[12] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
original sources.
[13] A sudden attack was made on the right of the 11th Division and
upon the extreme left of the 29th Division about 2 o'clock on the
night of the 1st instant. It commenced with shell, machine gun, and
rifle fire on Jephson's post and along Keretch Tepe Sirt ridge.
Brigadier-General Maxwell was holding the right section of the 11th
Division when a body of the enemy attempted a bomb and bayonet assault
under cover of their bombardment. There was no heart, however, in the
attack, and it was easily repulsed with loss to the enemy.
The Navy, as usual on such occasions, were prompt with their
assistance, and the flanking torpedo-boat destroyer with her
searchlight lit up the northern slopes of Keretch Tepe and effectively
stopped the enemy from pressing in along the coast.
"IN THE FIELD"--THE STORIES OF THE FRENCH CHASSEURS
_Impressions of an Officer of Light Cavalry_
_Told by Lieut. Marcel Dupont, of the French Chasseurs_
This officer of the Light Cavalry tells a straightforward story of
the charges on the battlefields of the War: "Days of misery, days of
joy, days of battle--what volumes we might write if we were to follow
our squadrons day by day. I have merely tried to make a written
record of some of the hours I have lived through. If I should come
out of the deathly struggle safe and sound, it would be a pleasure to
me some day to read over these notes of battle and bivouac. I shall
rejoice if I have been able to revise some phases of the tragedy in
which we were the actors if my brothers-in-arms read the simple tales
of a lieutenant of Chasseurs, an unschooled effort of a soldier more
apt with the sword than with the pen." M. Dupont tells: "How I Went
to the Front," "The First Charge," "Sister Gabriel," and "Christmas
Night." Some of these stories are here told by permission of his
publishers from his book, "In the Field."--_J. B. Lippincott Company._
[14] I--NIGHT IN THE HOUSE OF A PEASANT
One morning in the middle of September, 1914, as we raised our heads
at about six o'clock from the straw on which we had slept, I and my
friend F. had a very disagreeable surprise: we heard in the darkness
the gentle, monotonous noise of water falling drop by drop from the
pent-house onto the road.
Arriving at Pévy the evening before, just before midnight, we had found
refuge in a house belonging to a peasant. The hostess, a good old soul
of eighty, had placed at our disposal a small bare room paved with
tiles, in which our orderlies had prepared a sumptuous bed of trusses
of straw. The night had been delightful, and we should have awaked in
good spirits had it not been for the distressing fact noticed by my
friend.
"It is raining," said F.
I could not but agree with him. Those who have been soldiers, and
especially cavalrymen, know to the full how dispiriting is the sound of
those few words: "It is raining."
"It is raining" means your clothes will be saturated; your cloak will
be drenched, and weigh at least forty pounds; the water will drip from
your shako along your neck and down your back; above all, your high
boots will be transformed into two little pools in which your feet
paddle woefully. It means broken roads, mud splashing you up to the
eyes, horses slipping, reins stiffened, your saddle transformed into a
hip-bath. It means that the little clean linen you have brought with
you--that precious treasure--in your saddlebags, will be changed into a
wet bundle on which large and indelible yellow stains have been made by
the soaked leather.
But it was no use to think of all this. The orders ran: "Horses to be
saddled, and squadron ready to mount, at 6.30." And they had to be
carried out.
It was still dark. I went out into the yard, after pulling down my
campaigning cap over my ears. Well, after all, the evil was less than
I had feared. It was not raining, but drizzling. The air was mild,
and there was not a breath of wind. When once our cloaks were on it
would take some hours for the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther
end of the yard some men were moving about round a small fire. Their
shadows passed to and fro in front of the ruddy light. They were making
coffee--_jus_, as they call it--that indispensable ration in which they
soak bread and make a feast without which they think a man cannot be a
good soldier.
I ran to my troop through muddy alleys, skipping from side to side to
avoid the puddles. Daylight appeared, pale and dismal. A faint smell
rose from the sodden ground.
"Nothing new, _mon Lieutenant_," were the words that greeted me from
the sergeant, who then made his report. I had every confidence in him;
he had been some years in the service, and knew his business. Small and
lean, and tightly buttoned into his tunic, in spite of all our trials
he was still the typical smart light cavalry non-commissioned officer.
I knew he had already gone round the stables, which he did with a
candle in his hand, patting the horses' haunches and looking with a
watchful eye to see whether some limb had not been hurt by a kick or
entangled in its tether.
In the large yard of the abandoned and pillaged farm, where the men had
been billeted they were hurrying to fasten the last buckles and take
their places in the ranks. I quickly swallowed my portion of insipid
lukewarm coffee, brought me by my orderly; then I went to get my orders
from the Captain, who was lodged in the market-square. No word had
yet been received from the Colonel, who was quartered at the farm of
Vadiville, two kilometres off. Patience! We had been used to these long
waits since the army had been pulled up before the formidable line of
trenches which the Germans had dug north of Rheims. They were certainly
most disheartening; but it could not be helped, and it was of no use to
complain. I turned and went slowly up the steep footpath that led to my
billet.