in breadth, so terribly torn and rent, which stretches through our land
of France from the North Sea to Alsace, following the line of those
trenches, where the barbarians have dug themselves in, it is just here,
I believe, that that zone, where suffering and glory reign supreme,
attains the climax of its nightmare-like illusiveness, the climax of its
horror. I say "just here" because I am not allowed to be more definite;
just here, however, in a certain province which had even before the war
a depressing-nickname, something like "the desolate province," "the mean
province," or even, if you like, "the lousy province." The reason was
that even before it was laid waste it was already very barren, almost
without verdure; it had nothing to show except unfruitful valleys, some
clumps of stunted pines, some poverty-stricken villages, which had not
even the saving grace of antiquity, for century by century savages from
Germany had come and disported themselves there, and when they went away
everything had to be rebuilt.
And now since the great new onrush, which surpassed all abominations
ever before experienced, how strange, fantastic almost, seems this
region of woe, with its calcined ruins, its chalky soil dug over and
again dug over down to its very depths, as if by myriads of burrowing
animals.
Once again I make my way to-day in my motor car into the midst of it all
on some mission assigned to me, and I had never yet seen it in all the
mire of the thaw, in which our poor little warriors in blue caps are so
uncomfortably engulfed up to mid-leg. I feel my heart sinking more and
more the farther I go along these broken-up roads, which are becoming
still more crowded with our dear soldiers, all lamentably coated with
greyish mud. The occasional villages on our road are more and more
damaged by shells, and peasant women or children are no longer to be
seen; there are no more civilians, nothing but blue helmets, but of
these there are thousands. The rapid melting of the snow in such a
sudden burst of sunshine marks the distant landscape with zebra-like
stripes, white and earth-coloured. And all the hills which we pass now
seem to be inhabited by tribes of troglodytes, while every slope which
faces us, who are coming in this direction, and which, owing to its
position, has thus escaped the notice and the fire of the enemy, is
riddled with mouths of caves, some ranged in rows, some built in
stories one above the other, and from these peer out human heads in
helmets, enjoying the sun. What can this country be? Is it prehistoric,
or merely very remote? Surely no one would say that it was France. Save
for this bitter, icy wind, this country, with its sky almost too blue
to-day for a northern sky, might be taken for the banks of the upper
Nile, the Libyan ridge where subterranean caverns gape.
Again a semblance of a village appears, the last through which I shall
pass, for those which are distant landmarks on the road that leads
towards the barbarians, are nothing more now than hapless heaps of stone
resembling barrows. This village, too, be it understood, is
three-quarters in ruins; there remain fragments of walls in grotesque
shapes, letting in the daylight and displaying a black marbling of soot
where the chimneys used to be. But many soldiers are gaily having their
breakfast in the purely imaginary shelter afforded them by these remains
of houses. There are pay-sergeants even, who are seated unconcernedly at
improvised tables, busy with their writing.
Bang! A shell! It is a shell hurled blindly and from a great distance by
the barbarians, without definite purpose, merely in the hope that it may
succeed in hurting someone. It has fallen on the ruins of a roofless
stable, where some poor horses are tethered, and here are two of them
who have been struck down and are lying bellies upwards and kicking out,
as they do when they are dying; they stain the snow crimson with blood
spurting from their chests in jets, as if forced from a pump.
The village soon disappears in the distance, and I enter this no man's
land, always rather a solemn region, which from end to end along the
front indicates the immediate neighbourhood of the barbarians. The March
sun, astonishingly strong, beats down upon this tragic desert where
great sheets of white snow alternate with broad, mud-coloured surfaces.
And now whenever my car stops and pauses, for some reason or other, and
the engine is silent, the noise of the cannon is heard more and more
loudly.
At last I reach the farthest point to which my car can convey me; if I
took it on farther it would be seen by the Boches, and the shells that
are roaming about here and there in the air would converge upon it. It
must be safely bestowed, together with my chauffeurs, in a hollow of the
undulating ground, while I continue my journey alone on foot.
First of all I have to telephone to General Headquarters. The telephone
office is that dark hole over there, hidden among scanty bushes.
Climbing down a very narrow flight of steps, I penetrate seven or eight
yards into the earth, and there I find four soldiers installed as
telephone girls, illumined by tiny electric lamps that shine like
glow-worms. These are territorials, about forty years of age, and the
man who hands me the telephone apparatus wears a wedding ring--doubtless
he has a wife and children living somewhere yonder out in the open air,
where life is possible. Nevertheless he tells me that he has been six
months in this damp hole, beneath the surface of ground which is
continually swept by shells, and he tells me this with cheerful
resignation, as if the sacrifice were quite a natural thing. In the same
spirit his companions speak of their white-ant existence without a shade
of complaint. And these, too, are worthy of admiration, all these
patient heroes of the darkness, equally so, perhaps, with their
comrades who fight in the open air in the light of day, with mutual
encouragement.
Emerging from the underground cave, where the noises are muffled, I hear
very clearly the cannonade; my eyes are dazzled by the unwonted sunlight
which illumines all those white stretches of snow.
I have to journey about two miles through this strange desert to reach a
paltry little clump of sorry-looking pines which I perceive over there
on some rising ground. It is there that I have made an appointment to
meet an officer of sappers, whom my business concerns, for the purpose
of fulfilling my mission.
A pretence of a desert, I ought rather to call it, for underground it is
thickly populated by our soldiers, armed and alert. At the first signal
of an attack they would rush out through a thousand apertures; but for
the moment, throughout the whole extent of this tract, so sun-steeped
and yet so cold, not more than one or two blue caps are visible,
belonging to men who are stealing along from one shelter to another.
And it is, moreover, a terribly noisy desert, for besides the continual
detonation of artillery from varying ranges, there is a noise like huge
kinds of beetles flying, which, as they pass, make almost the same
buzzing sound as aeroplanes, but they all fly so fast as to be
invisible. Their flight is haphazard, and when they strike their heads
hard against the ground pebbles, earth, scrap-iron, spout up in jets
shaped like wheat-sheaves. On the eastern horizon, silhouetted against
the sky, stands one of those tumuli of ruins which now mark the place of
former villages; and it is here especially that those huge beetles are
bent on falling, raising each time clouds of plaster and dust. It is, to
be sure, a useless and idle bombardment, for already all this has
perished.
To-day especially, being a day of a great thaw, a distance of two miles
here in this region where so many of our poor soldiers are doomed to
exist, is equal to a distance of at least ten miles elsewhere--it is
such heavy going. You sink up to your ankles in mud, and you cannot draw
your foot out, for the mud sticks tight like glue. The wind still
remains cold and icy, but in the midst of a sky too deeply blue shines a
sun, beating down upon my head, and under the steel helmet, which grows
heavier and heavier, beads of sweat stand upon my forehead. The snow has
made up its mind to melt, and that suddenly. All the summits of those
melancholy-looking hills, bared of their covering, resume again their
brown colour and resemble hindquarters of animals couching on these
plains which still remain white.
This is the first time that I find myself absolutely, infinitely alone,
in the midst of this scene of intense desolation, which, though to-day
it happens to glitter with light, is none the less dismal. Until I reach
the little wood whither I am bound on duty there is nothing to think
about, nothing with which I need concern myself. I need not trouble to
get out of the way of shells, for they would not give me time, nor even
to select places where to put my feet, since I sink in equally wherever
I step. And so, gradually, I find myself relapsing into a state of mind
characteristic of former days before the war, and I look at all these
things to which I had grown accustomed and view them impartially, as if
they were new. Twenty short months ago, who would have imagined such
scenes? For instance, these countless spoil-heaps, white in colour,
because the soil of this province is white, spoil-heaps which are thrown
up everywhere in long lines, tracing on the desert so many zebra-like
stripes; is it possible that these indicate the only tracks by which
to-day our soldiers of France can move about with some measure of
safety? They are little hollow tracks, some undulating, some straight,
communication trenches which the French nickname "intestines." These
have been multiplied again and again, until the ground is furrowed with
them unendingly. What prodigious work, moreover, they represent, these
mole-like paths, spreading like a network over hundreds of leagues. If
to their sum be added trenches, shelter caves, and all those catacombs
that penetrate right into the heart of the hills, the mind is amazed at
excavations so extensive, which would seem the work of centuries.
And these strange kinds of nets, stretched out in all directions, would
anyone, unless previously warned and accustomed to them, understand
what they were? They look as if gigantic spiders had woven their webs
around countless numbers of posts, which stretch out beyond range of
sight, some in straight lines, some in circles or crescents, tracing on
that wide tract of country designs in which there must surely be some
cabalistic significance intended to envelop and entangle the barbarians
more effectively. Since I last came this way these obstructing nets must
have been reinforced to a terrible extent, and their number has been
multiplied by two, by ten. In order to achieve such inextricable
confusion our soldiers, those weavers of snares, must have made in them
turnings and twists with their great bobbins of barbed wire carried
under their arms. But here, at various points, are enclosures, whose
purpose is obvious at a glance and which add to the grisly horror of the
whole scene; these fences of wood surround closely packed groups of
humble little wooden crosses made of two sticks. Alas! what they are is
clear at first sight. Thus, then, they lie, within sound of the
cannonade, as if the battle were not yet over for them, these dear
comrades of ours who have vanished, heroes humble yet
sublime--inapproachable for the present, even for those who weep for
them, inapproachable, because death never ceases to fly through the air
which stirs overhead, above their little silent gatherings.
Ah! to complete the impression of unreality a black bird appears of
fabulous size, a monster of the Apocalypse, flying with great clamour
aloft in the air. He is moving in the direction of France, seeking, no
doubt, some more sheltered region, where at last women and children are
to be found, in the hope of destroying some of them. I keep on walking,
if walking it can be called, this wearisome, pitiless repetition of
plunges into snow and ice-cold mud. At last I reach the clump of trees
where we have arranged to meet. I am thankful to have arrived there, for
my helmet and cap were encumbrances under that unexpectedly hot sun. I
am, however, before my time. The officer whom I invited to meet me
here--in order to discuss questions concerning new works of defence, new
networks of lines, new pits--that is he, no doubt, that blue silhouette
coming this way across the snow-shrouded ground. But he is far away, and
for a few more moments I can still indulge in the reverie with which I
whiled away the journey, before the time comes when I must once more
become precise and businesslike. Evidently the place is not one of
perfect peace, for it is clear that these melancholy boughs, half
stripped of leaves already, have suffered from those great humming
cockchafers that fly across from time to time, and have been shot
through as if they were no stronger than sheets of paper. It is, to be
sure, but a small wood, yet it keeps me company, wrapping me round with
an illusion of safety.
I am standing here on rising ground, where the wind blows more icily,
and I command a view of the whole terrible landscape, a succession of
monotonous hills, striped in zebra fashion with whitish trenches; its
few trees have been blasted by shrapnel. In the distance that network of
iron wire, stretching out in all directions, shines brightly in the sun,
and is not unlike the gossamer which floats over the meadows in spring
time. And on all sides the detonation of artillery continues with its
customary clamour, unceasing here, day and night, like the sea beating
against the cliffs.
Ah! the big black bird has found someone to talk to in the air. I see
it suddenly assailed by a quantity of those flakes of white cotton wool
(bursts of shrapnel), in appearance so innocent, yet so dangerous to
birds of his feather. So he hurriedly turns back, and his crimes are
postponed to another day.
From behind a neighbouring hill issues a squad of men in blue, who will
reach me before the officer on the road yonder. It is one, just one, of
a thousand of those little processions which, alas! may be met with
every hour all along the front, forming, as it were, part of the
scenery. In front march four soldiers carrying a stretcher, and others
follow them to relieve them. They, too, are attracted by the delusive
hope of protection afforded by the branches, and at the beginning of the
wood they stop instinctively for a breathing space and to change
shoulders. They have come from first line trenches a mile or two away
and are carrying a seriously wounded man to a subterranean field
hospital, not more than a quarter of an hour's walk away. They,
likewise, had not anticipated the heat of that terrible March sun, which
is beating down on their heads; they are wearing their helmets and
winter caps, and these weigh upon them as heavily as the precious burden
which they are so careful not to jolt. In addition to this they drag
along on each leg a thick crust of snow and sticky mud, which makes
their feet as heavy as elephants' feet, and the sweat pours in great
drops down their faces, cheerful in spite of fatigue.
"Where is your man wounded?" I ask, in a low voice.
In a voice still lower comes the reply: "His stomach is ripped open, and
the Major in the trench said that----" they finish the sentence merely
by shaking their heads, but I have understood. Besides he has not
stirred. His poor hand remains lying across his eyes and forehead,
doubtless to protect them from the burning sun, and I ask them:
"Why have you not covered his face?"
"We put a handkerchief over it, sir, but he took it off. He said he
preferred to remain like this, _so that he could still look at things
between his fingers_."
Ah! the last two men have blood as well as sweat pouring over their
faces and trickling in a little stream down their necks.
"It is nothing much, sir," they say, "we got that as soon as we started.
We began by carrying him along the communication trenches, but that
jolted him too much, so then we walked along outside in the open."
Poor fellows, admirable for their very carelessness. To save their
wounded man from jolts they risked their own lives. Two or three of
these death-bringing cockchafers, which go humming along here at all
hours, came down and were crushed to pieces on the stones close to them,
and wounded them with their shattered fragments. The Germans disdain to
fire at a single wayfarer like myself, but a group of men, and a
stretcher in particular, they cannot resist. One of these men, both of
whom are dripping with blood, has perhaps actually received only a
scratch, but the other has lost an ear; only a shred is left, hanging by
a thread.
"You must go at once and have your wound dressed at the hospital, my
friend," I say to him.
"Yes, sir. And we are just on our way there, to the hospital. It is very
lucky."
This is the only idea of complaint that has entered his head.
"It is very lucky."
And he says this with such a quiet, pleasant smile, grateful to me for
taking an interest in him.
I hesitated before going to look more closely at their seriously wounded
man who never stirred, for I feared lest I should disturb his last
dream. Nevertheless I approach him very gently, because they are just
going to carry him away.
Alas! he is almost a child, a child from some village; so much is clear
from his bronzed cheeks, which have scarcely yet begun to turn pale. The
sun, even as he desired, shines full upon his comely face, the face of a
boy of twenty, with a frank and energetic expression, and his hand still
shades his eyes, which have a fixed look and seem to have done with
sight. Some morphia had to be given him to spare him at least
unnecessary suffering.
Lowly child of our peasantry, little ephemeral being, of what is he
dreaming, if indeed he still dreams? Perhaps of a white-capped mother
who wept tender tears whenever she recognised his childish writing on an
envelope from the front. Or perhaps he is dreaming of a cottage garden,
the delight of his earliest years, where, he reflects, this warm March
sun will call to life new shoots all along some old wall. On his chest I
see the handkerchief with which one of the men had attempted to cover
his face; it is a fine handkerchief, embroidered with a marquis's
coronet--the coronet of one of his stretcher bearers. He had desired
_still to look at things_, in his terror, doubtless, of the black night.
But soon he will suddenly cease to be aware of this same sun, which now
must dazzle him. First of all he will enter the half-darkness of the
field hospital, and immediately afterwards there will descend upon him
that black inexorable night, in which no March sun will ever rise again.
"Go on at once, my friends," I say to them, "the wind blows too cold
here for people drenched with sweat like you."
I watch them move away, their legs weighted with slabs of viscous mud.
My admiration and my compassion go with them on their way through the
snow, where they plod along so laboriously.
These men, to be sure, still have some privileges, for they can at least
help one another, and careful hands are waiting to dress their wounds in
an underground refuge, which is almost safe. But close to this, at
Verdun, there are thousands of others, who have fallen in confused
heaps, smothering one another. Underneath corpses lie dying men, whom it
is impossible to rescue from those vast charnel-houses, so long ago and
so scientifically prepared by the Kaiser for the greater glory of that
ferocious young nonentity whom he has for a son.
XXIV
AT SOISSONS
_September, 1915._
Soissons is one of our great martyred towns of the north; it can be
entered only by circuitous and secret paths, with such precautions as
Redskins take in a forest, for the barbarians are hidden everywhere
within the earth and on the hill close at hand, and with field-glasses
at their wicked eyes they scan the roads, so that they may shower
shrapnel on any rash enough to approach that way.
One delightful September evening I was guided towards this town by some
officers accustomed to its dangerous surroundings. Taking a zigzag
course over low-lying ground, through deserted gardens, where the last
roses of the season bloomed and the trees were laden with fruit, we
reached without accident the suburbs, and were soon actually in the
streets of the town. Grass had already begun to sprout there from the
ruins during the last year in which all signs of human life had
vanished. From time to time we met some groups of soldiers, otherwise
not a soul, and a deathlike silence held sway under that wonderful
late-summer sky.
Before the invasion it was one of these towns, fallen a little into
neglect, that exist in the depths of our provinces of France, with
modest mansions displaying armorial bearings and standing in little
squares planted with elms; and life there must have been very peaceful
in the midst of somewhat old-fashioned ways and customs. It is in the
destruction of these old hereditary homes, which were doubtless loved
and venerated, that senseless barbarism daily wreaks its vengeance. Many
of these buildings have collapsed, scattering on to the pavement their
antiquated furniture, and in their present immobility remain, as it
were, in postures of suffering. This evening there happens to be a lull.
A few somewhat distant cannon shots still come and punctuate, if I may
say so, the funereal monotony of the hours; but this intermittent music
is so customary in these parts that though it is heard it attracts no
notice. Instead of disturbing the silence, it seems actually to
emphasise it and at the same time to deepen its tragedy.
Here and there, on walls that still remain undamaged, little placards
are posted, printed on white paper, with the notice: "House still
occupied." Underneath, written by hand, are the names of the
pertinacious occupants, and somehow, I cannot say why, this strikes the
observer as being a rather futile formality. Is it to keep away robbers
or to warn off shells? And where else, in what scene of desolation
similar to this, have I noticed before other little placards such as
these? Ah, I remember! It was at Pekin, during its occupation by
European troops, in that unhappy quarter which fell into the hands of
Germany, where the Kaiser's soldiers gave rein to all their worst
instincts, for they may be judged on that occasion, those brutes, by
comparing their conduct with that of the soldiers of the other allied
countries, who occupied the adjoining quarters of the town without
harming anyone. No, the Germans, they alone practised torture, and the
poor creatures delivered up to their doltish cruelty tried to preserve
themselves by pasting on their doors ingenuous inscriptions such as
these, "Here dwell Chinese under French protection," or "All who dwell
here are Chinese Christians." But this availed them nothing. Besides,
their Emperor--the same, always the same, who is sure to be lurking,
his tentacles swollen with blood, at the bottom of every gaping wound in
whatever country of the world, the same great organiser of slaughter on
earth, lord of trickery, prince of shambles and of charnel-houses--he
himself had said to his troops:
"Go and do as the Huns did. Let China remain for a century terrorised by
your visitation."
And they all obeyed him to the letter.
But the treasures out of those houses in Pekin, pillaged by his orders,
that lay strewn on the ancient paving-stones of the streets over there,
were quantities of relics very strange to us, very unfamiliar--images
sacred to Chinese worship, fragments of altars dedicated to ancestors,
little _stelae_ of lacquer, on which were inscribed in columns long
genealogies of Manchus whose origins were lost in night.