is taken lightly by all these men. It is curious,
indeed, that almost every French soldier has a conviction that he will
die in battle sooner or later. In moments of imagination he sees his
own corpse lying out in the field, and is full of pity for his wife and
children. But it does not destroy his courage or his gift of gaiety or
his desire to fight for France or his sublime endurance of pain.