Observers
By Artillery Captain M--- C---
Leaning on my beam, I looked out into the night. It was a beautiful
winter night, dreamy and peaceful. A vague gleam of moonlight hovered
over the serene space, touching the fleecy clouds which were floating
in the sky. And yet everything was sad with an infinite sadness.
From the summit on which I was perched, I looked out on every side
on an immense horizon, and on every side it was a desert of death
and desolation. In front of me were the Germans. Five hundred yards
separated us from their outposts and that was the only side where
there was no water. To the right, to the left, and behind us was the
inundation, a great humid street, which, as far as the eye could see,
shone strangely under the wan moonbeams, a weird shroud, covering, in
its icy folds, thousands of corpses buried in the mud. Here and there,
a dark spot could be seen in the water. It was all that remained of a
farm, a charred, crumbling skeleton, or there was a dead beast breaking
through the winding-sheet, or a human corpse turning its grimacing face
to the moon. There were two, not far away from me, that I knew well.
For some months, they had been my daily companions. The first one was
a German with a ravaged face, showing all its teeth in a horrible
grin. The other one was a Belgian. Only the face emerged and the water
splashed round it, leaving green shreds on its grey cheeks. A dark bird
was poised on its nose, pecking at its gnawed eye sockets. Oh, shades
of heroes! Can the glory that surrounds you with its halo not cover the
remains of your poor profaned bodies?
There was a deadly calm and the cold wind made the trembling reeds
rustle. Every breeze brought me a whiff of fulsome decay. Nothing broke
the silence, except the funereal croaking of the birds of prey and the
wail of the sea-gulls, which kept hovering in long flights over the
deserted space. Oh, the sadness and the infamy of war! This then is
your work, oh brutal and barbarous force, the rights of which men dare
in our days still affirm and glorify!
* * * * *
Presently, some stealthy footsteps were to be heard. It was the guard
being relieved. On the long footbridge, which was all that united our
men with the outpost, a line of silent figures passed. A flash was to
be seen, lighting up the darkness, and this was immediately followed by
about twenty shots. The troop passed underneath my observation post.
There was a fresh flash, and a bullet struck the wall under my feet.
There was a cry followed by a long groan. It was a wounded man. He was
carried away and the others went on to occupy the trenches.
Our order here had been to hold out to the very death. Retreat was
impossible anyhow. To be convinced of this, one had only to look at the
immense stretch of water which separated us from our first lines, that
dark band in the distant horizon.
The change of guard was scarcely finished when I heard a well-known
strain coming from afar. It was a "saucepan" on its way:
"Ou-oû-ou-oû!..." It was a fifteen calibre.
"Boom!" It exploded five yards away from me, covering me with mud. It
was the moment when every man crouches down in his shelter, but, for
the observer, it was the moment to see something and to get up higher,
if possible, in order to gaze out at the land around. A second shot
was to be heard and, so far, I had seen nothing. An infernal noise
shook the building under me. That was charming. I sent my two aids to
get under cover and I fixed a certain spot in the darkness. Ah, there
was a gleam of light. Quick, I had to place it, whilst the projectile
was on its way. This was aimed too far. It passed like a whirlwind
over my head. Quick with the telephone! Good, we are going to reply.
Thirty seconds later, a volley started from us, and now the concert
began in earnest. An enemy battery answered our firing. On our side, a
second one was brought into action, and this bombarded the German post
in front of me. Presently, there was a deafening noise on all sides.
I could no longer hear the German projectiles, but red flashes and
formidable shocks warned me that we were coming in for it.
I shouted my observations to the telephonist, who could scarcely hear
me a storey lower. Finally the battery which was firing on us was
reduced to silence. Others went on firing, but slackened down and,
at the end of an hour, there was dead silence again, broken only by
bullets which, from one trench to the other, were fired in search of
victims.
* * * * *
When my time had expired, I went down below and was surprised to see
my brave Liénart at the side of the ladder. He had been observing
too. Instead of getting under cover, during the storm, he had come up
to help in case of need. As to the telephonist, Cornez, I found him
crouching down near his apparatus. "No chance of going to sleep here!"
he said, on seeing me. And as it was his turn, he went up to take my
place.
I threw myself down on my "flea sack" (the name answered to the reality
in this case) and I slept the sleep of the observer, which had now
become a habit with me. That is, I had one ear closed and the other
listening to every sound. I kept my boots on, my pistol and cartridge
case at my side, and my carbine within reach.
Suddenly, a bullet passed quite near, with that special click peculiar
to shots fired at a short distance. A volley of shots then came,
flattening themselves against the walls. We were all quickly on the
alert. I went to look out at the observation post. It was probably an
enemy patrol wandering about. Three men offered to go out in search of
this and quickly started off, crawling along in the darkness. A few
shots were exchanged and then all was quiet. The German patrol had
withdrawn.
When I returned to my post, I felt suddenly chilly. I lighted a few
pieces of wood in my brick oven and cooked three sweet potatoes over
the cinders. This had been our usual meal since we had been at this
observation post.
Gradually, whilst the wood was crackling and Cornez, who had been
relieved, was snoring near me, I began to think of my home and of my
old parents, who were watching and waiting so far away. I thought,
too, of the beloved convent which I had left for this war, and of the
strange contrast between this adventurous life and the serene life of
the cloister.
For five months, we had been going from ruin to ruin in the midst of
the inundation, trying to find a fresh post among the putrid waters, as
soon as the shells had reduced the preceding one to a heap of ruins.
A hundred times death had hovered over us, and a hundred times shells
had paid us their gracious visits, in the very rooms in which we were
living. It was all in vain, though, for we were "vaccinated."
As to our diet, it was worthy of Robinson Crusoe. What did it all
matter! We were inured now to hunger, thirst, cold, and weariness. The
worst of everything was the rain. It was all in vain that we struggled
to protect our shelter. The bombardment soon played havoc with the roof
and then the water was hopeless. It was no use thinking of sleep. Drop
by drop, the rain would first come through a crack in the ceiling....
"Toc!... toc!... toc!" ... We would put a basin down for it. A second
little streamlet would commence. Down would go our saucepan for that.
Then other streamlets would begin, and we would follow them all up
with receptacles. We changed the places of our mattresses. It was all
in vain, as very soon the deluge began again. Among all this ceaseless
spotting, each drop competed with the other in making the clearest
sound and the quickest drip: "Ticlictacpictoctoc"....
"Tu-u-u-u-û!" the one in the middle would say, for it had suddenly
found a way to make one steady stream. That one certainly deserved
the prize, and we gave it the honour of having the big saucepan to
receive it. Finally, we resigned ourselves to the inevitable. We had
our feet in a pool, water on our clothes, water on our heads, gradually
dripping down our necks, and our mattresses full of water. There was
only one thing left for us to do, and that was to put on our big coats
and to let it go on raining, to shut our eyes and dream (with the
joyful concert of the drip, drip going on) of all that life has that is
beautiful, great, and good, provided all this be consecrated to some
holy cause.
Just as dawn was appearing, I had an agreeable visit in my lonely
hermitage. My old comrade, Lieutenant de W----, had come here to
observe in his turn. He was accompanied by his two faithful followers,
Quartermaster Snysters, an old Antwerp friend, who had gone through the
Retreat with me, and Gunner Frentzen. How am I to describe Frentzen?
Imagine a tall, bony, roughly-hewn Flemish man of six feet, with a
surly look and two small, keen eyes, constantly lighting up with a
smile. Frentzen had been taken prisoner by the Germans. The first
night, he went and found the sentinel, killed him with his fists, and
then, smoking his pipe, returned calmly to his Lieutenant. My two
Flemish friends are inseparable. They insult each other from morning
to night and are always in search of some adventurous exploit. They go
roving about in the midst of the inundations, right to the outposts,
under the very noses of the Boches.
The newcomers received a hearty welcome and de W---- and I stirred
up, not only the fire, but all our old memories, by way of cheering
ourselves. Whilst we were chatting, his two companions had been laying
their plans. Frentzen came ambling up to us, scratching the back of his
neck.
"Lieutenant," he began, "if we could just have a look in at the little
farm over yonder?"
"The farm? That one? Why, it's full of Boches."
"The 'Bosses'!" exclaimed Frentzen, with superb disdain. "We can put a
few bullets into them."
De W---- and I roared with laughter at his expression.
"Right," said my friend. "You can go, but be prudent."
Snysters favoured me with a wink that was full of eloquence and
shrugged his shoulders slightly, and the two men set out on their
expedition.
An hour later they returned, wet through, covered with mud, and
accusing each other of being milksops, cowards, and using various other
complimentary epithets, such as only the Flemish language can render
with sufficient emphasis. Frentzen's pocket had been pierced by a
bullet. Snysters had had one through his cap. A minute or two later,
Snysters went out of the room and Frentzen came a few steps nearer and
remarked, confidentially:
"Lieutenant, Snysters, he doesn't know what it means to be afraid of
anything, but he's a bit...."
Frentzen winked and touched his own forehead.
"You understand, Lieutenant."
"Yes, yes, I know him well."
Frentzen went away and when Snysters came back, he drew his chair up
and remarked:
"Lieutenant, that Frentzen's a chap with plenty of nerve, but,"
hereupon he tapped his forehead with a knowing expression, "a bit
touched here, you know."
"Yes, yes, I know...."
A little while later, they went off again, arm in arm, insulting each
other more than ever, but on the lookout for fresh adventures.
The bombardment recommenced at an early hour. It began with volleys of
77's, those miserable, ridiculous 77's. They come along as though they
are going to smash everything before them, and they finish with a poor
little "petch" and a bit of pipe smoke.
_Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus._
Cornez, my youngster from Liége, gave a whistling accompaniment.
Presently the song changed and the 105 arrived. The planks of wood
which served as window-shutters were flung inside the room. In front
of the building, the footbridge was pulverised. That was the fifth
time this had happened. There would be no chance of going outside and
keeping our feet dry now. Our guns answered.
I looked out at the firing zone and was pleased to see that the enemy
battery was well encircled. It continued in spite of this, and as a
matter of fact, we were no less encircled than they were.
I went downstairs to go to the telephone. I was only just there, when
a formidable explosion flung a whole collection of bricks and rubbish
behind me and I was in the midst of a cloud of dust. I looked up and
saw that there was nothing left of my observation post. A huge breach
in the wall showed where the brutal visitor had just entered. De W----
came running to me, delighted to see me whole.
"I fancy there are too many prayers being said for you," he remarked,
"for the shells to be able to touch you."
"I have been vaccinated," I replied.
After all this, we had a good night's work before us, as we were
obliged to build the place up again. And that was not all. That satanic
105 was warming up with its work. The footbridge was smashed in several
places. It would be difficult for the relief at night, and, by way of
a climax, the telephone was silent, as the wire was cut. Good, we were
completely isolated from the rest of the world. For the moment there
was nothing to be done, so we sat down and began talking, knowing that
there was every possibility of our conversation finishing up above, in
the presence of St. Peter.
Towards noon, there was a lull and we were able to repair the telephone
wire. As soon as we were in communication once more with our comrades
in the rear, the first thing they asked was whether we were all dead.
We then cooked some more sweet potatoes, put the platform up again, and
then the fête began once more, and this time continued until night.
Just when it was beginning to grow dark, our telephone wires broke
again. We were now getting volleys of shrapnel, which continued all
the time, covering the ground with hurricanes of lead and iron. This
foreshadowed an attack. I thought I would go and have a look at the
trenches. I kept slipping on the mud and went splashing through pools
of water and tumbling into holes, made recently by the shells, whilst
overhead the wretched volleys kept bursting with their sharp, dry din
and, at my feet, the bullets pierced the ground.
In front of us, nothing could be seen moving. The Lieutenant in command
of this post was on his guard, as he expected an attack. The night was
getting quickly heavy and dark, so that very soon we could distinguish
nothing ten yards away from us. Nothing could be seen at all but the
weird flashes which kept lighting up the darkness on all sides, and
these seemed to be getting more and more furious. "There is nothing to
fear, at present," I said to my comrade, "but as soon as the firing
slackens, we must keep a sharp lookout."
"Lieutenant, Lieutenant!" I suddenly heard from my post.
"What is the matter?"
"Come quick!"
I returned as quickly as possible. There was no light, but a huge hole
in the ceiling which let in the cold air. On the floor, among all the
rubbish, lay a man. I turned my light on the face and saw that it was
my brave friend, Snysters. He was covered with blood which was still
smoking; a huge fragment of shell had pierced his heart. I examined him
to see whether he were really dead and I offered up a prayer to God for
his heroic soul. I then went in search of the others. They had taken
refuge in a trench. De W. was wounded in the wrist. Cornez was still
dazed by the commotion, and Frentzen was growling and swearing in a low
voice.
"Filthy Bosses! Wretched pigs! Poor Snysters! Curse them, curse them!"
Towards 9 o'clock, the bombardment suddenly slackened and the Germans
extended their firing range. A minute later, there was shooting from
our trenches, and the Germans fired back from quite near to us. Our
shooting then became hurried and agitated. Attention now for the
attack! I took a fuse and then went to our line. What was the meaning
of the disorder? We were just being relieved. "Halt! let no one move
until further orders. Every man in the trenches."
I met the fresh commander of the post and we concerted for a few
seconds. Whilst he threw a fuse from the trench to the left, I was
to look out with my field-glasses at the trench to the right, which
appeared to be the one threatened. The fuse was thrown and the whole
country round was bathed in a bright light. There was nothing to be
seen. Not a man appeared. But as I knew every detail of the land by
heart, I could distinguish, thirty yards in front of us, a long line of
little heaps that had been newly made.
The Boches were hollowing out the ground and were burying themselves
ready for the assault. I stopped the firing and ordered absolute
silence. In the midst of the darkness, we could then hear distinctly
the rough, brief orders that the Commander of the attack was giving
in a low voice. Ah, the rascals, they had come as near to us as that!
Good, we will give them something for their trouble. With the agreement
of the officer in command, I had one of the two machine-guns brought
from the other salient. I then looked out again with my field-glasses;
a faint moonbeam now lighted up the ground. I could see the little
heaps and also the spades that were moving the earth. Presently a
shadow could be seen standing up and then two, three, ten figures. I
indicated the spot to the gunner and he took aim.
"Fire!"
The horrible engine of war did its work and, in a trice, it had mown
down all these figures. Five minutes later, some more figures rose and
these too were brought down by the machine-gun. An enemy machine-gun
now replied to us, but, fortunately, it fired too high and too much
to the left. For three hours, we kept this game up. The Germans were
nailed to the ground, and each time they attempted to get up, they were
swept down again by our firing. Finally, they retired and disappeared,
crawling along in the darkness.
We then went back to our post. A never-to-be-forgotten sight awaited
us there. Snysters was lying in the middle of the room. His face was
turned to the sky and he was sleeping his long sleep under a beam of
light. Just above his head, by the gaping breach in the ceiling, the
moon shed a white ray which surrounded his face with a halo of glory.
It looked very pure and very peaceful, and left all the rest of his
body hidden in dense darkness. I have never seen a finer mortuary
than the one which the heavens had thus raised to this martyr to his
country. And it seemed to me that the soul of the hero had risen
gloriously, in this beautiful ray of light, to the kingdom above.
An hour later, the body was taken away. Frentzen wrapped it in his own
cloak, because it was a better one than that of the dead man, and he
carried it out alone. Whilst he was digging a grave, swearing all the
time between his teeth, I noticed that he kept furtively wiping away
his tears.
When he had finished his task, he came back to me.
"Lieutenant," he said, "I knew it would happen to him. I always told
him so. He was always swearing like the devil, it was sure to happen
to him.... Damn! Damn!"
And swearing away now for two men, instead of one, he went on growling
quietly.
* * * * *
Before the dawn, we had again repaired the damage. And then the day
broke, rosy and smiling, in the limpid horizon, lighting up a pile of
German corpses and of ruins in the midst of our own ruins. And when I
had gone up to my post once more, a blackbird came and perched on the
top of the roof and warbled his gay song to the echoes. I understood
then that only one thing matters in our existence, and that is to so
order one's soul that, high up in the ideal azure, it shall sing its
song in spite of the storm. It must be a soul which, free and strong,
shall continue its own way, always ready for any struggle, always ready
for martyrdom, and always ready to rise heavenwards!
_March, 1915._