they pass invisible with a nasty spiteful hiss. They are no longer at
play but in deadly earnest.
Clac! Clac! Two bullets have struck immediately to my left. The noise
at once surprises and slightly amazes me; these bullets seem less
dangerous when they sing and whistle. Clac! Clac! Stones, pieces of
dried earth, spurts of dust fly into the air; we have been seen and
they have got the range of us. Forward! I am leading, seeking a ditch,
a slope, a fold in the earth wherein to shelter my men after the first
rush--even the hedge of a field, or anything which will render them
less visible to the Boches will do. A movement of my right arm
shortens the line by half. I hear the tramp of feet, the rustle of the
stubble lying in our course. And while we are running forward the
detachment in support fires rapidly but steadily. Then when I raise my
cap, that detachment in its turn charges at the double, whilst all
around me my men's rifles come into play and speak unceasingly.
A strangled cry to the left. I have scarcely time to see the man
sprawl flat on his back, his two legs still moving as though to carry
him forward. A second, and all his body stiffens and then relaxes and
the man is no more than an inert thing, dead flesh which to-morrow the
sun will commence to decompose.
Forward! To remain still would cost us more dearly now than the most
furious assault. Forward! The men are falling rapidly, stopped dead in
full course, some crashing prone without a word, others halting and
staring stupidly, while feeling with their hand for their wound. And
they say: "I have got it," or, "Mine has arrived!" Often it is no more
than a single expressive word. Almost all of them, even those whose
wounds are slight, turn pale at the shock. The impression is borne in
upon me that one thought alone is in all their minds; to get away very
quickly, never mind where, so long as it be somewhere free from this
eternal hissing of the bullets. They seem to me like little children,
children whom one would wish to console, to protect. An almost insane
desire seizes me to cry out to those waiting ahead of us:
"Do not harm them! You have no right to do so! They are no longer
soldiers--they will do you no harm!"
Instead I say to one of the passing men:
"Come along, old man, cheer up! Thirty yards ahead of you, behind that
little crest, you will be out of danger ... ah, yes, I know your foot
is bad, that it swells. But we will take good care of you in a minute.
Do not be afraid."
The man, a corporal, dragging himself along on all fours, stops to
look back at me with the eyes of a caged beast. Then he resumes his
clumsy, tormented, crablike crawl.
At last I catch a glimpse of the Boches. They are hiding themselves
behind sheaves which they push before them; but at least I know now
where they are and my men's bullets will therefore stand a better
chance of finding an objective.
The advance is resumed and continues without wavering. A great
confidence possesses me. I feel that all is going well;--and at this
moment a corporal arrives breathless and covered with perspiration:
"Lieutenant."
"What is it?"
"The Major sends me to tell you you are too far advanced. The movement
has been executed too quickly. You must halt and await orders."
I lead my section to the shelter of a slight undulation which is no
more than a vaguely-defined fold in the earth, but where at least some
shelter from the bullets will be obtained. And so we remain there
lying flat, awaiting the orders which appear as if they will never
arrive. Everywhere, above us, before us, to the right and the left,
the shots whistle and hiss and shrill. A few steps from me the bullets
of a deafening machine-gun strike the earth in a regular, steady
stream. Dust and stones are flung high in the air, and for a moment I
feel an almost irresistible temptation to approach that death-dealing
squall, and touch that invisible stream of innumerable and minute
splinters of metal, each of which can kill.
The minutes drag past long and wearying. I raise myself a little and
attempt to see what is occurring. To the left the thin line of
riflemen extend as far as eye can reach; all the men are lying behind
their knapsacks firing. Behind a wheatfield, twenty men or so are
standing to aim better and fire. I can see distinctly the recoil of
their rifles and the corresponding jerk of their right shoulders. As
the smoke clears for a second, I am able to distinguish Porchon's
platoon, and Porchon himself smoking a cigarette. There also is the
Saint Maixenter's platoon, somewhat disorganized. Further away again
are the men of the 8th. Behind them a little man is walking up and
down, erect, nonchalant and quite at home. Who can this reckless
individual be? Through my glasses I make out an over-waxed moustache
and the blue smoke of a pipe; it is the Captain! Someone had already
told me of his attitude when under fire!
The orders, merciful Heavens, where are our orders? What can be the
matter? Why are they leaving us here? I make up my mind and suddenly
get up. It is imperative I should know what the Boches are doing and
where they are at present. Keeping under cover of the sheaves, I mount
the gentle slope until I reach the top of it. There before me, four or
five hundred yards distant, are men in greyish green uniforms, almost
indistinguishable from the greenness of the fields. It is only with
the greatest difficulty I can make them out at all.
Quite near their line, but far to my right, is a machine-gun
surrounded by men in French uniform firing at triple speed. I
determine to bring my men to the top of the slope where at least they
will be able to fire.
While I am making my way back to them a shell passes overhead. It
explodes among the detachment of the 8th, and a gap of twenty yards is
made in their line. The next second other men have filled the gap. A
second explosion, another and still another; the bombardment has
recommenced. All my men fling themselves flat.
"Oh!..." The cry escaped a dozen of us at once. A high explosive burst
clean among the Saint Maixenter's platoon. And he, I saw it distinctly
with my own eyes, received the shell full in his body. His cap
vanished into space, a part of his coat, an arm. And there he is lying
on the earth a shapeless mass, white and red pulp, a body stripped
well-nigh naked, shattered. His men, finding themselves leaderless,
give way and scatter.
What is this?... Can it be that the confusion is spreading to all the
men on the left there? It travels rapidly towards us. Some soldiers
are running towards Sommaisne beneath the shells. When each shell
explodes it makes a gap among them, blowing away men as you blow away
dust with a puff. The confusion has spread to the 8th now. If the
Captain were only there, he would be able to hold his men. But a few
moments ago I saw him press a hand swiftly to his face. Our covering
section away to the left comes next; the bullets have left none to
preserve discipline. Now it is the neighbouring platoon. Then
suddenly, brutally, we are swept up by the wave: there are the unknown
faces of men of other companies round about us mixing with the men and
destroying their nerve. A tall thin man, the Captain of the 5th, cries
out to me that the commander has ordered us to fight in retreat, that
we haven't been supported in time, that we are alone and lost if we
remain. And thus is the position abandoned.
With all my power I strive to preserve order and calm, to allay the
panic among my men. I march deliberately with arms wide extended,
exclaiming:
"Do not run, do not run! Follow me."
All my attention is concentrated on the task of getting my men away to
safety with as little loss as possible. One of them near me receives a
bullet through his skull while engaged in cutting an opening through
some wire; he falls on to the wire and remains hanging there, broken
in two, his feet touching the earth on the one side, head and arms
hanging down over the other.
Shells follow us, high explosive and shrapnel. Three times I find
myself within the deadly cone of bursting shrapnel: the bullets hiss
into the earth about me, smashing heads and shattering feet.
We march through an inferno of smoke, from time to time obtaining a
glimpse, through momentary clearings, of the village and the river
running beneath the trees. But there is no truce to the shells which
follow us in hundreds.
I recollect passing one of my sergeants being carried by two of the
men on crossed rifles; he pointed out to me speechlessly, his torn and
bloodstained shirt and his side terribly lacerated by an explosion. I
could see the raw edges of the flesh....
I march onwards and onwards exhausted and stumbling. I take a long
gulp of the water that remains in my flask. Since yesterday evening I
have eaten nothing.
When we reach the edge of the stream, the men halt and throw
themselves down and commence to lap the muddied waters like dogs.
It must be seven o'clock now; the sun is sinking into a bed of virgin
gold. The sky above us is a pale and transparent emerald. The earth
darkens, colours vanish. It is quite dark by the time we leave
Sommaisne. We become mere shadows trailing along the road.
We halt for the first time at Rembercourt. Nothing but sleep seems to
matter now, and I fling myself down on the bare earth, calling upon
it. Before it descends upon me I hear the rolling over all the roads
of the wagons and ambulance vans filled with the wounded; and further
away, back in Sommaisne, the smashing of rifle butts against closed
doors and the harsh savage cries of the looting Teutons.
_Monday, September 7th._
The morning mist awakens me. My clothes are drenched and drops of
water glisten on the mica of my map case. Before us and a little to
the left is Rembercourt, whose large church dominates the village in
its shadow. From where we are, we can see one side of it in all its
length. Towards the left there is a little road which disappears
between two slopes.
It is along that road that the Captain and Porchon appear towards ten
o'clock accompanied by a handful of men. It appears that they found
themselves cut off from the rest of the regiment and passed the night
in a wood in advance of the French line. I was able to identify the
Captain while he was still some distance off by means of a lance which
he carried; it was an Uhlan's lance, captured at Gibercy, and with
which nothing could induce him to part. I made my report to him.
As at Cuisy, we dig trenches. Are we going to wait here for the
Germans this time? We no longer have the advantage of a valley before
us as at Dannevoux, but in the course of the five hundred yards or so
which intervene between our new position and Rembercourt, I estimate
that should the Germans elect to advance along this road many of them
will fall before they reach us.
Towards Beauzée the fight is still in progress. Unendingly little
groups of wounded men appear over the last crest and march slowly
towards us. Those with arms in slings move more quickly; others drag
along, helping themselves with sticks cut in some small wood or other;
many halt, then drag themselves a few yards further, then pause again.
During the afternoon I went down into the village. It was full of
soldiers ... (Censored) ...
(Censored)
Soon after three o'clock the German heavy artillery commences to shell
Rembercourt. At five o'clock the church takes fire. The crimson glow
of the conflagration is emphasized as the shadows increase. The
blackness of the night makes the church an immense brazier. The wooden
framework of the roof is traced out in flames and incandescence. The
steeple has become a living fire in the heart of which the dead bells
hang black and grim.
The framework of the roof falls piecemeal. One can see the rafters
sagging and sagging and then remaining suspended for a few moments
above the furnace before falling with a deafening crash. And each time
a portion falls in this way, a volcano of clear sparks rises high into
the sky to remain drifting and floating like some echo.
For hours and hours I stood watching the fire, my heart sad and heavy.
My men are asleep on the ground, lining the trench with their bodies.
Try as I will I cannot lie down to sleep like them.
_Tuesday, September 8th._
The Captain roused me I don't know how many times to give me
instructions; as a matter of fact I believe it was because he himself
found sleep impossible and was lonely with that loneliness which
visits men on such nights. Together with his liaison officers he had
taken up sleeping quarters in a dense thicket by the roadside. At each
awakening I beheld the church still in flames.
This morning the ruins were still smoking. The mass of fire-blackened
stone stood clearly defined against a limpid sky.
The men are sleeping heavily ... (Censored) ...
(Censored)
From some woods away to the left a fusillade growing more and more
violent each instant rings out. Behind us a battery of 120 mm.'s speak
without pausing. And above Rembercourt at long intervals shells burst,
half a dozen at a time.
(Censored)
..., lying on a slope when the shriek of the shells announce the
arrival of the Germans, then, quite placidly resume their task again.
(Censored)
This morning someone offered me some brandy plums, huge greengages
preserved in a narrow bottle, cherries in a thick syrup, green
haricots and peas in bottles, as well as some pink sweet-meats
arranged artistically beneath laced paper in a pale blue box on the
cover of which, inscribed in letters of gold, was the name "Pamphile."
(Censored)
At noon we leave the trenches. Marching in loose columns we move
towards the road which runs from Rembercourt to Vauxmarie. All along
the road from Erize-la-Petite we encounter the craters the shells have
dug in the fields. The countryside is bare and depressing, despite the
brilliant sunshine. In a ditch lie some horses, disembowelled, legs
shattered, huddled at the bottom of the sloping sides. There were six
of them all in a heap, making an enormous pile of carrion, the
horrible stagnant smell of which saturated the air. Everywhere there
are shattered ammunition carts, wheels in splinters, ironwork twisted.
_Vauxmarie Road._ We take up a position, availing ourselves of the
ditch as a trench, ready to support those fighting ahead. There is a
great desolate plain before us, ploughed by shells, sown with still
bodies and fragments of the uniforms of men with faces turned either
towards the sky or buried in the earth, rifles lying beside them just
as they had fallen from their hands. To the right the road mounts
towards the top of the valley; it is of a dazzling whiteness that
tires the eyes. Far before us a number of platoons are lying on the
ground in extended order, only to be distinguished with difficulty.
They are receiving the full force of the German artillery. Abruptly
the shells cease ravaging the uncultivated and shattered fields and
come towards us. They arrive shrieking and all together. Nearer and
nearer they come, until we are certain they are going to descend upon
us. And the men hunch their bodies together, round their backs, thrust
their heads beneath their knapsacks, all their muscles contracting in
agonized suspense while waiting the explosion of those enormous
messengers of death. The bombardment increases in intensity, and now
plumes of black smoke are drifting along the hilltop and the noise
becomes ear-splitting. Each time a shell falls in the ranks there
ensues, in the real sense of the term, a scattering of the men; and
when the smoke has dispersed there remain lying on the yellow earth of
the stubble field dark sombre patches, forms vague and unmoving. A
commander of the gendarmerie mounts the hillside on his bicycle,
pedalling with all his strength. He is making directly for the point
where the line of the valley touches the sky crowned with its sinister
black plumes. Smaller and smaller he becomes, is silhouetted for a
moment clear and distinct, and finally vanishes. A quarter of an hour
passes before he reappears, a streak, now pedalling back into the
valley. He has a message for our commander; it seems that something is
required of us.
We are conducted back to the heights of Rembercourt, passing to the
right of the village. Here we take cover on a steep slope covered with
wild vegetation, extending alongside the orchard which I had seen that
morning. The bursting shells almost deafen us. They explode in
hundreds, shattering the plain, obliterating the road along which we
marched a short time since, causing tiles to fall and rattling the
wood-work of roofs. Nor are we forgotten. A few compliments in the
form of half a dozen high explosives are generously sent our way. The
last of these burst so close to our commander, who was sitting on the
slope, that it seemed as if someone had punched him violently and
rudely in the back. Under the tremendous force of the explosions the
trees of the orchard bend and sway, causing a shower of plums and
apples to fall upon us.
We have not been sighted, but the enemy knows the lie of the land so
well that he guesses without difficulty the probable location of our
reserves, and punishes them by way of precaution. Up to the present,
however, all my men have escaped without serious injury, except one
who, descending the slope, suddenly mounted into the air to come to
the earth behind us. At least ten men received scratches.
Happily we leave before the enemy devotes serious attention to us. At
a certain moment, immediately following the arrival of a shell, a
messenger rushed out of the village where the Captain had taken up his
station. He came running towards us, gesticulating violently. While he
was still several yards away he cried in a loud voice:
"Advance!"
Raising my sword I repeat the order.
"Forward! Follow me!"
And I jump down on to the road. Hardly have I taken three steps
forward, however, before I hear the shells come shrieking towards us.
There is just time for the men to rush back up the slope they had
already quitted; in the very act of throwing myself flat the shells
explode six at once. A portion of the road rises towards Heaven to
descend again in a hail of stones and earth. The smell almost
suffocates me as I lie clinging to the earth there, shrouded in dense
black smoke. I think that was a narrow escape! A few moments of calm
succeed. Now is the time to run: the men come down the slope at their
best speed; then, finding ourselves outside the zone of immediate
danger and sheltered a little by the village, we mount a rising behind
which I know we may hope to find a certain amount of safety.
More shells fall on the spot we occupied a few moments since. My men
look at each other, look at me, and congratulate themselves. The
narrowness of their escape loosens their tongues. "Ah, the filthy
dogs!" I hear. That also is what the messenger calls them when I see
him again. On the road he had not sufficient breath left to express
his feelings. He had been so near the explosion area that the buckles
of his knapsack were shattered, and when afterwards he looked around
it was to find himself occupying a post of honour in the middle of a
field, innocent of a scratch, while the said knapsack hung gracefully
among the branches of a plumtree.
The day declines; we go back once more to our trenches. I met, sitting
in a ditch, two cavalry subalterns, one a Hussar, the other a
Chasseur, belonging to some detachment or other. I had made their
acquaintance at the depot.
(Censored)
Night has fallen and once again we have forgotten to eat. A mouthful
of iron rations, a drop of tepid water from my flask, which water has
a pronounced taste of tin.--"Still, that is something else the
Prussians won't have," as my grandmother used to say.
_Wednesday, September 9th._
Not a wink of sleep. The noise of the shells hurtling through the air
is constantly in my ears, while the acrid and suffocating fumes of
explosives haunt my nostrils. Scarcely yet is it midnight before I
receive orders to depart. I emerge from the trusses of wheat and rye
among which I had ensconced myself. Bits of stalk have slipped down my
collar and up my sleeves, and tickle me all over. The night is so dark
that we stumble over the stones and irregularities of the ground. We
pass very close to some 120's drawn up behind us; I hear the voices of
the artillerymen, but only with difficulty can I distinguish the
heavy, sleeping guns.
Rations are distributed en route with no other light than that of a
camp lantern which gives forth but a faint glow. The feeble yellow
light stains with brown patches the portions of raw meat cut up in the
dusty grass of the roadside.
A march across fields, a march of somnambulists, mechanical, legs
light as down, heads heavy as lead. It seems to last for hours and
hours. And we are always bearing to the left; at day-break, I assure
myself, we shall have returned to our point of departure. Little by
little the shadows rise, enabling me to recognize the Vauxmarie Road,
the wrecked ammunition carts, the dead horses.
Hallo! The German guns are speaking early this morning! Before us
shrapnel is bursting noisily and spitefully. Over the plain they have
thrown a barrage. Nevertheless we have to go through it. Our first
section detaches itself; in a line, long-drawn and thin, it moves
across the fields towards a small wood which the captain has indicated
as the objective. Rifles crackle away to the left. Bullets sing and
throw up the dust about the marching section. Then shrapnel bursts
right over the men. The undulating line becomes still, taking cover
behind a ridge of earth shaped like a gigantic caterpillar. I have
been given to understand that we are to occupy the advance post, and I
await my turn to move forward. The major and the captain are before
us, taking cover of some trees, watching. And the captain, seeing his
men out there under the shower of shells, finds it difficult to make
up his mind to throw us others forward. After a time the commander of
the gendarmerie whom I had seen cycling along the road, comes up. He
is crimson to the lips and his eyes are savagely glaring. Cursing and
swearing violently, he utters a few breathless words.
(Censored)
The captain, turning towards me, said:
"Go!"
So the time is come!
I experience a feeling only of pleasure. I am in the same strange
mental condition as when under fire for the first time at Sommaisne.
My legs move without volition; I march unthinkingly, conscious only of
an all-pervading joy which elevates me above myself and permits me as
it were to look upon myself as another being. In five minutes we reach
the pine-wood which is our destination. We deploy before it, indeed
almost within it. Without waiting a minute, the men set to work with
their trenching tools. At the end of a couple of hours we possess a
deep and narrow trench. Behind us to the left is Rembercourt; to the
right front the tiny station of Vauxmarie.
The heat is enervating and unhealthy. A few clouds drift slowly past,
increasing in size little by little and growing darker and more
ominous, while the edges yet remain fringed with silver. From time to
time puffs of wind bring to us a stench, sickly, penetrating,
intolerable. It is as though we were in a charnel house.
All around us are bodies. One there is that is most horrible to look
upon. Yet look upon it I must, despite my will. It is the body of a
man lying near a shell hole; the head is detached from the trunk, and
the blackened entrails protrude from a terrible wound in the abdomen.
Near him lies a sergeant, the stock of his rifle still in his
hands--the barrel and mechanism must have been blown far away. Another
man lies with both legs parallel, yet the foot of one crosses the
other; that leg must be shattered. And there are so many others! Our
position compels us to look upon them, to breathe that foetid air
until nightfall.
And until nightfall I smoke and smoke in an attempt to stifle the
soul-sickening miasma, that smell of the poor dead, lost on the field
of battle, abandoned by their own who had not the time to throw even a
few lumps of earth over them to hide them from the eyes of the living.