"Well, Hutin, war's a nice sort of show, isn't it?"
"Well, if it consists in fooling about like this till the 22nd
September, when my class will be discharged, I'd rather be in the field
than the barracks. We've never been so well fed in our lives! If only
that lasts!..."
"Yes, provided it lasts! Only, there are Boches here."
"Who cares?"
"And then, we don't get many letters."
"No, that's true; we don't get enough," said Hutin with some
bitterness, viciously shoving his sponge through the bore.
And he added:
"And as for the letters we write ourselves, we can't say where we are,
nor what we are doing, nor even put a date. What is one to write?"
"Well, I simply say that it is fine and that I am still alive."
* * * * *
Always the same silence along the lines. That has lasted for days now.
What can it mean? For us, pawns on the great chess-board, this waiting
is agonizing, and stretches our nerves to that painful tension which
one feels sometimes when watching a leaden sky, waiting for the storm
to break.
To-day I saw General Boëlle, whose motor stopped on the road quite
close to our camp.
He is a man with refined features, of cheerful expression, still
youthful-looking despite his white hair and grizzled moustache.
* * * * *
The classic popularity of war trophies has not diminished. Quite a
crowd collected round a cyclist who had brought back from Mangiennes
two German cowskin bags and a Mauser rifle.
* * * * *
It is astonishing how quickly instinct develops in war. All
civilization disappears almost at once, and the relations between man
and man become primitively direct. One's first preoccupation is to make
oneself respected. This necessity is not implicitly recognized by all,
but every one acts as if he recognized it. Then again, the sense of
authority becomes transformed. The authority conferred on the Captain
by his rank diminishes, while that which he owes to his character
increases in proportion. Authority has, in fact, but one measure: the
confidence of the men in the capability of their officer. For this
reason our Captain, Bernard de Brisoult, in whom even the densest
among us has recognized exceptional intelligence and decision under a
great charm of manner and invariable courtesy, exercises, thanks to
this confidence, a beneficial influence upon all. And yet his actual
personality, as our chief, makes little impression upon one at first.
Captain de Brisoult never commands. He gives his orders in an ordinary
conversational tone; but, a man of inborn tact and refinement, he
always remains the Captain, even while living with his men upon terms
of intimacy. It is hard to say whether he is more loved than respected,
or more respected than loved. And soldiers know something about men.
In the rough masculine relations between the artillerymen among
themselves there nevertheless remains a place for great friendships,
but they become rarer. The ties of simple barrack comradeship either
disappear or harden into tacit treaties of real friendship. The
mainspring of this is rather egoism than a need of affection. One is
vividly conscious of the necessity of having close at hand a man upon
whose assistance one can always rely, and to whom one knows one can
turn in no matter what circumstances. In the relationships thus solidly
established, without any words, a choice is implied; they are not
engendered by affinities of character alone. One learns to appreciate
in one's friend his value as a help and also his strength and courage.
_Sunday, August 16_
I have only just heard of an heroic episode which occurred during
our expedition on Friday. It might be called "The Charge of the
Baggage-train."
During our march through the woods towards the enemy we were followed
at some distance by our supply wagons. When we turned, we passed them,
and they resumed their position behind the batteries. The head of the
column had almost reached Azannes when the rear was still in the thick
of the woods. Suddenly a lively fusillade was opened from the depths of
the trees on the right and left of the train, and at the same time the
noise of galloping horses was heard from behind. The N.C.O. bringing up
the rear behind the forage wagon, who was riding near the cow belonging
to the Group, which was being led by one of the gun-numbers, convinced
that the enemy's infantry was attacking the column from the flank while
a brigade of cavalry was coming up from the rear, yelled out, "Run for
your lives! The Uhlans are coming!" The gunners jumped on the vehicles
wherever they could, and, suddenly, without any orders, the column
broke into a gallop. The men followed as best they might. But the
horses of the forage wagon, restive under the lash, reared, backed, and
jibbed, kicking the cow, which, in her turn, pulled away from the man
leading her, first to right and then to left, finally breaking loose
and setting out at a gallop behind the wagons in a thick cloud of dust.
A few seconds afterwards the cavalry which had been heard approaching
came up. It was the General of Artillery, who, with his Staff and
escort of Chasseurs, had routed our baggage-train. As for the
fusillade, it came from two companies of the 102nd of the line, who,
concealed in the woods, had opened fire on a German aeroplane.
The weather is getting worse. Already yesterday evening the storm
gathering on our left had made us prick up our ears as if we heard
gun-fire. At breakfast-time we were surprised by a heavy shower, and
had to abandon the kettles on the fires and take shelter under the
wagons and trees. To-day it has been raining slowly but steadily. If
this weather goes on we shall have to look out for dysentery!
Sitting on blankets in a circle round the fire, which was patiently
tended by the cook, we drank our coffee. My comrades asked me to read
them a few pages from my notebook, and wished me a safe return in order
that these reminiscences, which to a great extent are theirs also,
might be published.
"Are you going to leave the names in?"
"Yes, unless you don't want me to."
"No, of course not. We'll show them to the old people and children
later on, if we get back."
"If I am killed, one of you will take care of my notebook. I keep it
here--see?--in the inside pocket of my shirt."
Hutin thought a little.
"Yes, only you know that it's forbidden to search dead men. You'd
better make a note in your book to say you told us to take it."
He was quite right, so on the first page I wrote: "In case I am killed
I beg my comrades to keep these pages until they can give them to my
family."
"Now you've made your arrangements _mortis causa_," said Le Bidois, who
was reading over my shoulder. And he added:
"That doesn't increase the risk either."
Le Bidois is a thin, lanky fellow rather like the King of Spain, for
which reason Déprez and I have nicknamed him Alfonso. Every day we fire
off the old Montmartre catch at him:
_Alfonso, Alfonso,
Veux-tu te t'nir comme il fô!_
We also call him "the Spanish Grandee." He never gets annoyed.
"A jewel of a corporal!" as Moratin, his layer, always says.
* * * * *
Some of the 26th Artillery have brought back two ammunition wagons
abandoned by the enemy at Mangiennes. Painted a dark colour they
resembled the old 90 mm. material with which we used to practise when
training at Le Mans. They were followed by two large carts, of the
usual type used by the Meuse peasantry, long and narrow in build,
full of packs, tins, képis marked 130, camp-kettles already blackened
by bivouac fires, belts with brass buckle-plates, and caps with dark
stains on them. On the top bristled a heap of bayonets and rifles,
red with rust and blood. A large blue flannel sash, sopping wet, hung
behind one of the carts, and trailed in the muddy road. These were the
remains of the unfortunate infantry killed at Mangiennes.
This spectacle, rendered the more harrowing by the rain, moved us more
than all the stories we had heard about last Monday's fight.
As I was taking some horses down to drink I saw, near the gate of the
loopholed cemetery at Azannes, some soldiers who had fallen asleep,
stretched out anywhere, exhausted and half undressed. They might have
been taken for dead men. That is how I think the Mangiennes people
must have looked. And these remains also conjured up a vision of the
trenches where they were lined up.
In the absolute silence which for eight days now has reigned all along
the line we have almost forgotten the work of death for which we have
come here.
* * * * *
At nightfall, after swallowing some hot soup, we returned to our
billets, which are in a large barn where it is possible to get a good
sleep in the straw. Soldiers of every rank and regiment were swarming
in the village, the blue dolmans of the Chasseurs and the red breeches
of the Infantry giving a welcome dash of colour to the sombre uniforms
of the Artillery and Engineers as they all jostled together in the
street. Some of them, carrying in each hand a pailful of water, shouted
and swore at the others to let them pass.
It was still raining, and from the manure-heaps by the side of the road
thick clouds of steam arose. The cavalrymen had made hoods of their
horse-cloths, and many of the foot-soldiers were sheltering their heads
and shoulders under sacks of coarse brown canvas which they had found
in the barns or wagons. The whole of this muddy multitude was almost
silent and solely bent upon getting back to their billets. Almost the
only sound was the squelching of many feet in the mire. Four sappers,
scaling a ladder to a loft from which hay was crowding out through a
dark, wide-open window, looked like a bunch of black grapes hanging in
mid-air.
_Monday, August 17_
It was still raining when we started. Carts full of debris continued to
pass us, each more heavily laden and each more dreadful to see than
the last.
I heard that a Chasseur, whom I noticed yesterday morning mounted on a
little bay horse, had been surprised by a party of Uhlans. They bound
him hand and foot and then, with a lance-thrust in the neck, bled him
as one bleeds a pig. A peasant who had witnessed the scene from behind
a hedge told me of this devilish crime. He was still white with horror.
* * * * *
Last night the horses lay in mud and dung. This morning their manes and
tails were stiff with mire, and large plasters of manure covered their
haunches and flanks, giving them the appearance of badly kept cows. As
for us, besmeared with dirt up to the knees and with our boots a mass
of mud, we looked more heavy than ever in our dark cloaks, which were
wet through and hung in straight folds from our shoulders.
We again started off, this time to take up fresh quarters at Moirey.
From Azannes to Moirey is little more than a mile, but the road was
blocked with wagons, and at every instant we had to halt and draw to
one side.
The Captain gave the word:
"Dismount!"
The men, tortured by diarrhoea, availed themselves of the opportunity
and scattered into the fields.
At Moirey we encamped under some plum-trees planted in fives, where
we were as badly off as we had been at Azannes. Under the feet of the
horses the grass immediately became converted into mud.
The first thing to do was to cover over with earth the filth left there
by troops who had preceded us. The question of sanitary arrangements
is a serious one. It is true that a sort of little trenches called
_feuillées_ are dug on one side of the camp, but many men obstinately
refuse to use them, and prefer to make use of any haphazard spot at
the risk of being driven off by whip-lashes by others of more cleanly
disposition. A regular guard has to be kept round the guns and horses.
It is useless for the officers to threaten severe punishment to any
man taken in the act outside the _feuillées_. Nothing stops them. The
Captain keeps repeating:
"What a set of hogs!"
* * * * *
To-night the sound of the guns is quite close. Perhaps we shall go into
action at last.
It was a difficult job to find any wood fit to burn. Such as there was
was damp and when burning gave off a thick acrid smoke which the wind
blew down upon us. We had to fetch the water for the soup from more
than 300 yards away, and then keep a constant look-out to prevent the
horses from getting at it. The bread just given out was mouldy, and we
had to toast it in order to take away the musty taste.
When it is time to water the teams the only street of the village is
thronged with horses either led or ridden bare-back. Six batteries
are encamped round Moirey, and there is only one pond into which a
thin stream of clear water, not more than two fingers thick, trickles
from a fountain. Every twenty paces one has to stop and manoeuvre in
order to avoid kicks, and the men, annoyed by the delay, swear at each
other without reason. After four or five minutes one advances another
twenty paces, and, when finally the pond is reached, the men and beasts
sinking ankle-deep in mud, it is only to find that hundreds of horses
have left so much drivel and slime on the water that our animals refuse
to drink.
It is reported that there has been a great battle near Nancy and that
we have won the day. Why don't we advance also?
_Tuesday, August 18_
Lucas, the cyclist of the battery, succeeded in finding two bottles of
champagne, which he hid in a corner of the guard-house where Le Bidois,
who was on sentry duty, kept an eye on them.
Lucas is a young draughtsman of talent. His character is faithfully
reflected by his face--fresh, mobile, perhaps a little feminine. You
meet him in the morning and he seizes you by the arm:
"Oh, my dear chap ... such a pretty little woman ... a perfect
dream!..."
And the same evening he will say:
"Oh, my dear chap ... such a fraud.... No, not a word!... What a fraud!"
It appears that at Damvillers, a neighbouring village, he has made the
conquest of a little woman who sells tobacco. And he still manages to
get hold of cigarettes, writing-paper, liqueurs, and even champagne,
whereas no one else has been able to lay hands on any of these luxuries
for some time past.
When night fell he gave us a sign, and Déprez and I followed him to the
door of the guard-house in which loomed the lanky figure of Le Bidois,
who was leaning on his sword. The guard-house is an old tumble-down
hut only kept erect by the ivy growing round it. The door only boasts
one hinge, and the worm-eaten steps leading to the loft are crumbling
into dust. But still we found it a snug enough place in which to drink
our champagne.
_Wednesday, August 19_
The first gun has a team which is the joy of the whole battery. This
is owing to Astruc and his off-horse Jericho. Astruc, with bright
brown eyes and a face like a carrion-crow, is not much taller than
a walking-stick and has hardly any legs. Jericho is a vicious brute
that kicks, bites, and refuses to be groomed. Astruc holds long
conversations with him, and every morning greets him like one greets an
old friend who is a little crabbed, but of whom one is really fond:
"Well, Jericho, old boy, what have you got to say? Have you been
dreaming of German mares?"
Bréjard pointed out to Astruc that Jericho is a gelding.
"Oh!" retorted Astruc, "I expect he gets ideas in his head all the
same."
But to-day Jericho was in a specially bad temper, and wouldn't let
himself be bridled in order to be led down to the watering-place.
"What's up, old chap?" asked Astruc. "Oh, I see what you want! You
haven't had your quid this morning, have you?... It's your quid you're
after."
And he held out in the hollow of his hand a pinch of tobacco which the
horse swallowed with avidity. When Astruc is astride his near-horse,
Hermine, Jericho bites his boot, and the more Astruc whips him the
harder he clenches his teeth.
"Well," says Astruc, "I bet that if I leave Jericho in a mêlée he'll
eat as many Boches as he can get his teeth into. If only we'd a hundred
more like him!"
And looking the horse full in the face he added:
"It's odd, you know! The brute's got a naughty twinkle in his eyes ...
just like one of those girls...."
A corps of pontoon engineers passed by our camp, their long,
steel-plated boats loaded on carts, keel uppermost. Some foundered
horses, tied behind the vehicles, followed with hanging head and
limping step, a look of suffering in their bleared eyes--a pitiful
sight. Far down the road, winding its way through the long valley and
white under the morning sun, one could see the column toiling up a hill
as if ascending to the blue sky. At that distance men and horses seemed
no more than a swarm of black ants, but the steel bottoms of the boats
still glinted in the sunshine. In front of us the long line still
passed slowly by.
* * * * *
The men's health is excellent, but the horses stand this new life
less successfully. Last Friday we had to leave one on the road, and
yesterday an old battery horse named Défricheur died in his turn. We
had to prepare a grave for him, and four men had been digging for more
than an hour in the hard and rocky ground when the mayor of Moirey
arrived on the scene. The grave had been dug too close to the houses,
so they had to drag the heavy carcass farther on and begin digging
again. Unfortunately the measurements of the new grave had been badly
calculated, and Défricheur, a proper gendarme's horse, could not be
crammed into it. The men were heartily tired of digging and so, with
a few blows of their spades and picks, they broke his legs and folded
them under his belly, so that at last he could be squeezed into the pit.
The hill which had limited our horizon at Ville-devant-Chaumont ... was
still to be seen rising on the east in solitary splendour, its outlines
traced as if by compasses. Beneath the azure sky it shone like a mass
of burnished bronze.
Moirey lies in the lap of a valley and consists of a few dilapidated
cottages roofed with broken tiles. No matter from which side one goes
away from the village it is instantly hidden by an intervening spur of
the hills, so that one can only see the top of the roofs and the short,
rectangular steeple covered with slates.
As we were grooming our horses in a field through which a brook bubbled
along amid the iris, a bevy of white-capped girls came down from the
village.
The only means of getting over the river was a narrow bridge. This we
barred by standing a couple of horses athwart it, and, by way of toll,
demanded kisses. The girls, their rosy-cheeked faces smiling under the
spreading butterfly-wings of their caps, at first hesitated. Then one
of them took a run, jumped, and splashed into the water. The others
learnt wisdom from her example and decided to pay the toll.
"Come on now! Just a kiss, you know!" said Déprez. "That's not so dear
in war-time!"
They paid conscientiously.
_Friday, August 21_
To-day there was a fog when we awoke. Almost immediately the Captain
gave the word to harness, and five o'clock had not yet struck when we
started. The road was cut up into ruts by the artillery which for three
days had been passing over it, and we were so shaken on the limbers
that we could scarcely breathe.
Luckily the column was advancing at a walking pace.
The fog had collected at the end of the valley. On the right enormous
and regularly formed mounds rose like islands out of the sea of mist.
I could not take my eyes off their symmetrical curves, as perfect as
those of Cybele's breasts.
Farther on the road straggled across a plain, the ample undulations
of which reminded one of the rise and fall of the ocean on days when
there is a swell. In every direction it was studded with wheat sheaves,
but there were few trees except an occasional group or line of poplars
welded together by the fog in an indistinct mass of dark green foliage.
Not a sound of battle was to be heard.
* * * * *
On the way we fell in with some baggage-trains and ambulances, and
learnt from their drivers that the enemy was still far away.
Nevertheless the country had already been prepared for battle. A
farmhouse by the roadside had been fortified, the windows barricaded
with mattresses and small trusses of straw, while a few loopholes
had been knocked in the garden wall. The fields were furrowed with
trenches as far as the edge of a wood, where some abatis had been set
up. Earthworks had been thrown up along the sides of the road, and in
front were heaped ladders, a couple of harrows, a plough, a roller, and
several bundles of straw. Two carts had been placed athwart the road,
but they had been pushed one to each side and lay thrown back with
their long shafts pointing upwards.
We still rolled on across this desolate country. So similar were its
aspects that it almost seemed as if we were not advancing at all.
At last the fog lifted, and, suddenly, before we were able to guess
that the end of the dreary scenery was near, a magnificent view opened
out before us as if by enchantment. We were on the crest of a hill
between two valleys, on one side of which thick woods descended in
leafy terraces to the hollow of a narrow dell in which, through a
meadow of vivid emerald green, a little black river trickled on its
way. The forests surrounding this meadow, as if placed there in order
to embellish and enhance its beauty, looked like a magnificent ruff
of low-toned olive tints. In front of us, just where the road turned
off at an angle, a spur of woodland rose with the forbidding aspect of
a fortress. On the right, forming a contrast to the quiet and peaceful
little river, a broad valley, with symmetrical slopes lightened here
and there by corn standing yellow in the sun, opened out wide and
invitingly. The river flowing through it was hardly visible, but the
roads, villages, and the railway line were quite distinct. On the one
hand lay Vélosnes, and on the other Torgny, their white walls and red
roofs showing up on the green background of the fields.
There was nothing in the scene to suggest that war was on foot, and
gun-shots heard from a distance were no more startling than the noise
of carriage wheels.
It was a fine morning, to which the mist, softening the outlines of
the landscape, lent additional charm. The narrow S-shaped road we were
following plunged into the valley. The horses made efforts to keep back
the guns, and especially the ammunition wagons, which were pushing them
down the slope. Their shoes slipping with the dislodged stones, they
braced their backs and felt their way cautiously.
The river at this point constituted the frontier between France and
Belgium. A custom-house official was leaning up against the parapet of
the bridge.
One of the men called out to him:
"No fine linen or lace to-day, old man!"
And another:
"Suppose there's no duty on melinite, is there?"
The official grinned.
The first Belgian village, Torgny, afforded a contrast to the French
hamlets through which we had been passing since dawn. Our villages are
tumble-down, dirty, and redolent of manure and misery. Torgny, on the
contrary, was clean and bright, the windows of the houses boasting
not only curtains but even, sometimes, embroidered blinds, while the
shutters, doors, and window-joists were painted light green.
On all sides we were greeted with smiles by the placid and open-faced
villagers. Through the windows of the cottages we could see red-tiled
floors, and in the semi-darkness of the interiors the glow of brasswork
on stoves and lamps reflected by carefully polished furniture.
Our column halted in the village, the men carefully wedging the wheels
of the vehicles to prevent them from backing down the slope. A woman
and a fair, slightly built girl were sitting in front of their house,
of which the lower half was a mass of wistaria. We asked them where
the road led to, and a conversation began in which not only mother and
daughter took part, but also the grandmother, a wizened little woman
with a wrinkled face out of which peered a pair of bright brown eyes;
she had come out to see what was happening. They talked with a drawling
sing-song accent, which nevertheless was in no way disagreeable to our
ears.
"Have the Germans come as far as this?"
"Yes, they've come, only they didn't do any harm.... They hadn't
the time. Five or six of them came down from the woods up
there--cavalrymen. But they went back almost at once. Some of the
villagers saw them. There were also some French cavalry here, in blue
and red uniforms."
"Chasseurs?"
"I suppose so. They are so nice and polite.... At first, as there
weren't many of them, we almost quarrelled as to who should have them.
When the Uhlans came out of the woods they saw the French and went in
again."
"And the Belgian soldiers?"
"Not seen any of them," said the old lady. "But my granddaughter saw
some at Arlon last year."
"Yes," chimed in the girl, "and they are better dressed than you."
We prepared to make ourselves comfortable in the chairs which had been
brought out for us, and chatted while waiting for the order to advance.
"You ought to be very grateful to us," said the grandmother. "We
stopped them, and they hadn't reckoned on that! They thought we were
sheep and found we were lions--yes, lions! They even say so themselves!"
We willingly acquiesced.
In future we shall always be able to count upon the goodwill of the
Belgians, for we owe them a debt of gratitude. That is no more solid
basis for affection than that which underlies the feelings of a
benefactor towards his protégé. Nothing is more soothing to the spirit
than a sense of superiority and legitimate pride.
There can be no doubt but that the blood so bravely shed for us in
Belgium will be productive of more friendship than twenty years of
sustained efforts to maintain the French language and culture against
the rising tide of Germanization. And, forty years later, when we
meet a Belgian, we may be sure that he will remind us, in his pleasing
accent:
"Yes, but you know ... without us in 1914...."
It will be a pleasure to him to recall all that France owes to his
glorious little country. More, he will be grateful to us for the debt
we owe her.
"Oh, of course it has cost us a lot to defend our neutrality," said
the old woman. "It is awful what the Germans have done in our country.
They seem to have a special hatred for the women. There was one down
there.... We knew her quite well.... And they first cut off her breasts
... and then disembowelled her.... And they've done that to countless
others! Oh! its too awful! They must be worse than savages. You must
tell your people about it, when you get back--about that, and about
everything else we've had to suffer. But you won't do the same when you
get into Germany, will you?"
She added:
"I am very old--over seventy--and I had never seen war in Belgium."
The poor old woman spoke almost without anger, but in a trembling voice
and with infinite sadness.
We encamped at Torgny. As soon as the horses had been picketed and
the oats distributed, Déprez and I hurried to the wistaria windows to
ask if we could buy a little milk and some eggs. The old woman was
most upset; it seemed that she had already given everything to the
Chasseurs. But she sent us a little farther on to the house of one of
her daughters who, she said, would milk the cow for us. She added:
"We've a good loft here, where you would be quite comfortable and warm
in the straw. So come back to sleep in any case."
We knocked at the door she had pointed out to us a couple of houses
farther on, and were received as though we had been expected.
"It's some artillerymen, mother," said a young woman, who was nursing a
child in her arms. "They want some milk."
Her mother came out of the next room.
"I'll go and milk the cow," said she. "Good evening, messieurs; please
sit down; you must be tired."
Lucas had somehow managed to find some eggs.
"Shall we make you an omelette with bacon?" asked the daughter. "It
won't take long. But do sit down. I'm sure you've been standing about
enough to-day!"
Almost immediately the fat began to sizzle in the pan.
At every moment infantrymen and Chasseurs knocked at the door, and the
two women distributed the milk from their cow, refusing all payment.
When there was no more left they were quite wretched at having to
disappoint the men who continually arrived on various quests.
"We've given all we had. I'm so sorry!" they said. "We've only a small
bowl left for the baby. You see, we've only one cow!"
A Chasseur brought back a kettle he had borrowed; another asked for the
loan of a gridiron. Never has Frenchman been more warmly welcomed in
France.
The fair-haired girl, with whom we had been talking shortly before,
came back carrying an earthenware milk-jug in her hand.
"Have you any milk, auntie? There are some soldiers who want a little.
They're ill, some of them."
"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry! There are only a few drops left for baby!"
"Oh, dear!..."
The girl saw us seated at table round the smoking omelette, and smiled
at us as though we were old acquaintances. I told her that if I ever
returned home I should perhaps write a book about what I had seen in
the war.
"And will you please tell me your name, so that I can send you the book
as a souvenir to you and your family. You have all been so good to us
Frenchmen."
"My name is Aline--Aline Badureau."
"What a pretty name--Aline!"
She prepared to go.
"I hope that you will return home," she said to me, "so that you can
send us your book. But I'm sure you'll forget. They say that Frenchmen
forget very soon."