COVERED WITH MUD AND GLORY
[Illustration: “HE’S HIT,” SERGEANT LACE CRIES SUDDENLY. AND INDEED HE IS
HIT. _See page 101_]
COVERED WITH MUD
AND GLORY
_A Machine Gun Company in Action_
(“MA MITRAILLEUSE”)
BY
GEORGES LAFOND
SERGEANT-MAJOR, TERRITORIAL HUSSARS, FRENCH ARMY; INTELLIGENCE
OFFICER, MACHINE GUN SECTIONS, FRENCH COLONIAL INFANTRY
_With a Preface by_ MAURICE BARRÈS
_of the French Academy_
_Translated by_ EDWIN GILE RICH
INCLUDING
“A TRIBUTE TO THE SOLDIERS OF FRANCE”
BY
GEORGES CLEMENCEAU
[Illustration]
BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1918
BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
To the Memory of
MY COMRADES of the second company of machine guns of the ...
first Colonials
who fell at the battle of the Somme in July, 1916, and of the
Aisne in April, 1917;
To
LIEUTENANTS MAISONNAVE AND DUPOUY
in remembrance of the hours of fine, sincere comradeship we
lived together;
To
DENYS MAURIN
the quartermaster-sergeant, wounded heroically before Soissons,
in testimony of a sincere friendship which was born under
shell-fire, which grew amid the horrors of grim madness, and
which was firmly fixed through sharing common hopes and common
joys;
_I dedicate these simple pages_ which are only a modest
contribution to the monumental narrative which these anonymous
epics of every day would make
A TRIBUTE TO THE SOLDIERS OF FRANCE
BY GEORGES CLEMENCEAU
I watch our blue-uniformed men at war, as they pass with a friendly and
serious look, generously covered with mud. This is the artillery—slow
marching—which is moving its cannon under a fantastic camouflage, a
mockery of reality. A glistening slope of soaked earth is set in a frame
of shattered trees, twisted into indescribable convulsions of anguish
with the gaping wounds inflicted by the storm of iron. On their horses,
already covered with winter shag, the poilus, slouched in all sorts of
positions, having no suggestion of the rigid form of the manœuvre, are
going from one battlefield to another without any other thought except
that of just keeping on going.
In colorless and shapeless uniforms, indescribably rigged out, and
in poses of the most pleasurable leisure, the soldiers of France
picturesquely slip from glory to glory, less aware, it seems, of
historic grandeur than of serene gladness in implacable duty. They are
picturesque because nature will have it so, but without any romanticism
or sense of posing—officers hardly to be distinguished from privates by
vague, soiled stripes—all the men enveloped in a halo of splendor above
anything known to ordinary humanity.
The pugnacious pipe or the sportive cigarette hinders their expression of
any personal reflection. Only their eyes are animate, and these express
things which cannot be told in words lest they be profaned. The line of
their lip is youthful under a silky moustache or firm with age under gray
brush. But the fire of their look, framed in their dark helmets, leaps
out with quiet intensity to meet the tragic unknown that no longer can
bring surprise. They are our soldiers of the year II who are following
the Biblical column of fire. They see something. They go to it. Ashamed
of my humility, I should like to find words to say to them. But, were I
a poet, they would have no need of hearkening to me, since the greatest
beauty of man lies in them, and since, unwitting of utterance, which at
best seems inept, these men live on the summits of life.
And the “old classes” who prosaically break stone at the side of the road
or work with the shovel, the pickaxe, the broom, making the toilette
of the road of triumph, what an injustice if I did not mention them!
How does it happen that the noblest soldier is always the one I chance
upon? That is the miracle of these men; and when I tell you that on the
battlefield of the Aisne the “old classes,” not granting that it was
necessary to wait to the end of the battle before beginning to clear and
rebuild, went off into the hottest of the action to fill up craters, to
break stones, to place tree-trunks and beams during heavy fire, without
vouchsafing the Boche a single hasty gesture, so that they might the
more quickly open the way for revictualling and for the bringing up of
artillery—when I tell you this, you will admit that they do not deserve a
lesser greeting than their “young ones.”
And the infantryman—could I commit the supreme injustice of forgetting
him? That is impossible when one has gone over the battleground where
he has taken possession of the burrows of the Boches, among heaps of
munition material, cases of supplies, an indescribable débris, abandoned
with their dead and wounded in the haste of a desperate fight. What we
cannot understand is that our little poilu can pass so quickly from the
apathy of the trench to the extreme fury of the attack, and then from the
violence of the offensive to the calm smile of a victory of which his
modesty seems to say: “It was as easy as all that.”
I did not hear a single boast, or see a disagreeable act, or hear a word
that sounded false. Like a good-hearted proprietor returning home, they
took possession of the shelters of the Boche so hurriedly abandoned.
Here can be found the comforts of war, if these two words can be spoken
together. The men talk in groups at the openings of the underground
passages, camouflaged by the enemy himself. The indifference of their
attitudes, the ease of their familiar conversation, in which there mingle
no bragging (though this is the place for it), are more characteristic
of the situation of some simple bourgeois who have happened to meet on
Sunday in the street. A major begs my pardon for wearing a collared
shirt, which is not perfectly “regular” at an official review.
Messengers pass, throwing out a word or making a simple sign. Officers
step up for brief explanations. A half-salute, a nodding of the head—it
is over. Not far away, on the road cut into the rock, where the stupid
Boche, after our passings, sends his impotent shells, our always young
“old classes” hang on to the slopes in order to see the projectile fall,
and make uncomplimentary remarks about the gunner. Then work is resumed
till the next warning whistles in the air.
It is after twelve and we have not yet dined. A big devil of a Moroccan
colonel, with a Don Quixotic face under an extraordinary headpiece,
invites us to his P. C. (post of command), where the Boche has left
useful bits of installation. A black hole is two steps away from us. We
go down into the ground, over abrupt descents, and there we are protected
from the “marmites” in a dark corridor lit by candles stuck into the
mouths of German gas masks. We sit down on anything handy (I even have
the favor of a chair), before a board which also serves as the colonel’s
bed, while arms whose body remains invisible serve us with dishes not to
be disdained by a gourmand. How did they get there? I cannot undertake to
explain that. The walk in the open air, the tragic nature of the place,
the joy in land reconquered, no doubt all lend particular spice to the
comradeship of these men who forget that they have done great deeds as
soon as they have done them. Pictures and illustrated pages tremble in
the fluttering candle-lights, among them a Victorious France, drawn
by the pencil of the colonel. A telephonist measures out mouthfuls of
conversation to a military post that sends in observations and receives
ours. Long time or short time, for here hours and minutes are alike, here
is a magic that ends too soon. We must go.
The colonel would have been perfect if he had not made it a point of
honor to avoid all danger for his civilian visitor. In the morning he had
tried to forbid me a flying visit to the marvellous castle of Pinion,
but he finally understood that even a soldier has to be born a civilian
and that he should not therefore scorn his own origin. The trip was
accomplished without the shadow of an incident, but the colonel, who
insists more than ever on the rights and privileges of the uniform, will
not permit me to return until the Boche cannon favors us with a little
respite. The Boche can hardly make up his mind to such a favor; hence,
several false departures and changings of direction. Finally, the colonel
lets us go under the guard of a robust sergeant-major, who even yesterday
magnificently led his stretcher-bearers to the aid of the wounded under
the hottest fire. Although he is not of the youngest class, he has
refused to be retired from the front. He is spoken of only with respect,
I might say admiration. “He goes everywhere.” He is fine, genial company.
After many necessary little zigzags, a walk that is not very strenuous
and very soon over, I left the brave sergeant, whom I shall always
remember.
I cannot finish this inconsequent account without speaking of the
touching ceremony which I witnessed at Soissons, the terribly bombarded.
Since the victory of Malmaison the city has been out of range. But when
you have seen the building of the sub-prefect tottering with shell-holes,
a building that neither the sub-prefect nor his wife has left, the
shortest walk will tell you a long tale.
The general, who is a good fellow—I take pleasure in saying that—had
proposed to show me something, and so here I am in a public square having
the imposing silhouette of the cathedral as a background. From the
height of the great towers, with their wide wounds, history, attentive,
looks down. Everywhere there is a formidable display of cannon taken
from the enemy. There are piles of them, heaps of them. There are too
many to count, together with a bewildering mass of trench instruments
of all sorts. Can you believe it? They do not hold the eye. How is that
possible? Because on the sidewalk opposite, in splendid alignment, is
the gorgeous gathering of soldiers with medals and decorations who have
captured these things. Ah! They hold the eye! There they are, with all
sorts of faces and from all branches of the service, with the flag which
they have followed into battle and which now must be present at their
honor.
To be quite honest, the group is not so æsthetic as a picture of
Versailles. These men are too great for much ceremony. With a jerky step
the general advances; his brusque movements reveal the homage of his
emotion before the bravest of the brave. Slowly he passes along the
line, while the adjutant reads in a stirring voice the high deeds in
the citations. And the military medal quivers on each noble breast at
the recollection of the tremendous drama lived through. And the general
utters a comrade’s congratulation, shakes a friendly hand, expresses a
good wish. Then the flag salutes, while the drums rumble in these hearts
drunk with love of country. At the greeting of the flag of the glorious
Chasseurs, a rag torn by machine guns, something gets hold of our
throats, which the trumpets hurt with their sublime peal. If there are
more beautiful spectacles, I do not know them. One minute here is worth
years.
And I have said nothing of the people about, silent, all in mourning,
their souls full of tears, which finally brim over. Men, hats off,
motionless as statues, proud of becoming great through their children.
Mothers, with seared faces, superbly stoic under the eye of the greater
maternity of the great country. The children in the ecstasy of feeling
about them something greater than they can understand, but already
certain that they will understand some day this immortal hour. And not a
cry, not a word sounds in the air, nothing but the great silence of the
courage of all of them. Then everyone goes away, firm and erect, to a
glorious destiny. In every heart La France has passed.
NOTE.—A few days before M. Clemenceau, premier of France, was
called to power, he returned from a visit to the Aisne front
and published his impressions in his paper, _L’Homme Enchainé_,
now _L’Homme Libre_. When he became premier, _L’Illustration_
republished this “Tribute to the Soldiers of France,” and it
has since been widely reproduced and admired throughout France.
The present English translation by Harry Kurz was printed
in the _New York Tribune_, to the editors of which grateful
acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint here.
PREFACE
Sergeant-Major Georges Lafond, of the Territorial Hussars, the author of
this book, was in South America at the time of mobilization. He returned
to France as soon as possible and joined his corps, but asked to be
assigned as intelligence officer to the machine-gun sections of the ...
first regiment of Colonial Infantry.
With this picked corps, which has been decimated several times, he took
part in the engagements in Champagne, on the Somme, at Lihons, Dompierre,
Herbécourt, and notably in the days from the first to the fifth of
July, where the regiment earned its second citation and received the
_fourragère_.
Lafond was discharged after the battles of Maisonnette, and wrote this
book of recollections in the hospital at Abbeville, and afterwards at
Montpellier, where he had to undergo a severe operation.
Sergeant-Major Lafond’s narrative makes no claim to literary pretension,
but it is simply a collection of actual occurrences. It is a series of
short narratives which give the life of a company of machine gunners from
the day of its formation to the hour when it was so decimated that it had
to be reorganized with men from other corps.
What pictures the following titles call to mind: “A Reconnaissance in the
Fog,” “The Aeroplane,” “Our First Engagement,” “‘We Have Taken a Picket
Post,’” “The Attack,” “The Echelon,” “A Water Patrol”! No man who has
lived at the front and has taken part in an attack will fail to recognize
the accuracy of these narratives and to experience, as well, emotion,
enthusiasm, and pride in having been among “those who were there.”
This record of adventure was very successful when it appeared in
the _Petit Parisien_, and I feel sure that it will be successful in
book form. I beg Sergeant-Major Georges Lafond to accept my hearty
congratulations on his fine talent and his bravery.
MAURICE BARRÈS,
_of the French Academy_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE SEARCH FOR MY COMPANY 1
II THE QUARTERMASTER’S BILLETS 11
III THE ECHELON 21
IV THE SONG OF THE MACHINE GUN 31
V A RECONNAISSANCE IN THE FOG 47
VI OUR FIRST ENGAGEMENT 58
VII EASTER EGGS 71
VIII THE AEROPLANE 89
IX DAYS IN CANTONMENT 103
X AN ORDINARY FATIGUE PARTY 122
XI WITH MUSIC 135
XII “WE HAVE TAKEN A PICKET POST” 148
XIII A NIGHT CONVOY 164
XIV THE SONGS OF THE HOMELAND 175
XV A WATER PATROL 188
XVI A COMMANDER 199
XVII THE ATTACK 217
XVIII WITH ORDERS 232
XIX A WREATH 250
XX DISCHARGED 261
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“HE’S HIT,” SERGEANT LACE CRIES SUDDENLY. AND
INDEED HE IS HIT _Frontispiece_
REMAINS OF VILLAGES NEAR THE LINES 36
A POILU 56
A SINISTER GRUMBLING SEEMED TO SHATTER THE FOG 110
THE FRONT LINE TRENCH 154
A COMMANDANT’S POST 166
THE LEAST DANGEROUS PASSAGE IS THE UNPROTECTED GROUND 186
THE ATTACK 226
NOTE.—_These photographs are all copyrighted by International Film
Service, Inc._
COVERED WITH MUD AND GLORY
CHAPTER I
THE SEARCH FOR MY COMPANY
I remember the exact date and I have reason to, for on that Monday,
February fifteenth, I joined the second company of machine guns of the
... first Colonials at the front. It was snowing and the fields of
Picardy were one vast white carpet on which the auto-trucks traced a
multitude of black lines to the accompaniment of pyrotechnics of mud.
Two days before I had left my depot in a small garrison town in
the center of Provence, which lay smiling in the sun and already
bedecked with the first flowers of spring. At Lyons I found rain, at
Saint-Just-en-Chaussee, snow, and I got off the train in a sea of mud.
In the dim light of a February dawn, the station at Villers appeared
to be encumbered with the supplies of half-a-dozen regiments. My car
was high on its wheels and at the end of the train farthest from the
unloading platform. At the other end of the platform near the entrance to
the station, I found a rolling bridge for unloading animals, but it was
useless to ask those busy people to help me push this weighty contrivance
to the car.
So I looked at Kiki—Kiki is my horse—who had but recently arrived from
Canada and was scarcely broken after his two months’ training at the
depot.
“Kiki, _mon vieux_,” I said, “you must make up your mind to do as I did
and jump. Remember that you are a Canadian, and every self-respecting
Canadian should know how to jump as soon as he is born.”
I delivered this kind invitation from the ground and I urged him on by
pulling on the reins. Kiki was not at all frightened. He came to the edge
of the car, snuffed the air, carefully calculated the distance, bent
lightly on his hind legs, and jumped to the ground without a flutter.
“The ... first Colonials?” the military commissioner said to me. “I don’t
know exactly, but you’ll find it somewhere along twenty or thirty miles
to the east at Proyart or Harbonnières, or perhaps at Morcourt. There’s a
little of it all about there.”
So Kiki and I, in the morning mist, went slowly along roads covered with
snow and grease in search of the second company of machine guns.
Proyart is a small village hidden in a hollow of this plain of Picardy
which from a distance resembled a well-stretched, vast white carpet. Here
the villages are sheltered in depressions and one only sees them when he
reaches the level of their steeples. It was at Proyart that altogether
accidentally, thanks to a sign about as large as my hand and already
partly rubbed out, I found the staff of the ... first Colonials.
An orderly condescended to move a few steps and point out to me at the
end of the street to the right the billets of the quartermaster of the
second company of machine guns.
There was a court—a sewer, as a matter of fact—which was completely
filled by a pool of filth which left only a narrow passage of a foot or
two by each wall. In a corner was a tangle of barrels, farm implements,
and broken boxes, and on that a mass of wet straw, manure, snow, and mud.
At the farther end of the court was a small door with glass panels—with
a glass panel—for only one remained. The spaces were conveniently filled
by thick layers of the _Petit Parisien_, _Matin_, _Le Journal_, _Echo de
Paris_, the great dailies which arrived intermittently at Proyart.
I went in. Kiki wanted to go in, too, but the door was low and he was
carrying his complete pack. Inside was a ruined kitchen. The chimney
still remained, and there was a large table made of a door stretched
on two barrels, which took up the middle of the room. In each corner,
against the walls, were improvised beds, straw mattresses, and heaps of
clothes under which I surmised there were bodies.
“The door, nom de Dieu!” shouted a voice.
In front of the chimney was a man struggling desperately with a fire.
The watersoaked wood refused to burn, and the man flooded it with shoe
grease, which, when it melted, threw out jets of yellow flame and filled
the room with a pungent odor and smoke.
“The door, the door! What did he tell you!” cried in different tones
voices which came from the heaps of covers.
It was true that a breath of cold air and a swirl of snow had rushed into
the smoky dark hall when I came in. I shut the door and asked,
“Is this the second company of machine guns?”
“What of it? What do you want of the second machine guns? It’s here. And
after that what do you want? Papers, again? Zut! They have no idea of
bothering people at this hour. Leave them on the table and come back in
half an hour.”
This diatribe emanated from a pile thicker than the rest, in the chimney
corner. At this obsession of papers, of lists to be signed, I guessed he
was a sergeant or a quartermaster, and I kept on:
“Don’t worry. There are no papers. I am the mounted intelligence officer
attached to this company.”
“M ...!” shouted several voices in the four corners of the room, while I
watched arms and muffled heads rise up.
“_Mince!_ So we have a mounted officer now! Wonderful! They’re certainly
fitting us out in style. What won’t they do next? Then, that’s all right,
_vieux_. Come on in and let us see you. And you have a horse? Where is
your horse? Bring him in; make him come. It must be cold out in the
court.”
The first burst of curiosity soon passed, the torrent of words exhausted
itself, and the forms which had stirred a moment ago quieted down anew. A
more peremptory voice now started in shouting invectives at the orderly
who was still struggling with the rebellious wood.
“Say, Dedouche. Do you think we’re Boche sausages that you want to smoke
us out? Don’t you know anything? We’ll have to wear glasses. That’s no
way to light a fire. What did you learn when you were a boy?”
“The grease is full of water and won’t even burn.”
“Use the oil in the lamp, then.”
The first result of the immediate execution of this order was to fill
the room with a black stifling cloud which was enough to make one weep.
In the middle of this smoke the orderly, Dedouche, coughed, spat,
sputtered, while I heard him storm:
“In God’s name, how that stinks! How that stinks!”
The quartermaster, doubtless on account of the smoke and the smell, now
deigned to get up. He was a young man, large, light complexioned, and his
checks were red and fat. He had just a suspicion of a moustache. His ears
were hidden in a cap which had wings that pulled down. One could scarcely
see his eyes they were so puffed out with sleep and smoke.
“So you’re the intelligence officer? Sit down. Dedouche, make a cup of
coffee. I’ll make a note of your transfer, and then you can try to find a
place for yourself until the lieutenant comes. Oh, you’ve time, you know.
He never comes before ten o’clock.”
“But, Quartermaster, it’s nearly ten now.”
“No, you’re joking. Ten o’clock. My word, it’s true. Oh, there, get
up all of you. It’s ten o’clock. And that salaud of a Dedouche hasn’t
lighted the fire. Come, come, hurry up, the lieutenant is coming!”
And as though this were the magic word, the lieutenant came in, leaving
the door wide open behind him. It was time; they were almost suffocated.
The lieutenant was a large man, thin and well set up. His bearing
indicated resolution. His brown hair was cut very short, according to
the regulations. A close-cropped black moustache streaked his sunburned
face. The general effect of his personality was that of a man cool and
headstrong.
“Oh, he has the coolness of a Colonial,” the machine gunners repeated _ad
nauseam_.
“Isn’t there any way to get you up?” exclaimed the lieutenant. “You ought
to be ashamed of yourselves. It’s after ten o’clock.”
Then he saw me through the cloud of smoke and questioned me with a
glance. The quartermaster broke in before I could reply,
“It’s the mounted intelligence officer, Lieutenant.”
“Oh, good!... Good morning.... Welcome.”
He extended a large, vigorous hand which confirmed the first impression
of his personality—frankness and will.
“Have you found a place for your horse?” he asked.
“Not yet, Lieutenant. I’ve just come.”
I pointed out Kiki through the door to the courtyard where he waited,
stoically and calmly, under the snow. Perhaps he remembered the times
not long ago that he waited for hours at the doors of the ranch under
more wintry winds. Perhaps he imagined that he was still waiting for the
rough Canadian pioneer who tarried for long discussions about business,
warming himself the while with whiskey. At any rate Kiki waited stoically
and quietly. He scarcely condescended to welcome us by a glance when I
presented him to the lieutenant, who stroked his head.
“This is Kiki, Lieutenant. I don’t know his real name, for his record
bore only his number, but that fits him and he seems to like it. He is
a Canadian, seven years old, thin but strong, very gentle and a good
jumper.”
“He’s pretty. Come along. We’ll put him in with mine. They’ll get along
all right together.”
So I took Kiki by the bridle and the lieutenant and I went along talking,
until we reached an improvised stable where the officer’s horse and his
groom were quartered.
Zèbre was a great brown horse, with a huge, calm face. Everything here
certainly gives an impression of calmness.
I took leave of the officer for the time being and returned to the
quartermaster’s, where a steaming soup and scalding coffee were waiting
for me. It was nearly noon and I had eaten nothing hot for the last
forty-eight hours. It was four above zero and it was time.