The Irony of Fate
By M. Sadsawska, Civic Guard, Motorcyclist of the 1st Line Regiment
We were occupying the Dixmude Sector. Our trenches were hollowed out
in the road which skirts the Yser, and the Regiment was sheltering
in the centre of a vast horseshoe-shaped curl, traced by the river
among the meadow grasses. The scenery was dolefully sad. Beyond a row
of century-old trees, or rather of poor trunks of trees bewailing
their scathed branches, which seemed to be mounting guard around our
shelters, the ruins of a railway bridge stood out, half hidden in the
water. On the embankment, surrounded by broken and twisted telegraph
poles, and festoons of wires and cables all mixed up, lay a powerful
locomotive, which had been overturned, so that its wheels were in the
air. The melancholiness of the site did not disturb our equanimity at
all. We were full of hopefulness and quite ready to march on towards
the piles of fallen roofs, gaping houses, and tottering walls of
strange shapes, which now constituted Dixmude, our old Flemish city.
In the misty twilight, it seemed to us as though the poor town were
stretching out its mutilated arms to us, and as though the murmur of
the wind in the ruins were hailing us.
"Courage, courage, come!" it seemed to say.
Alas! the few hundred yards of verdure, which our thoughts and our
wishes cleared only too willingly, hid the entrenchments and the
redoubts of the enemy. Every night, the bravest of our men started out
patrolling, endeavouring to discover the barbed wire, the ambushes,
and the traps set for us. Sergeant Renson had specially distinguished
himself for his daring and his _sang-froid_. He was naturally of an
adventurous nature and was an excellent soldier. In spite of his mature
age, he had joined the colours as a volunteer at the very beginning of
the war.
He was anxious to find out whether some information he had obtained on
a preceding expedition was exact, as it was very difficult on these
ink-black nights to distinguish the real from the imaginary. He,
therefore, expressed a wish to carry out a reconnaissance alone, and by
daylight, in the direction of the enemy's lines. "I am not afraid of
death," he said to his chiefs. "I have always lived in my own way and
I now want to carry out this plan. I am free to risk my own skin and,
as I am forty-two years old, I should not be any great loss." He was
finally allowed to do as he wished.
He went along a narrow, long passage, until he came to the edge of the
Yser, just where a few planks formed a raft. This means of transport
was invaluable at night, but could not be used by daylight, as the
enemy was on the watch. Renson could not swim. That did not trouble him
and he crossed the current clinging to a cable. Accustomed as he was
to all kinds of difficulties, this was mere child's play to him. He
reached the other side, slipped into a big sack covered with grass and
flowers, and, under this mantle of verdure, crawled along dexterously.
Our emotion was intense in the trenches. All eyes were watching him,
there was not a single loophole unoccupied.
Under the rays of the sun, we saw this moving grass crossing the
meadow. It advanced, fell back, turned, stopped, appeared and
disappeared, according to the undulations of the soil. Our hero was
gaining ground. He was observing in his own defiant way, braving
death itself. Nothing daunted him, nothing seemed to affect him. He
was there, moving about in front of the enemy's line. Our hearts were
beating wildly. Every time that a bullet whizzed along, it was anguish
to us, and each minute seemed eternal.
Finally Renson turned round and, slowly and methodically, began to wend
his way back. After a few yards more he would be in safety. We saw
him on the crest of the bank. He glided into the water, crossed the
stream, entered the narrow passage, and was soon back in the trenches,
contented and happy, bringing with him valuable information. And this
man, who had thus braved death, laughed heartily, as he gave us flowers
from the German trenches. He then went to his shelter and prepared his
report, tracing in full detail the daring itinerary he had chosen.
The Commander questioned him on some point and, in order to explain
better and to show the exact spot, they both approached a loophole in a
communication trench. The Sergeant pointed with his finger to the spot
in the meadow where the enemy was observing. A few seconds later and he
was moving away.... Malediction!
There was a cruel whizzing sound and Renson was dead. His skull had
been pierced and he fell to the ground, the earthen wall bespattered
with his generous blood.
At Alveringhem, in a peaceful country cemetery, in a grave covered with
flowers and surmounted by a large cross, lies Adjutant Renson, Knight
of the Order of Leopold II. who died for his country.