A RECONNAISSANCE IN THE FOG
One evening the lieutenant said to me a little after dinner:
“To-morrow, at four o’clock, we’re going to the first line trenches to
find positions for the machine guns. The section leaders are coming, and
if you want to come, you’ll find it interesting.”
The selection of a machine gun emplacement is essentially a delicate
task. The Germans are past masters in this art. So, in the days of
attack when our artillery had made a thorough preparation and they were
convinced that there was nothing left in front and we could advance
without trouble, exactly as though taking a walk in a square, we found
ourselves abruptly right in the fire of a Boche machine gun which had not
been spotted and which was so skilfully camouflaged that it had resisted
the most terrible bombardment.
It is necessary above all to find a place which commands a wide field of
fire and one easy to play on. It must also be easy to conceal the gun
in some way, for, if it is once spotted, a shell will soon send the gun
and its crew pirouetting in the air, unless they are forewarned by a shot
too long or too short, but whose destination is unmistakable, and so have
time to move.
It was scarcely daylight when we assembled in front of the lieutenant’s
quarters.
A fog that could be cut with a knife limited our view to a few yards. It
was cold.
Sergeant Lace is there already walking back and forth in the fog. He is
always exactly punctual, anyway. He is equipped as if for an assault with
his revolver, mask, and field glasses. His chest is covered with numerous
colonial decorations, his military medal and his war cross with three
palms.
Lace is a section leader _emeritus_. He is rough and harsh in appearance;
he never smiles, or rarely; he is tanned from his long stay in the
colonies, but he does his duty with unfailing exactness. During an
attack in Champagne he found himself under the command of his brother,
a lieutenant, who was mortally wounded at his side. He embraced him
reverently, took the papers, pocketbook and letters from the pockets of
his jacket, removed his decorations, which were now relics, and resumed
his place in the ranks. He fought all day, attacked a fortified position,
assisted in the dangerous task of clearing a wood, and when night came,
by the light of star shells under a hellish bombardment and a storm of
shrapnel, he went back and brought out his brother’s body and gave it
proper burial. Lace is a soldier and a conscientious one.
Other silhouettes approach and come out of the darkness like ghosts.
One is Poirier, a very young man, who laughs in the midst of the worst
dangers, which he absolutely ignores. Then there is big Roullé, whom ten
years in the tropics did not succeed in making thin, and whose breadth of
shoulder is ill-adapted to the narrowness of the communication trenches.
Then Pierron comes on the run, singing a Neapolitan song. He is from
Saigon and is homesick for the Asiatic nights, whose charms he is forever
describing.
As the hour strikes the lieutenant appears.
We follow the main road through the fog. This leads to Lehons, a ruined
village which is situated in the lines and cuts the trenches.
One can hardly distinguish the trees in the fields either to the right or
the left. The dawn is silent. Nature wants light for her awakening, but
this morning the lights persist in staying dim.
We hear occasionally a cannon shot, as sharp as the crack of a whip. It
comes from a battery of “75’s” concealed in a wood at our side, which
fires at stated intervals for tactical reasons. The shell shatters the
air over our heads and all becomes quiet again.
So we walk along for nearly an hour, some grouped together while others
dream away by themselves. The fog now begins to lighten and we are able
to see the adjoining fields. They are torn with shell holes, the rare
trees are shattered and slashed, and their branches hang down like broken
limbs. In the ditches, full of muddy water, are piles of material—rolls
of barbed wire, eaten by rust, chevaux de frise broken to pieces, and
crossbars and round logs already covered with moss.
* * * * *
Suddenly, there in front of us, at two paces, splitting the fog is—the
village. There are houses—remains of houses—and parts of walls which
through some prodigious feat of balance persist in remaining upright.
The first house on the right was apparently of some importance. The two
master walls still remain in spite of the roof having fallen. Between
them is a pile of stones, burnt girders, and in the middle of the heap of
rubbish still stands, intact and rigid, pointing straight toward yawning
heaven, the iron balustrade of a winding staircase. A great signboard
of black wood runs from one wall to the other, apparently holding them
together, and one might believe that they only remain upright, thanks
to it. It is riddled with bullets and the flames have licked it as they
passed, but one can still read the long yellow letters of the inscription:
_Lodgings_
_Famous Cuisine_ _Comfortable Rooms_
None of us risk an ironical reflection or a mocking smile, for to-day we
have become accustomed to so many strange inscriptions which in disaster
are the living lie of their emptiness.
Opposite, on the other side of the road, the military cemetery shows its
multitude of crosses. Their number has exceeded the capacity of the site
provided for it, and they have already become masters of the surrounding
fields. These graves are all immutably alike, and they are built and
maintained with a fraternal affection by companies of Territorials who
hold the cantonments in the neighborhood.
Yes, they are all immutably alike. There is always the white wooden cross
with the name of the deceased, the number of his regiment, his company
and the date of his death in simple black letters. The grave is a small
square, bordered by bits of tile or bricks, sometimes by planks or the
bottoms of bottles. And on this humble burial place someone has planted
primroses.
A bottle stuck in the ground by the neck holds a bit of paper on which is
written all supplementary information as to identity which will guide the
pious pilgrim of to-morrow.
Sometimes a perforated helmet or a tattered cap placed on the cross by
a comrade who respects his memory tells us that the soldier was wounded
in the head. One shudders at some of these helmets, they are rent so
grievously.
We pass rapidly but religiously through the narrow paths between the
graves. It is a sort of duty rather than curiosity which leads us to look
over all these cemeteries in search of some known name, a friend’s name,
so that we may pay our last respects.
* * * * *
But time passes. It would not be prudent to stop longer, for already
above the neighboring hedge we can hear the sinister “ta-co” of the
German bullets. Branches of an apple tree, lopped off by the shells, fall
at our feet.
So we enter the village through what was once a street. Here for fifty
yards are barricades of bricks and dirt interlaced with farm instruments
and carts.
Barbed-wire entanglements which only leave a narrow, difficult, zigzag
passage between them are evidences of the bitter fights which took place
here.
We reach the church which is the beginning of the communication trench
which leads to the front lines.
The church! There is absolutely nothing left of it. One might think that
the savagery of the German cannon raged with a special hate on the
buildings created for rest, meditation and prayer.
The church has fallen down and the naves are now only a mass of stones
on which the briers are already beginning to grow. A sort of arched door
still stands at the entrance, without a scratch. It is nearly new and its
brilliant ironwork seems a challenge in the midst of this destruction.
The communication trench starts on the spot where the high altar used
to stand. We follow it under the ruins, through the orchards which it
furrows, adjusting our steps to each other, and keeping our eyes on the
man ahead.
Above our heads nature awakes; the sky appears clear now; and branches of
trees with their buds and blossoms hang over the parapets.
It is five o’clock and broad daylight when we reach the proposed
emplacement. It is on a knoll in the middle of an orchard which is
bordered some hundred yards away by hawthorn and privet hedges. Behind
the hedges are the Boche lines.
The engineer in charge of laying out the works is on the ground. He tries
to profit by the only salient which permits firing on a sufficiently
wide sweep of ground. On the right it commands the entrance to the
village by a road. We see its white windings where it unrolls through the
gardens, and then it plunges into a small wood and loses itself. Opposite
us the emplacement commands an entire sector.
They will scoop out the place underneath, and they will keep the green
shell of grass and bushes which make the most fortunate and natural sort
of camouflage. A communication trench grafted on the main trench from the
church will give access to it.
Orders are given rapidly, measurements are taken, and the tasks laid out.
It is hardly expedient for us to delay in this corner, for our movements
would betray our intentions, and already bullets, which are by no means
spent bullets, cross above our heads singing their unappreciated buzz.
We make our way back through the trench.
In the village the men belonging to the supporting columns have left
their lairs and are attending to their usual occupations. Some of them
are washing their clothes in the watering-trough in the square and
singing as they wash. The company barber is installed near the fountain
and the men form a circle about him as they wait their turn. On a
butcher’s stall of white stone a cook is cutting up a quarter of beef
into equal rations. Only two hundred yards from the enemy the village
has taken up almost its usual existence again. These men are not afraid.
At the sound of the first shell they jump into their cellars, which are
amply protected by earth and boards. But they already have their customs.
Shells only come at the hour when the supplies are brought up, and not
always then, for the shelling doesn’t occur regularly every day. The
enemy doesn’t waste munitions on a village he knows is so well destroyed.
The fresh air and the long road have set our teeth on edge and given us
an appetite. We halt to break a crust. Some have brought canteens of wine
or coffee; bottles of preserves appear, and the improvident—I am one—pay
homage to those who pass a full flask.
The sun is already high when we start back along the road.
[Illustration: A POILU _See page 56_]
The lieutenant loves a quick pace and a marching song. So at the top of
his lungs he begins one of his lively songs full of expressions that
would have startled a growler of the Empire through their shamelessness,
but which do not disturb the modesty of a Colonial at all, supposing that
a Colonial ever had any.
And the section leaders take up the refrain in chorus.
Some steps behind, Sub-Lieutenant Delpos stops to light his fine Egyptian
cigarette. In spite of the early hour and the uncertain weather, and
with no thought of the disagreeable march through the sticky mud of the
communication trench, he is dressed with the greatest care. His bright
tan leggings are elegantly curved; his furred gloves are of the finest
quality, and the pocket of his jacket, cut in the latest English style,
shows a fine cambric handkerchief, subtly scented. And arm in arm we
follow the quick pace of our comrades, while he continues the interrupted
story of his latest exploit.
“Yes, _mon cher_, picture to yourself an exquisite blonde. I met her on
the Rue des Saints-Pères....”