breaths start the blood slowly moving through my veins, and I walk
around in the mud, stretching my cramped limbs. There are the usual new
shell-holes scattered about to make us first rejoice in our shelter and
then look doubtfully at the all-too-thin layer of dirt on the roof
between us and a direct hit. The Germans, when they take up a position,
seem to think of it as permanent, dig their _abris_ often as deep as a
hundred feet underground, and are absolutely safe in them except when a
raiding party tosses a grenade down the stairs. Their officers’ quarters
are particularly spacious, lined with cement, with the walls often
papered, holding brass beds and other quite civilized comforts. A piano
was found in one. It had been put in before the cement was laid, and
they were unable to remove it when they retreated—even if they had had
the time. The French, whether from laziness or because they expect soon
again to be moving forward, waste little time on the dug-outs. The
standard is a pit lined with sandbags, and covered by a conventional
form of corrugated steel roof, with more sandbags and a little dirt on
top of this. These protect from the _éclats_, or shell fragments, but
form a death trap for all inside if there is a direct hit. If the side
of a hill or a hollow is available it affords more protection. The one
direct hit on our _abri_ at P 2 was luckily a “dud,” and caused no
damage.
I walk over to the pile of discarded equipment to see if anything
interesting has been added during the night. This and the hospital are
the two favorite places for souvenir hunters. At all the _postes_ and in
the hospitals the rifles, bayonets, packs, belts, cartridges, knives,
grenades, revolvers, shoes, and other equipment of the wounded and dead
are put in a large pile, and the first to recover get the pick—after our
selection. At the _postes_ these things are piled in the open, with no
protection from the elements, and many are slowly disintegrating. This
morning, of the new things there is of interest only one of the large
wire-clippers, used by the _pionniers_ and scouts for passing through
the enemy wire. But my friend has seen them first, so I waive all
claims, and he tucks them carefully away in one of the several
side-boxes with which the cars are equipped.
The trees are twice decimated, but the birds have stayed, and now they
are waking and, overflowing with high spirits, sing their message of
good cheer. They answer each other from different parts of the wood, and
by closing one’s eyes one seems to be in the country at home. Never has
the song of birds seemed more beautiful or more welcome, and, gladdened,
we listen while we may, before the slowly swelling thunder of the guns,
beginning their early morning bombardment, drowns out all other sound.
We go down again into the _abri_ and pray for a load soon to take us
down to the hospital and breakfast at headquarters.
* * * * *
WE have been ordered _en repos_, and after turning in our extra gas
masks—we carry ten in the car for the wounded in addition to the two on
our person—our _blessé_ blankets, and stretchers, we start in to load
the cars with our friends, and our own baggage. As for some time our
baggage has been lying _en masse_ in the “drawing-room” of Tucker Inn,
as some humorous _conducteur_ styled the roofless pen in Récicourt,
where our belongings were left while we were rolling, or in the
surrounding _abris_, one could not be at all certain that he was putting
the right things in the right duffles, and it was not surprising if a
stray jar or two of _confiture_ most unaccountably found its way into
one’s own duffle.
The section in formation, we roll off with the sun shining brightly on
grimy cars and drivers, down the roads, passing ruin after ruin, with a
burst of speed past a corner in view of the German trenches, and we
again begin to see familiar ground. The green hill back of Erize, with
shadows of the woods and the scars of the old trenches, appears in the
distance, and my friend looks at me and chuckles.
Back in the same little town, parked in the same ruins with the same
quietness, peace, and relaxation from the tenseness of the past days,
which is so welcome this time, my friend and I walk into a little
_estaminet_, pledge each other in glasses of French beer, and taking off
our helmets for almost the first time in what seems an age, survey them
and each other in placid contentment.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
III
EN REPOS
A BATCH of mail was given out the morning after our return. When we
moved, our address seemed to have been lost, for only a few letters, of
no interest to any one, managed to find us. We have been too busy to
miss them, and when they arrived in a bunch there were no complaints.
It is a wonderful thrill to get a letter from home, to read what those
who mean all to one are doing, and to feel their personalities throbbing
“between the lines.” We bridge for a brief moment the chasm of three
thousand miles, and in revery gaze upon those persons, those places, and
those things we have known. Our thoughts here are always in the past. We
cannot think of the present, and we dare not think of the future, but
there is always the past to live in,—the past of events and memories.
We settle down to the same dull monotony as before. For a few days this
is bliss, but it soon becomes tiring again. All work here is contrast.
When we are at work, we work intensively, taking less rest than seems
physically possible, and when _en repos_ we are plunged into the dullest
monotony imaginable, with nothing to amuse or occupy us. This is true of
every branch of active service.
The few air raids are rather an anticlimax after the days that have just
passed, especially as nothing falls near enough to cause us any
annoyance. At Bar-le-Duc the Boche playfully drops a dozen bombs into
the German prison camp, much to every one’s amusement; a mile from us he
destroys a camp of Bulgarian prisoners, and we wonder at his
hard-headedness and laugh. But the next night we hear bombs crashing in
the distance, and in the morning learn from some men in another section
passing through that it was Vadlaincourt, where the Huns flew so near
the ground that soldiers in the streets shot at them with rifles. At
that height the aeroplanes could not mistake their targets, and they
retired only when the hospital was a mass of flaming ruins. There are no
smiles at this. Another night the purring motors reveal outlined high
against the stars a fleet of Zeppelins, bound we know not where, but, we
do know, on a mission of death to the innocent.
* * * * *
THE enemy aeroplane comes over us often. We have wondered why, but we
now realize that while the Allies can get control of the air when they
want it, to keep continual control would be too expensive in both men
and machines. The anti-aircraft gun theoretically solves the problem.
When an enemy machine appears, a battery of _contre-avions_ is notified
and essays the destruction of the adventurer.
It is pretty sport. A little white machine, sometimes catching the glint
of the sun, dashes towards us at a great height. It is sighted, and then
the high-pitched boom-booms of the _contre-avions_ start in, and the
shrapnel breaks at varying distances around the machine like
powder-puffs, which float along for some minutes. After a little of this
harmless sport the Boche gets out of range, the guns cease, and the
machine, having in the meanwhile disposed of some bombs or taken some
photographs, dashes off, to be followed shortly by one or two Frenchmen.
The practical value of the anti-aircraft guns is to keep the machines so
high in the air that they can accomplish little, as the guns rarely
score. At M——, where every day they have been shooting two or three
hundred rounds at the machines which fly over the city, they are quite
proud of their record, for once in one day they shot down three
machines—two of their own and one German. They have been resting on
their laurels ever since. It was a few examples like this which taught
the French airmen to keep out of the sky while the _contre-avions_ were
busy.
* * * * *
“NAPOLEON” was so christened by us because, despite his sparrow-like
form and manner, he considers himself the moving spirit of the army in
general and of our section in particular. Because he knows nothing about
automobiles, he styles himself an expert,—the mere fact that he is
assigned as clerk to an ambulance section proves his claim. The one time
he had the indiscretion to touch a car, he drove the lieutenant’s around
the compound with the emergency brake set—after telling the _sous-chef_
that he had driven cars for twenty years! One of the ambulances goes for
_ravitaillement_ every day, carrying “Napoleon,” who disappears into
mysterious buildings and returns with still more mysterious edibles,
presumably for our delectation.
On one trip the carburetor gave trouble and we stopped and cleaned it.
While we were working we noticed “Napoleon” industriously turning the
lights on and off, pumping the button on the dash. We said nothing, and
when we had finished and started the car again he tapped his chest
proudly, cocked his head, and said, “_Moi!_”
In circumnavigating a large team in the centre of the road later that
day I rubbed “Napoleon” off against a horse, and after that he snubbed
me on every occasion.
* * * * *
BEING at the cross-roads, all manner of men and things come through
Erize. The never-ending stream of _camions_ passing each other as they
go, layers deep with dust and grime, winds on steadily. There is great
rivalry between the _camion pelotons_, and each has adopted an insignia
painted on the sides of the cars to distinguish it from the others. As
there are several hundred _pelotons_ the designs are many, interesting,
and reveal much of the inner nature of the _poilu_. Every species of
beast and fowl is depicted,—greyhound, stork, swallow, and other
types,—as a monkey riding on a shell, a demon with trident pursuing a
German, and then perhaps a child’s face, copied no doubt from the locket
of one of the men.
Soldiers go up cheering wildly, singing and shouting. They return
silent, tired, covered with mud, and reduced in numbers. German rifles,
bayonets, caps, buttons, cartridges, and other odds and ends are then
offered for sale. In August a _poilu_ offered me a German rifle. I was
examining it, and admiring the design, when I noticed the maker’s
name,—the latest type German rifle had been made in New Jersey, U.S.A.
In addition to these things, the _poilus_ have for sale many articles
they have made themselves. The favorite is the _briquet_, or pocket
lighter. This is made in all conceivable sizes and shapes, and operates
by a flint and steel lighting a gasoline wick. This is why we use more
gasoline _en repos_ than when rolling! The soldiers also take the
_soixante-quinze_ shell-cases and carve and hammer them into vases. As
many of the men were experts at work of this type “_avant la guerre_,”
and as much local talent has appeared since, some of the specimens are
very fine indeed, and command high prices in the cities.
[Illustration: A DIVISION EN REPOS
INTERNATIONAL FILM SERVICE CO., INC.]
It is these laughing, playing, seemingly care-free soldiers who are the
spirit of the war. Relieved from the tense struggle of life and death
for a brief rest, their joyous nature blossoms forth in reaction from
the serious affairs of their day’s work.
* * * * *
THERE is nothing that so brings out the best in a man as to fight
against terrific odds, to struggle in a losing fight with the knowledge
that only by superhuman effort can the odds be equaled or turned. To
work for an ideal is a wonderfully inspiring thing, but when the battle
necessitates the risking or the sacrificing of home, happiness, and life
it brings to the surface in those who persevere characteristics which
lie dormant or concealed.
An ideal must be worth while when millions of men gladly risk their all
for its attainment, and those men who risk and sacrifice must have
returned to them something for what they give. Whatever sort of creature
he is on the surface, the fire test, if a man passes it and is not
shrivelled in its all-consuming flame, must develop in him certain
latent and hitherto buried attributes which are fit to greet the light
of day. If he be lacking in worthy human instincts, the flame will
destroy him, but if he passes through the test, he emerges a better
man—how much better depends on the individual. At least, having once
seen the ideal, he has something now for which to live and strive.
* * * * *
THE world, judging from what it saw on the surface, flatly declared that
France could never stand up under the strain; but what has happened has
proved how little of the real worth of a nation or of a man is ever
visible on the surface. There must always come the test, the fire which
burns off the mask, the false surface beneath which mankind ever hides,
and brings forth what is concealed—good or bad. The bad is swept away
and the good survives.
The French are a temperamental people, and consequently are most easily
affected by circumstances. In former times the mass of the people were
inclined to be demonstrative, insincere, somewhat selfish, and rather
egotistical. These characteristics could never pass the tests, and now
the true spirit of France, the Phœnix, is rising from the ashes of the
past a freed and glorified being, radiant in the joy of accomplishment.
From the torture she has endured, an understanding of the feelings and
desires of others must be born which will banish the taint of
selfishness forever. Those who do things are never egotistical—they have
no time to talk, and France has been doing things these past years.
Those who rub elbows with the elementals and sacrifice for each other
and a cause can never be insincere again. And what harm is there in
demonstration? The bad characteristics removed, this becomes merely an
effervescence, a bubbling over of a joyous, unrestrained nature—Ponce de
Leon’s true fountain of perpetual youth.
The difference between the men who have served at the front and either
seen or felt great suffering, and those who have not, is most marked.
One evening I was in an _abri_ where some new recruits were wrangling
over unimportant things, and showing their selfish character in every
speech and act, when a desperately wounded man was brought in. After
serving for some time in the trenches he had been given a few days’
leave to see his family. He went back happily, thinking of the wife and
the little children he was soon to see again. Having left the third-line
trenches, he was walking through the woods down the _boyau_ which leads
to the outer world, when a shell broke overhead. The _brancardiers_
patched him up and brought him in with his head bound so that his eyes
and mouth alone were visible. The doctor handed him a cup of _Pinard_
and a cigarette, neither of which would he touch until he had offered it
to the rest of us. I picked up his helmet which he had put down for an
instant, although his eye never left it. There was a hole in it through
which I could have rolled a golf ball.
To illustrate the reverse—I was standing in a town a little ways back,
waiting for a car to give me a lift up to the lines, when a kitten
rubbed against my leg. I picked it up and started to play with it.
Instantly a peasant—not too old to serve—rushed out and snatched the
kitten from my arms:
“_Ce nest pas à vous!_” was his comment.
* * * * *
THE English can never be called a temperamental race, but even their
stolid worth has needed much shaking up for the best in it to come to
the surface. The example they have set since their awakening is one
which any nation may well emulate, and it will be a proud people indeed
which can ever equal the record they have made in this war for courage
and devotion, never surpassed in the history of the world.
The _poilu_ and the Tommy are of such opposite types that each
completely mystifies the other. The Frenchman works himself up to a
fanatical state of enthusiasm, and in a wild burst of excitement dashes
into the fray. The Englishman finishes his cigarette, exchanges a joke
with his “bunkie,” and coolly goes “over the top.” Both are wonderful
fighters, with the profoundest admiration for each other, but each with
an absolute lack of understanding of the other, intensified by the
difference in language.
* * * * *
THE varying characteristics of troops from different parts of the
world—the allied countries, dependencies, and colonies—have led to their
classification and assignment to the work best adapted to their
temperament. The fighting troops are divided into two main classes
called the “flying” and the “holding” divisions. There are some troops
who are wonderful in a charge, but have no stamina or staying power to
resist counterattacks or the wear of steady fighting. There are others
who lack the initiative and dash, but who can hold on and resist
anything. Then there are others who, while they are possessed of both
qualities, are somewhat better suited for one class than the other. The
Flying Divisions are used chiefly in the attacks, where a quick advance
and desperate fighting must win the day. This completed, they go back
_en repos_ again, while the Holding Divisions take their place to
consolidate the ground won, and to resist the enemy’s attempts to regain
it. The Flying Divisions have longer _repos_ but more violent fighting
while they are on the line, and the Holding Divisions have shorter
_repos_ but a less strenuous although longer stretch in the trenches.
This has all been worked out from observation and experiment.
For example,—in the early days of the war the Madagascans, French
colored colonial troops, are given certain trenches to take. They take
them with little delay, and are told to consolidate and hold them. This
is all very well until supper fails to arrive. The soldiers wait
impatiently for a short while, and then, ignoring the commands of their
officers, evacuate their trenches, which are immediately occupied by the
Germans, and go back for their meal. Supper finished, with no hesitation
they return and in a wild charge recapture their trenches and several
more.
Other French troops in the Flying Division are the Algerians, who have
done wonderful fighting throughout the war, and have suffered heavily.
It is the boast of the Foreign Legion, which is classed as Algerian,
that since its organization it has never failed to reach its objective,
and even in this war it has made good its boast. In one attack the
Legion entered thirty-five thousand strong and returned victorious with
a remnant of thirty-five hundred men.
The Algerians have a sense of humor all their own. An _ambulancier_ was
carrying one of them down to the hospital. As he was only slightly
wounded he was sitting on the front seat with the driver, leaving more
room for the _couchés_ inside. One of the _couchés_ was a German. Half
way to the _triage_ the Algerian made signs to the driver to stop. The
driver looked inquiringly at the man who, with a broad grin, pulled out
a long knife and pointed at the German. The driver naturally did not
humor him, and the sulky Zouave refused to speak to him during the rest
of the trip.
Another Algerian came into the _poste_ one day. He had a great joke that
he wanted us all to hear. He said that he had been given three prisoners
to bring in, and was leading them down a road in a pouring rain, when he
noticed the ruin of a house with the roof missing. He told the prisoners
to go in there there—“where it would be drier,” and when they complied,
stood on the outside and tossed grenades over the wall at them.
The fact that the colonial troops of the Allies, especially those of
Great Britain—the Canadians, Australians, and New Zealanders—fall
practically without exception into the Flying Division because of the
initiative, dash, and daring developed in them to such a degree, has
given Germany, who has won more victories with poisoned pen than with
the sword, an opportunity to stir up hard feeling with her propaganda
between the colonies and their mother country.
This propaganda claims that England has sacrificed her Colonials to save
her own troops. Nothing could be farther from the truth. While the
Colonials are in the Flying Division and the larger part of the English
in the Holding Division, because of their famous bulldog tenacity, the
English have lost a greater percentage of their men than any one of the
colonies. The world has never seen such fighting as the troops of Great
Britain have had to stand up under, and full credit is always given the
Colonials for their share.
The Canadians particularly have distinguished themselves. They share
with the Foreign Legion alone the distinction of never having been given
an objective they have not taken. When the order came for the attack on
Vimy Ridge it read: _The Canadians will take Vimy Ridge at such and such
an hour_, and they took it on the dot. With the Canadians must be put
the Anzacs,—Australians and New Zealanders,—examples of what universal
military training can do.
Then there are the Indians, who never take a prisoner. By training and
tradition they are great head-hunters, and enjoy nothing better than
creeping out at night over No Man’s Land and waiting before the enemy’s
trench until a sentry puts up his head to observe. A quick sweep of the
curved knife, the head is secured, and the Indian returns with the
feeling of “something accomplished, something done, has earned a night’s
repose.” Their sense of humor has much in common with that of the
Algerians—and of the Germans.
Many of the heads, in all stages of curing, have been found in the
knapsacks and equipments of these troops—when they were dead or
unconscious. While conscious, the Indian will guard them with his life,
feeling that they are legitimate souvenirs.
* * * * *
THERE are three French medals which are given for service in this war,
not to mention a number of lesser ones which are seen rarely. The most
coveted of these is the Legion of Honour, a medal famous for some
centuries both in war and peace. This is divided into several classes.
There is the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, a very large medal
worn over the right-hand pocket with no ribbon. This has been awarded to
a few men of the greatness of Joffre and Petain. Then there is the grade
of Commander of the Legion of Honour. This is a smaller cross worn at
the neck. There are also the ranks of Officer and Chevalier. Both are
small crosses on red ribbons, but the former has a rosette on the ribbon
to distinguish it. These are awarded to officers only and are greatly
prized.
Two new medals were struck for the war,—the _Médaille Militaire_ and the
_Croix de Guerre_. The _Médaille_ is a round medal on a yellow ribbon of
one class only, and is awarded to officers and soldiers alike for actual
bravery on the field. The _Croix de Guerre_ is a bronze cross on a green
and red ribbon, and has three classes,—the _Croix de Guerre d’Armée_,
which has a bronze palm on the ribbon, _de Corps d’Armée_, which has a
bronze star on the ribbon, and _de Division_, which has a plain ribbon.
They are awarded for different degrees of bravery or service to officers
and soldiers alike, and may be won unlimited times. In aviation a
_Croix_ with palm is given to an aviator for every enemy plane he is
officially credited with downing. Thus Gynemer at the time of his death
was privileged to wear fifty-five palms on his ribbon. For the benefit
of such as he a silver palm is worn, representing five bronze, and a
gold palm in place of ten bronze. Before this was allowed, Gynemer wore
his ribbon with forty odd palms.
In addition to these there are the colonial medals and a number of
French decorations which have not strictly to do with the war.
* * * * *