Chaplain's. But after a minute or so a marvel happened. From all those
chests came a volume of sound such as I could hardly have believed
possible. Who will say then that our dear France has lost her Faith?
Who can believe it? Every one of these men joined in singing the hymn,
and not one of them seemed ignorant of the Latin words. It was a
magnificent choir, under a lofty vault, chanting with the fervour of
absolute sincerity. There was not one discordant note, not one voice
out of tune, to spoil its perfect harmony.
Who can believe that men, many of them more than thirty years old,
would remember all the words unless they had been brought up in the
faith of their ancestors and still held it?
I could not help turning to look at them. In the light of the candles
their faces appeared to be wonderfully transfigured. Not one of them
expressed irony or even indifference. What a fine picture it would
have made for a Rembrandt! The bodies of the men were invisible in the
darkness of the nave, and their heads alone emerged from the gloom.
The effect was grand enough to fascinate the most sceptical of
painters; it soothed and charmed one and wiped out all the miseries
that the war had left in its wake. Men like these would be equal to
anything, ready for anything; and I myself should much have liked to
see a Monsieur Homais hidden away in some corner of that church.
Meanwhile the sacred Office was proceeding at the altar. At any other
time we might have smiled at the sight of that soldier-priest served
by choristers of thirty-five in uniform; at that ceremony it was
inexpressibly touching and attractive, and it was especially
delightful to see how carefully and precisely each performed his
function that the ceremony might not lack its accustomed pomp.
When the singing had ceased the Chaplain went up to the holy table. In
a voice full of feeling he tried to express his gratitude and
happiness to all those brave fellows. I should not imagine him to be a
brilliant speaker at the best of times, but on that occasion the
worthy man was completely unintelligible. His happiness was choking
him. He tried in vain to find the words he wanted, used the wrong
ones, and only confused himself by trying to get them right. But
nobody had the least desire to laugh when, to conclude his address, he
said with a sigh of relief:
"And now we will tell twenty beads of the rosary; ten for the success
of our arms, and the other ten in memory of soldiers who have died on
the field of honour.... _Hail! Mary, full of grace_...."
I looked round the church once more, and every one's lips were moving
silently accompanying the priest's words. Opposite us I saw the
artillery captain take a rosary out of his pocket and tell the beads
with dreamy eyes; and when the Chaplain came to the sentence "Holy
Mary, Mother of God, ..." hundreds of voices burst forth, deep and
manly voices, full of fervour which seemed to proclaim their faith in
Him Who was present before them on the altar, and also to promise
self-sacrifice and devotion to that other sacred thing, their Country.
Then, after the _Tantum ergo_ had been sung with vigour, the priest
held up the monstrance, and I saw all those soldiers with one accord
kneel down on the stone floor and bow their heads. The silence was
impressive; not a word, not a cough, and not a chair moved. I had
never seen such devotion in any church. Some spiritual power was
brooding over the assemblage and bowing all those heads in token of
submission and hope. Good, brave soldiers of France, how we love and
honour you at such moments, and what confidence your chiefs must feel
when they lead such men to battle!
* * * * *
We sat at table around the lamp, and good Maman Cheveret had just
brought in the steaming soup. Right away towards the east we heard the
dull roll of the cannon. Good Monsieur Cheveret had just brought up
from his cellar a venerable bottle of his best Burgundy, and, at the
invitation of the Captain, he sat down to drink a glass with us,
smoking his cherry-wood pipe and listening with delight to our merry
chat.
Gosset was in his kitchen next door preparing a delicious piece of
beef _à la mode_ and at the same time telling the admiring Maman
Cheveret about his exploits of the past month.
We heard the men of the first troop cracking their jokes in the yard
as they ate their rations and emptied their pannikin of wine under a
brilliant moon.
Down in the valley on the banks of the murmuring Vesle, songs and
laughter floated up to us from the artillery park.
And the village itself, shining under the starlit sky, seemed bathed
in an atmosphere of cheerfulness, courage and confidence.
VI. A TRAGIC NIGHT IN THE TRENCHES
_November 3, 1914._
Imagine a little tiled room, some 16 feet by 9, in which for over a
fortnight passing soldiers have been living, sleeping, and eating;
imagine the furniture overturned, the broken crockery strewn on the
floor, the doors and drawers of the cupboards pulled out, their modest
contents scattered to the four corners of the house; add to this
windows without glass, doors broken in, rubbish of every kind lying
about, brought no one can tell whence or how; and yet note that one or
two chromo-lithographs, a few photographs of friends and relatives and
certain familiar objects, still cling to the walls, evoking the life
that animated this home but a short time ago, and you will get some
idea of the place where my Major, my comrades of the squadron and I
were lodged on that memorable November evening.
It was five o'clock, and night was already falling, the cold, damp,
misty night of Flanders following on a dreary autumn day. Outside the
guns were roaring far away. The Battle of the Yser was going on.
Our regiment had just been brought by rail from the Reims district,
where it was, to the North of France, and thence to Belgium. Our
chiefs had said: "You must leave your horses, you must forget that you
ever were cavalrymen, you must make up your minds cheerfully to your
new calling and become infantrymen for the time being. We are short of
infantry here, and the Germans are trying to rush Dunkirk and Calais.
Your country relies upon you to stop them." Our good Chasseurs left
their horses at Elverdinghe, 10 kilometres from here. They came on
foot, hampered by their heavy cavalry cloaks, dragging their riding
boots through the atrocious mud of the ruined roads, carrying in their
packs, together with their ration of bread and tinned meat, the huge
load of one hundred and twenty cartridges; they arrived here in the
firing line, and quite simply, as if they had never been accustomed to
anything else, did wonders there and then.
Yesterday, I grieve to say, I was not at the head of my troop. I was
unable to take part in the epic battle round Bixschoote, the poor
Belgian village which was retaken and then abandoned by us for the
twentieth time. I was not present at the heroic death of the gallant
and charming Colonel d'A., of the ---- Chasseurs, the author of those
heart-stirring pages--and among them "The Charge"--which bring tears
to the eyes of every cavalryman. He died facing the enemy, leading his
regiment to the attack under terrific fire, and when his men carried
him away they ranged themselves round him to make a rampart of their
bodies for the chief they adored. I was not able to share the danger
of my young comrade, Second-Lieutenant J., who fell bravely at the
head of his marksmen, in the middle of my beloved regiment, in which
fresh gaps have been made by the enemy's bullets. My seniority had
marked me out as officer of _liaison_ to the General commanding our
division. But this morning at dawn I came back to take my place in the
firing line, and I think I shall be able to make up for lost time.
The day has been absolutely quiet, however. After the fighting of the
day before, and a night of sleeplessness and incessant alarms in the
trenches, three of our squadrons, mine among them, were relieved
before dawn and placed in reserve. They found billets in little
forsaken farms some 600 yards from the firing line. Our men rested as
well as they could all day, making beds of the scanty supplies of
straw they found, washing themselves in pools, and renewing their
strength in order to relieve the troops which had remained in the
trenches; a squadron of our regiment, a squadron of the ----
Chasseurs, and a section of infantry Chasseurs.
Seated on a broken box, I was doing my best to write a letter, while
Major B. and my brother officers O. and F., together with Captain de
G., of the third squadron, took their seats at a rickety table and
began a game of bridge. Here, by the way, is a thing passing the
understanding of the profane, I mean the non-bridge player. This is
the extraordinary, I might almost say the immoderate, attraction which
the initiated find in this game, even at the height of a campaign.
What inexhaustible joys it must offer to make its adepts profit by the
briefest moments of respite in a battle to settle down anywhere and
anyhow and give themselves up to their mysterious practices!
I pause for a moment in my letter-writing to enjoy the sight, which
has its special charm. Two or three kilometres off, towards
Steenstraate, the cannon were working away furiously, while only a few
paces from our shanty a section of our 75's was firing incessantly
over the wood upon Bixschoote; overhead we heard the unpleasant roar
of the big German shells; and in the midst of the racket I saw my
bridge players dragging their table over to the broken window. Day was
dying, and we had not seen a gleam of sunshine since morning. The sky
was grey--a thick, dirty grey; it seemed to be very low, close upon
us, and I felt that the night would come by slow degrees without any
of those admirable symphonies of colour that twilight sometimes brings
to battlefields, making the combatant feel that he is ending his day
in apotheosis.
But those four seemed to hear nothing. In the grey light I watched the
refined profile of the Major bending over the cards just dealt by F.
He no doubt has to speak first, for the three others looked at him, in
motionless silence, as if they were expecting some momentous
utterance. Then suddenly, accompanied by the muffled roar of the
battle music, the following colloquy took place, a colloquy full of
traps and ambushes, I suppose, for the four officers cast suspicious
and inquisitorial glances at each other over their cards:
"One spade."
"Two hearts."
"Two no trumps."
"I double."
"Your turn, Major."
But all of a sudden paf! paf! The four players had thrown down their
cards, and we all looked at each other without a word. Suddenly we had
just heard above us that strange and indefinable crackle made by
bullets fired at close range as they tear through the air just above
one. No doubt was possible; something extraordinary was happening near
the trenches, for the crackling increased mightily, and hundreds and
hundreds of bullets began to whistle round us. F. sent the table
rolling to the other end of the room with a kick, and we all rushed
out after the Major.
There is no more depressing moment in warfare than when one finds
oneself exposed to violent fire from the enemy without being able to
see whence it comes, or what troops are firing, and what is its
objective. Obviously the attack was not directed against us, for
between the trenches and the houses where we were there was a thick
wood which entirely concealed us from the sight of the enemy. But on
the other hand the shots could not have been fired from the trenches
the Germans had hitherto occupied opposite us, for had they been the
bullets must have passed high over our heads, and we should have heard
only the characteristic whistle of shots fired at long range.
For a moment, only a moment, we were full of dread. What had happened?
What had become of the comrades who were in the firing-line? Grouped
together in the little enclosure bordered with quick-set hedges where
there were still traces of what had been the kitchen-garden of our
farm, we strained our eyes to see without uttering a word. In front of
us was the dark line of the wood. We scrutinised it sharply, this
silent mass of trees and bushes on which autumn had already laid the
most splendid colours of its palette. In spite of the dull light, what
an admirable background it made to the melancholy picture of the
devastated landscape! First, quite close to the ground, was a tangle
of bushes and brambles, its russet foliage forming a kind of
impenetrable screen, which, in bright sunshine, would have been a
curtain of purple and gold. Then, pointing up into the misty sky, came
the denuded trunks of the trees, surrounded by a maze of myriads of
delicate branches, their ramifications stretching a violet-tinted veil
across the sky. In spite of the tragic present I could not but admire
the marvellous setting Nature offered for the drama in which we were
destined to be the actors.
The bullets continued their infernal music, whistling in thousands
over our heads. At the same time the fire of the German mortars
redoubled in intensity, and their great "coal-boxes" (big shells)
burst with a deafening din a few hundred yards behind us, seeking to
silence our guns. These, concealed in a hollow, answered vigorously.
But what did it all mean? What was happening? We longed to shout, to
call, to implore some one to answer us, to tell us what had been
taking place behind the thick curtain of the wood. But the curtain
remained impenetrable.
In the few seconds we spent below that deserted house in the little
trampled garden-close, under the rain of bullets that was falling
around us, one dread oppressed us, and lay so heavy on our hearts that
it made us dumb and incapable of exchanging our thoughts, or, rather,
the one thought that haunted us all. "What has become of the second
squadron? What has become of our Colonel, who had stayed in command?
What has become of all our dear fellows there on the other side of the
wood?" Uncertainty is indeed the worst of all miseries, because it
makes its victims believe and imagine every horror.
From our post we could see at the windows and doors of the little
houses scattered among the fields the anxious and inquiring faces of
our men. They, too, were tortured by uncertainty. They stood huddled
together, looking in our direction, waiting for a sign or an order.
Suddenly our doubts were dissipated.
"To arms!" cried our Major, in a ringing voice that echoed above the
crackling of the bullets and was heard by the whole squadron.
He had no need to repeat the order. In the twinkling of an eye my
troop had formed behind me, in squads. My men waited in absolute
silence, their eyes fixed upon me, kneeling on one knee, and leaning
on their rifles. I seemed to hear all their hearts beating in unison
with mine; and knew their wills ready to second mine.
The Major gave the word of command. We disposed our men in skirmishing
order in the ditch of the road that passed in front of our farm,
parallel with the skirts of the wood. Our squadrons thus formed a line
of from 300 to 400 yards, capable of holding the enemy in check for
some time, if they had succeeded in taking our trenches and were
already pushing through the thicket. Kneeling on the road behind them,
I looked at my men. They were lying flat on the ground on the slope of
the ditch; they had loaded their rifles, and I could not distinguish
the slightest trace of fear or even of emotion in any one of them.
They were all looking straight before them trying to see whether some
helmeted soldier were emerging from the bushes in the gathering
shadow. What splendid soldiers the war has fashioned for us! They are
no longer merely the diligent and conscientious cavalrymen we took
pleasure in commanding, and whose smartness we admired in peace time.
The stern experience of the battlefield has hardened, strengthened and
ennobled them. Their faces are manlier; their discipline, far from
relaxing, has become more thorough; their courage has developed, and,
in most of them, now verges on temerity.
I have had two new men in my troop for a short time: Ladoucette and
Roger. They are Territorials, men of from thirty-eight to forty, who,
wearying of the depôt and envying their juniors in the field, asked
and obtained leave to rejoin the regiment at the Front. They
fascinated me at once by their high spirits, their jovial chaff, and
the cheerfulness with which they undertook the most laborious tasks.
But I had not yet seen them under fire.
I looked about for them in the line of skirmishers. I tried to
distinguish them among all the backs and necks lying before me. And I
very soon guessed that they were at the extreme right of the troop,
for I heard smothered laughter at that corner; evidently Ladoucette
was cracking some of the highly-spiced jokes characteristic of him.
Yes, I saw his head lifted above the grass on the slope, his bristling
moustache, his brilliant eyes, and sarcastic mouth. I could not hear
what he was saying, for the firing was still furious, but I saw from
the smiling faces of his neighbours that he had, as usual, found the
right word for the occasion, the word that provokes laughter under
bullet fire and makes men forget danger. Not far from him his
inseparable chum, Roger, guffawed appreciatively, and seemed to be
enjoying himself thoroughly. I rejoiced to think that I had got two
first-rate recruits, worthy to fight side by side with the fine
fellows of my brave troop.
Suddenly a dark figure emerged from the wood, then two more, then
another three, then more. Was it the enemy? Without waiting for the
word of command some of the men pointed their rifles at the mysterious
shadows running in single file towards us.
"Don't fire! Don't fire!"
We had, fortunately, recognised the uniform of our infantry Chasseurs.
But this increased rather than allayed our anxiety. We naturally
imagined the direst catastrophes and feared the most terrible
consequences when we saw those in whom we had trusted, those who
occupied the trenches nearest to Bixschoote, beating a retreat. The
first of the fugitives came up to us. They seemed completely
demoralised. Haggard, ragged, and black with dust, they crossed the
road at a run. We tried in vain to stop them. As they passed us they
shouted something unintelligible, of which we could catch nothing but
the words:
"They're coming, ... they're coming."
Together with O., I succeeded in stopping two men, who were going
along less rapidly, supporting a wounded comrade who was groaning and
dragging himself on one leg.
"Our flank was turned; there are thousands of them. They came through
the village and enfiladed us. We had a great many killed ... our
officer wounded. We must get back further to the rear."
As they went off haltingly with their comrade, whose groans were
pitiable to hear, the tall figure of a lieutenant of foot Chasseurs
rose suddenly before us. He looked like a ghost, and for a moment we
thought he was about to fall, an exhausted mass, at our feet. His face
was covered with blood. The red mask in which the white of the eyes
formed two brilliant spots was horrible to see. His torn tunic and all
his clothing were saturated with blood. He was gesticulating wildly
with the revolver he clutched in his hands, and seemed absolutely
distraught.
As he passed the Major seized him by the arm:
"Halt! halt! Look here, you must rally your men. We can put up a good
defence here."
The officer wrenched himself free, and went off with hasty strides,
calling to us without turning his head:
"I know what I must do.... We can't hold a line here.... I am going to
form up by the artillery."
Two more men came by, depressed and silent, bent down by the weight of
their knapsacks. They crossed the ditches by the roadside with
difficulty, and were presently lost to sight in the fields amidst the
gathering shadows.
There was no laughter now in our ranks. The same thought was in every
mind, the same despair chilled every heart. The Germans must have
taken our trenches, and our brave comrades had all chosen to die
rather than to retreat. And the enemy must be there before us, in that
wood; they must be stealing up to us noiselessly. I fancied I could
see them, gliding from tree to tree, holding their rifles high, trying
to deaden the sound of their footsteps among the dead leaves.
Presently they would reach the dark line that stretched before us,
mute and mysterious; they would mass their dense reserves in the rear,
and suddenly thousands of lightning flashes would illuminate the
fringe of the thicket. I looked at my men again. There was no sign of
wavering; not a word was spoken; their faces looked a little pale in
the waning light. Above us thousands of shells and bullets filled the
air with their strange and terrible music.
A man came out of the wood and walked quietly towards us. It was not
light enough to distinguish his uniform, but his calm and placid
bearing was in marked contrast to that of the infantry Chasseurs. He
must have recognised the little group formed by the Major, my
comrades, and myself in the middle of the road, for he made straight
for us.
When he got to within twenty paces of us we recognised to our joy
Sergeant Madelin, a non-commissioned officer of our second squadron,
the squadron that had stayed in the trenches with the Colonel and the
machine-gun section. I cannot describe the relief we felt at the sight
of him. Though we could not tell what he was going to say, his
attitude dispelled our fears at once. He gazed at us with wide
astonished eyes from under the peak of his shako, and came on quietly,
as if he were taking a walk, his hands in his pockets, murmuring in a
tone of stupefaction:
"What on earth is the matter?"
"Well, really, this is a little too much!" exclaimed the Major;
"that's just what _we_ want _you_ to tell _us_!"
"But I have nothing to tell you, Major. The trench of the infantry
Chasseurs was taken. We are all right. But the Colonel has sent me to
say that there are signs of a German counter-attack on the left, and
he wants you to reinforce him on that side with your three
squadrons."
He spoke so calmly and with such an air of astonishment that we all
felt inclined to laugh. Madelin had already given proof of his
courage, he had even been mentioned in orders for his valour, but we
had never seen him so placidly good-humoured under fire as on this
occasion. All our fears were at once put to flight, and we thought
only of one thing; to fly to the help of our comrades and win our
share of glory.
"Forward!"
The officers had advanced in front of the line of skirmishers. All the
men sprang up in an instant, and the three squadrons dashed forward
full speed.
But at the exact moment when our men, springing out of the ditches,
began their advance towards the wood, the enemy's artillery,
shortening its range, began to pour a perfect hail of shrapnel on our
line. It was now almost pitch dark, and there was something infernal
in the scene. The shells were bursting at a considerable height above
us, some in front, some behind. They made a horrible kind of music.
There must have been at least two batteries at work upon us, for we
could no longer distinguish even the three characteristic shots of the
German batteries in _rafale_ fire. The noise was incessant, and each
shell as it burst illumined a small section of the battlefield for a
second. It just showed a tree trunk, a bit of wall, a strip of hedge,
and then the darkness fell again over this point, while another was
illuminated by the crash of a new explosion.
At one moment a sudden horror gripped me. To my left a shrapnel shell
fell full on the line of the third squadron. This time the flash of
the explosion had not only lighted up a corner of landscape; I had had
a glimpse of a terrible sight.
You must imagine the intense and rapid light cast by a burning
magnesium wire, accompanied by a deafening noise, and in this brief
light the figures of several men, weirdly illuminated, in the
attitudes induced by the terror of certain death, and you will get a
faint impression of what I saw. Then, suddenly, everything fell back
into darkness, a darkness that seemed more intense than before after
the glare of the explosion. I dimly discerned bodies on the ground,
and shadows bending over them.
I did not stop, but I heard the voice of the Major calmly giving
orders:
"Pick him up! Gently...."