seemed an interminable race, the tumult had died down again and only
occasional shots broke the nocturnal calm. The reason of the sudden
renewal of the fighting was given at once by F.
"Bravo!" he cried; "we have retaken the infantry Chasseurs' trench!"
This was a great consolation to us, for we were all full of regret at
the loss of this little piece of ground. It had prevented us from
feeling quite satisfied with our day.
Now all was well. Our task was accomplished.
* * * * *
On the following day, November 4, at three in the morning, a battalion
of the ---- Regiment of the Line came to relieve us. It formed part
of that glorious 20th Corps, which has covered itself with glory ever
since the beginning of the war, and fought all along the front from
Lorraine to Flanders, always arriving at the moment when picked men
were needed to make a last desperate effort. It had come up that
evening, and was at once on the spot.
In the cold, luminous night, the heavily laden infantrymen defiled
into the narrow trench, calm, silent, and serious.
The officer who was to take my place presented himself smartly, as if
on the parade-ground.
"Lieutenant X."
I gave my name.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I am delighted to shake hands with you.
Allow me to say how much we all admire your regiment. Your General has
just told us how your Chasseurs have behaved. Accept my
congratulations. We could not have done better ourselves. The cavalry
is certainly taking first place as a fighting force. Your regiment is
to be mentioned in despatches, and you deserve it. Good-night. Good
luck!"
"Thank you! Good luck!"
* * * * *
Once more we passed through the wood to take up our position in
reserve. Our men were beginning to feel the fatigue of those two days
without sleep and almost without rest.
But joy, stronger than bodily fatigue, predominated. It hovered over
our harassed troops. Above all, they were proud of having been
appreciated and congratulated by their brothers-in-arms of the crack
corps which is the admiration of the whole army.
Each man forgot his tortured nerves, his aching head, his weary legs,
repeating to himself the magic words:
"Your regiment is to be mentioned in despatches!"
VII. SISTER GABRIELLE
It was a very dark night. How were we to find our way about the little
unknown town of Elverdinghe, near which our regiment had just been
quartered? We could hardly make out the low houses with closed windows
and long roofs of thatch or slate, and kept stumbling on the greasy
and uneven cobble-stones. Now and again the corner of a street or the
angle of a square was lit up dimly by a ray of light filtering through
half-closed shutters. I went along haphazard, preceded by my friend B.
We were quite determined to find beds, and to sleep in peace.
After our four days' fighting near Bixschoote we had been sent to the
rear, ten kilometres away from the line of fire, to get twenty-four
hours' rest; had arrived at nightfall, and found much difficulty in
putting up our men and horses in the small farms around the town. But
no sooner had they all found places, no sooner had the horses got
their nose-bags on and the kitchen fires been lighted, than B., who
was always anxious about the comforts of his board and lodging, said
to me:
"There is only one thing for us to do. We are to rest. We must find a
bed and a well-furnished table. I had rather go to bed an hour later,
and sleep between sheets after a good meal, than lie down at once on
straw with an empty stomach. Listen to me. Let us go on to that nice
Belgian town over there, only a few steps farther. It is hardly ten
o'clock. It will be devilish bad luck if we can't find a good supper
and good quarters. We need not trouble about anything else. Let us
think first of serious matters."
So we started for the little town which seemed to be wrapped in sleep.
We knocked at the doors, but not one opened; no doubt the houses were
all full of soldiers. No one offered us any hospitality, in spite of
all B.'s objurgations, now beseeching, now imperious. In despair, I
suggested at last that we should go back to our squadron, and lie down
by our horses; but B. would not hear of it, and still clung to his
idea: to have a good dinner, and sleep in a bed.
Just then, we saw a dark figure creeping noiselessly along under the
wall. B. at once went up to it, and caught it by the arm. It was a
poor old woman, carrying a basket and a jug of milk. Said he:
"_Madame, madame_, have pity on two poor weary, half-starved
soldiers...."
But she couldn't give us any information. Speaking in bad French,
interspersed with Flemish, she gave us to understand that the little
town was full of troops, and, at that hour, everybody was asleep.
"And what is there in that large white building, where the windows are
alight?"
The good woman explained that it was a convent, where nuns took in the
old people of the country. They could not give lodging to soldiers.
But B. had already made up his mind; that was where we were to sleep.
Leaving the old woman aghast, he went with long strides to the iron
railing which surrounded a little garden in front of the convent. I
tried in vain to make him understand that we could not invade these
sacred precincts.
"Leave it to me," he said, "I'll speak to them."
He pushed the iron gate, which opened with a creak, and I shut it
after him. I felt somewhat uneasy as I followed B., who crossed the
garden with a rapid stride. I felt uneasy at the thought of his
essentially military eloquence, and of the use to which he proposed to
put it. But I knew, too, that he was not easily induced to abandon a
resolution he had once taken. True, he did not often make one, but
this time he seemed to be carrying out a very definite plan. The best
thing was to submit, and await the result of his attempt. We went up
three steps, and felt for the knocker. "Here it is," said B., and he
lifted it and knocked hard. What a dismal sound it made in that
sleeping town! I felt as though we had just committed an act of
sacrilege. We listened, and heard, through the door, the noise of
chairs dragged over the stone floor; then a light footstep
approaching, a sound of keys and bolts, and the door was gently opened
and held ajar.
"Sister," said B., with a bow, "what we are doing is, I know, most
unusual; but we are dying of hunger and very tired, and, so far,
nobody has been willing to open their door to us. Could we not have
something to eat here, and sleep in a bed?"
The Sister looked at us and appeared not to understand. However, I was
more at ease when I saw she was neither frightened nor displeased. She
was a very old nun, dressed in black, and held in her hand a little
lamp which flickered in the night breeze. Her face was furrowed with
deep wrinkles, and her skinny hand, held before the lamp, seemed
transparent. She made up her mind at once. Her face lit up with a kind
smile, and she signed to us to come in, with words which were probably
friendly. This was a supposition, for the worthy nun only spoke
Flemish, and we could not understand anything she said. She carefully
pushed the bolts again, placed her lamp on the floor, and made a sign
to us to wait. Then she went away with noiseless steps, and we were
left alone.
"You see," said B., "it is all going swimmingly. Now that we have got
in, you must leave everything to me."
The flickering lamp lighted the hall dimly. The walls were bare, and
there was no furniture but some rush chairs set in a line against the
partition. Opposite the door, there was a simple wooden crucifix, and
the stretched-out arms seemed to bid us welcome. A perfume of hot soup
came from the door the old Sister had just shut.
"I say!" said B., "did you smell it? I believe it is cabbage soup, and
if so, I shall take a second helping."
"Just wait a bit," I replied; "I'll wager they are going to turn us
out."
From the other side of the door, by which the portress had just
disappeared, we heard a voice calling:
"Sister Gabrielle!... Sister Gabrielle!..."
And a moment after, the same door opened, and another nun came in very
quietly, and rather embarrassed, as it seemed to me. She came towards
us.
Sister Gabrielle, your modesty will certainly suffer from all the good
I am going to say of you.... But I am wrong, you will not suffer, for
you certainly will never read the pages I have scribbled during the
course of this war, at odd times, as I could, in bivouacs and billets.
But I have vowed to keep a written record of the pictures which have
charmed or moved me most during this campaign. If I ever survive it, I
want to be able to read them again in my latter days. I want to have
them read by those who belong to me, and to try to show them what kind
of life we led during those unforgettable days. And it is not always
the battles which leave the most lively impressions. How many
delightful things one could relate that have happened outside the
sphere of action! What memories of nights passed in the strangest
places, as the chances of the march decreed, nights of bitterness
during the retreat, nights of fever during the advance, nights of
depression in the trenches! What kindly welcomes, what beautiful and
what noble figures one might describe!
Sister Gabrielle, as you will never read this, and as your modesty
will not suffer, let me tell the story of the welcome my friend B. and
I received that evening at the Convent of Elverdinghe.
Sister Gabrielle came towards us. How pretty she was, in the coif that
framed her face! How large her blue eyes looked! They really were so,
but a touch of excitement made them seem larger still. Above all, she
had an enchanting smile, a smile of such kindness that we at once felt
at ease and sure of obtaining what we wanted. She spoke in a sweet and
musical voice, hesitating just a little in her choice of words,
although she spoke French very correctly.
"The Sister Superior has sent me to you," she said, "because I am the
only one here who can speak French.... _Messieurs les officiers_,
welcome."
She said it quite simply, and stood quite straight in her black dress,
her arms hanging beside her. She might have been a picture of other
days, an illuminated figure from a missal. We looked at each other and
smiled too, happy to find so unexpected a welcome. B. was now quite
self-possessed.
"Sister Gabrielle," he said, "see what a wretched state we are in; our
clothes covered with mud, our faces not washed since I don't know
when. We have just gone four days without sleep, almost without food,
and we have never stopped fighting. Could you not take in two weary,
famished soldiers for one night?"
Sister Gabrielle retained her wonderful smile. Without moving her
arms, she slightly raised her two hands, which showed white against
the black cloth of her dress. Those hands seemed to say: "I should
like to very much, but I cannot." And at the same time the smile
said: "We ought not to, but it shall be managed nevertheless."
"Come," she said; "in any case, we can give you something to eat."
And she took up the little lamp. She went first, opened the door at
the end of the passage, and we followed her, delighted. We were
dazzled as we came into this new room by the brilliance of the lamps
that lit it. It was the convent kitchen. How clean and bright
everything was! The copper saucepans shone resplendently. The black
and white pavement looked like an ivory chessboard. Two Sisters were
sitting peeling vegetables which they threw into a bowl of water. An
enormous pot, on the well-polished stove, was humming its inviting
monotone. It was this pot which exhaled the delicious smell that had
greeted us when we entered the house. The whole picture recalled one
of Bail's appetising canvases. The two Sisters raised their eyes,
looked at us and--yes, they smiled too. B., feeling eloquent, wanted
to make a speech; but Sister Gabrielle hurried us on:
"Come, come," she said. "It is not worth while; they wouldn't
understand you."
She opened another door, and we went into a small rectangular room.
Whilst our guide hastened to light the lamp hanging above the table,
we laid our kits on the window-sill: our revolvers, shakoes, binocular
glasses and map-cases; and how tarnished and dirty the things were,
after those three months of war! We ourselves felt fairly ashamed to
be seen in such a state. Our coats worn and stained, our breeches
patched, our huge boots covered with mud, all formed a strange
contrast to the room we were in. It was provided throughout with large
cupboards in the walls, the doors of which reached to the ceiling.
These doors were of polished wood, and shone like a mirror. The floor
was like another mirror. That indefatigable chatterer B. began another
speech:
"Sister, please excuse the costumes of fighting men. We must look like
ruffians, but we are honest folk. If our faces do not inspire much
confidence, it is simply because our stomachs are so empty. And no one
more resembles a vagabond than a poor wretch who is dying with hunger.
You will not know us again after we have had a few words with the pot
which gave out such a savoury smell as we passed."
Sister Gabrielle did not cease to smile. With wonderful rapidity and
skill she opened one of the cupboards, and, from the piles of linen,
picked out a checkered red and white tablecloth with which she covered
the table. In a moment she had arranged places for two, opposite each
other.
"Sit down," she said, "and rest. I will go and fetch you something to
eat."
B. followed her to the door.
"Sister Gabrielle," he said, "we have found a Paradise."
But she had already shut the door, and we heard her in the kitchen
stimulating the zeal of the other two nuns in Flemish. We sat down,
delighted. What a long time since we had enjoyed such comfort!
Everything there seemed designed to charm our eyes and rest our minds.
There was no noise in the street, and the convent itself would have
seemed wrapped in sleep had it not been for the voices in the next
room. But the distant roar of the guns still went on, and seemed to
make our respite still more enjoyable.
We hardly heard Sister Gabrielle when she came in and put down the
steaming soup before us. The delicate perfume of the vegetables made
our mouths water. For many days past we had had nothing to eat but our
rations of tinned meat, and all that time we had not been able to
light a fire to cook anything at all. So we fell to eagerly upon our
well-filled plates. B. even lost the power of speech for the moment.
Meanwhile the pretty little Sister, without appearing to look at us,
was cutting bread, and then she brought a jug of golden beer. What a
treat it was! Why couldn't it be like this every day? In that case
the campaign would have seemed almost like a picnic. Whilst I was
eating I could not help admiring Sister Gabrielle; she looked so
refined in her modest black clothes. Her slightest movements were as
harmonious as those of an actress on the stage. But she was natural in
all she did, and the grace of every movement was instinctive. As she
placed before us an imposing-looking _omelette au lard_, that rascal
B., who had already swallowed two plates of soup and four large
glasses of beer, began to maunder thus:
"Sister Gabrielle, ... Sister Gabrielle, I don't want to go away
to-morrow. I want to end my days here with the old people you look
after. Look at me. I am getting old too, and have been severely tried
by life. Why shouldn't I stay where I am? I should have a nice little
bed in the old people's dormitory, with nice white sheets, go to bed
every evening on the stroke of eight, and you, Sister, would come and
tuck me up. I should sleep, and eat cabbage soup, and drink good
beer--your health. Sister!--and I shouldn't think any more about
anything at all.... How nice it would be! No more uniform to strap you
up after a good dinner; no more shako to squeeze your temples; no more
bullets whistling past you; no more 'coal-boxes' to upset your whole
system, and every evening a bed, ... a nice bed, ... and to think
about nothing!..."
"Hush! Listen," said Sister Gabrielle with a finger on her lips.
At that moment the noise of the firing became louder. The Germans had
no doubt just made a night attack either on Bixschoote or on
Steenstraate, and now every piece was firing rapidly all along the
line. So fast did the reports follow one another that they sounded
like a continuous growl. However, the noise seemed to be dominated by
the reports that came from a battery of heavy guns ("long 120's") two
kilometres from Elverdinghe, which made all the windows of the convent
rattle, I shuddered as I thought of those thousands of shells,
hurtling through the darkness for miles to reduce so many living
human beings to poor broken and bleeding things. And I pictured to
myself our Prussians of Bixschoote sprawling on the ground, with their
teeth set and their heads hidden among the beetroot, waiting until the
hurricane had passed, to get up again and rush forward with their
bayonets, cheering! Sister Gabrielle had the same thought, no doubt.
She looked still whiter than before under her white coif, and clasping
her hands and lowering her eyes, she said in a low voice:
"_Mon Dieu, ... Mon Dieu!_ ... It is horrible!"
"Sister Gabrielle," continued the incorrigible B., "don't let us talk
of such things. Let us rather discuss this omelette, a dish worthy of
the gods, and the bacon in it, the savour of which might imperil a
saint. Sister Gabrielle, you tempt us this evening to commit the sin
of gluttony, which is the most venial of all sins. And I will bear the
burden of it manfully."
I kicked B. under the table, to stop his incongruous remarks. But
Sister Gabrielle seemed not to have listened to him. She went on
serving us smilingly; changed our plates, and brought us ham and
cheese. B. went on devouring everything that was put before him; but
this did not put a stop to his divagations.
"Tell me, Sister Gabrielle, you are not going to turn us out of the
house now, are you? It would be an offence against God, who commands
us to pity travellers. And we are poor wretched travellers. If you
drive us away, we shall have to sleep on the grass by the roadside,
with stones for our pillows. No, you couldn't treat us so cruelly. I
feel sure that in a few minutes you will show me the bed in the
dormitory you will keep for me when I come to take up my quarters with
you after the war."
Sister Gabrielle's smile had disappeared. For the first time, she
seemed really distressed. She stopped in front of B., and looked at
him with her large clear eyes. She made the same gesture as before;
lifted up both her hands, in token of powerlessness, and seemed to be
thinking how she could avoid hurting our feelings. Then she said, in a
disheartened tone:
"But we have not a single spare bed."
A long silence followed this sentence, which seemed to plunge B. into
despair. The guns continued their ominous booming, making the windows
rattle terribly. I too thought now that it would be dreadful to leave
the house, go and look for our troops in the dark, and put our men to
the inconvenience of making room for us on their straw, so I too
looked at Sister Gabrielle imploringly. All at once she seemed to have
decided what to do. She began by opening one of the cupboards in the
wall, took out of it two small glasses with long tapering stems, and
placed them before us, with a goodly bottle of Hollands. She had
recovered her exquisite smile, and she hurried, for she seemed anxious
to put her idea into execution.
"There, drink. It's good Hollands, ... and we give it to our poor old
people on festivals."
"Thank you. Sister, thank you."
But she had already run out of the room, and we were left there, happy
enough, sipping our glass of Hollands, and enjoying the luxurious
peace that surrounded us. The guns seemed to be further off; we only
heard a distant growling in the direction of Yprès. Our eyelids began
to droop, and it was almost a pleasure to feel the weariness of our
limbs and heads, for now we felt sure that Sister Gabrielle would not
send us away.
She came back into the room, with a candle in her hand.
"Come," she said.
She was now quite rosy, and seemed ashamed, as though she were
committing a fault. We followed her, enchanted, and went back through
the kitchen, now dark and deserted. The flickering light of the candle
was reflected here and there on the curves of the copper pots and
glass bowls. The house was sleeping. We crossed the hall, and went up
a broad wooden staircase, polished and shining.
What a strange party we were, the youthful Sister, going in front,
treading so softly, and we two soldiers, dusty, tattered and squalid,
trying to make as little noise as possible with our heavy hobnailed
boots! The nun's rosary clinked at each step against a bundle of keys
that hung from her girdle.
I was walking last and enjoying the curious picture. The light fell
only on Sister Gabrielle. As she turned on the landing, the feeble ray
from below threw her delicate features into relief: her fine nose, her
childish mouth, with its constant smile; our own shadows appeared upon
the wall in fantastic shapes. Certainly we had never yet received so
strange and unexpected a welcome.
We passed a high oak door, surmounted by a cross and a pediment with a
Latin inscription. Sister Gabrielle crossed herself and bowed her
head.
"The chapel," she said in a low voice.
And she went quickly on to the accompaniment of her clinking rosary
and keys. As we began to go up the second flight of stairs B. resumed
his monologue in a whisper:
"Sister Gabrielle, ... Sister Gabrielle, you are an angel from
Paradise. Surely God can refuse you nothing. You will pray for me this
evening, won't you? for I am a great sinner."
"Oh, yes, of course I shall pray for you," she answered, softly, as
she turned towards us.
We came out on a long passage, bare and whitewashed. Half a dozen
doors could be distinguished at regular intervals, all alike. Sister
Gabrielle opened one of them, and we followed her in. We found
ourselves in a small room, austerely furnished with two little iron
bedsteads, two little deal tables, and two rush chairs. Above each bed
there was a crucifix, with a branch of box attached to it. Each table
had a tiny white basin and a tiny water-jug. All this was very nice,
and amply sufficient for us. Everything was clean, bright, and
polished.
"Thank you, Sister; we shall be as comfortable as possible. But, one
thing, we shall sleep like tops. Will there be any one to wake us?"
"At what time do you want to get up?"
"At six, Sister, punctually, as soldiers must, you know."
"Oh! then I will see to it. We have Mass at four o'clock every
morning."
"At four o'clock!" exclaimed B. "Every morning! Very well, Sister, to
show you we are not miscreants, wake us at half-past three, and we
will go to Mass too."
"But it isn't allowed. It is our Mass, in our chapel. No, no, you must
sleep.... Get to bed quickly. Good-night. I will wake you at six
o'clock."
"Good-night, Sister Gabrielle; good-night.... We shall be so
comfortable. You see, you had some spare beds, after all."
"Oh, yes, we had. One can always manage somehow."
And she went off, shutting the door behind her.
And now B. and I thought of nothing but the luxury of sleeping in a
bed. How delightful it would be after our sleepless nights in the fogs
of the trenches!
But what was that noise resounding through the convent? What was that
knocking and those wailing cries? There was some one at the door,
hammering at the knocker, some one weeping and sobbing in the dark. I
opened my window, and leant out. But the front door had already been
opened, and a figure slipped in hurriedly. The sobs came up the stairs
to our door, and women's voices, Sister Gabrielle's voice, speaking
Flemish, then another voice, sounding like a death-rattle, trying in
vain to pronounce words through choking sobs. How horrible that
monotonous, inconsolable, continual wail was! It went on for a short
time, and then doors were opened and shut, the voices died away, and
suddenly the noise ceased.