fought in the wood side by side and almost at the beginning of the
business the other had received a bullet in the leg.
"He bled freely, Lieutenant; I helped him to walk; I wanted to dress
his wounds. But the order came to retreat, because the Boches were
advancing and were too many for us. I lifted him up and started to
carry him. The bullets flew around us, many bullets. Then all at once
it was as if he had been thrust forward, as if he had stumbled over a
stump. He said nothing, but a second bullet had gone right through
him. I had to support his whole weight then, and when I looked at him,
his face was all white and his eyes staring. Still he recognized me
and said: 'Jean, little Jean, leave me and get out of it.' I did not
wish to do that, you may be sure. Was it possible to do such a thing?
So I took him on my back, heavy as he was. I could not move quickly,
you understand, yet even at that I seemed to hurt him. With every step
I took he cried aloud in agony and did not cease pleading: 'You go on,
Jean, leave me here, Jean;' and I went, yes, indeed, I went, when I
saw the last blue coats disappearing over the hilltop and the Boches
so close to us that I could hear the rustling of the leaves beneath
their feet. It had been too much for my strength, you must understand;
I had fallen to my knees and he slipped to the earth beside me. For
the last time he said: 'You must go. You must not let yourself be
killed because of me ... let one of us remain alive at least.' I hung
over him, I raised his head and kissed him, while all the time the
bullets rained down, because the Boches had seen us and were firing at
us. And then ... I said good-bye to him ... and then, and then I left
him ... and ... and I left him out there ... to die on the earth ...
in the midst of those savages....
"Is he dead, do you think? What has become of him? Where is he now?
Perhaps out there he is calling for me, all alone in the night.... I
do not know, I am here; perhaps I shall never know ... oh, yes, I can
see I shall never know, never...."
I have just told Porchon the story, and together we listen to those
heartrending sobs.
Through the field behind us men are moving. We can hear the rustling
of the dried leaves they are gathering; the falling flakes of earth
from the roots they pull up; they have discovered some turnips. We
remember then that so far we have eaten nothing.
It is cold. We shiver. We remain silent.
The silence is shattered by the sudden thunder of a gun. Right and
left and all around other guns take up the challenge. Behind all the
hilltops batteries settle down to steady work. Spurts of flame rend
the darkness. Those that are far off are fugitive and faint, burning
only for a second before darkness falls again; those close at hand are
blindingly brilliant and still dance before the eye long after they
have vanished. More and more rapid become the detonations, until all
space seems filled with them. And those men who were lying down
dozing, rise quickly and instinctively seek cover. Rumours are already
flying about. Some say that the Boches have attacked with
reinforcements under cover of darkness, that they are advancing very
quickly, while our artillery is attempting to hold them back with a
barrage. It is also said that we are going to counter-attack.
Counter-attack! After such a murderous, wearying day as the one we
have lived through. When the exaltation of the men has died away, and
they are conscious only of their aching limbs and the void in their
stomachs! Counter-attack amid that darkness, with disorganized troops,
without cadres, shattered! It would be both futile and cruel.
Yet if it should be necessary? If, with all the troops bivouacked in
this region, there are still not enough to stay the rush of the Boches
to-night? There are moments when one's duty exceeds one's powers, but
when, nevertheless, it is imperative one should seek to fulfil that
duty. If we go out there to-night, almost every one of us will remain
out there for ever and for ever. Ah, well! And what of it? Shall we
not go if we are ordered to do so?
The minutes fly and still no orders arrive. Little by little
reflection convinces me that I have stupidly accepted for a reality
what is no more than a mere rumour, arising, perhaps, from some words
uttered by an unnerved man at the moment when the guns first began to
speak.
Two days ago, when coming up to the outposts, we passed through the
woods to reach the further edge of it. The sun was still high in the
heavens, but despite the plenitude of light, the sections were
separated, confused and mixed up because of the thick undergrowth.
Through that undergrowth it would be necessary for the Boches to find
a way, and with the darkness as another obstacle to their attack. They
could never hope to get through; and, what is still more certain, they
would never be such fools as to attempt to get through. If they did
try, before an hour had passed they would find themselves in a
hopeless mess, they would mistake their comrades for enemies, and
start firing one upon the other. They know that well enough.
Our artillery is firing without doubt to cover us, to barrage the
roads along which the enemy must retire, and prevent him taking up
positions which he must not be allowed to occupy. I have been stupid.
At the cry of "Fall in!" which is unexpectedly issued, several of the
men begin to grumble softly.
"Stop your silly tales!" I exclaim. "You know nothing of what is going
to happen, and yet here you are growling already! Stop it!"
They hold their tongues and march wearily along behind me. I can feel
their weariness even more keenly than my own. We are hungry and
chronically in need of sleep. Each time we stop for a moment, men
throw themselves down heavily beside the ditches.
We pass through Mouilly and turn to the right along a road hitherto
unknown. There is a stream, dark forms bending over the water, the
squelching of feet in the mud. The road rises and buries itself in the
heart of some gloomy woods, but we come to a halt at the edge of them.
There we wait for daylight, acting as reserve to the advance post. I
have to make certain that our connection with a company of the --th
is established. I am to find certain elements of it further along the
road. Two men go out, to return only after a long interval. They have
seen no one at all, and are quite confident there is no one before us.
Orders countermanded. Fall in! We go back towards Mouilly. One
suspects lights behind the closed shutters. I knock at a door, and
when it opens I learn that the whole company which should have been
out at the advance post is there in the village! Where on earth is the
phenomenon who has command of this medley? From house to house I go,
to find him at last consuming a roast chicken, to which he invites me
without ceremony. I receive the greatest shock of my life to find that
it is L----.
"Hallo, old man! You can certainly boast of your cuisine, but is this
what you call the advance posts?"
The meeting delights me, for L---- is another of my friends of the
days before the war, a jovial rascal, who "cares nothing for nobody"
and proves it. The information I give him--not a single guard at the
approaches to the village, not a patrol on the road, not even a
sentinel--leaves him thoughtful for at least two seconds. He says
simply:
"I gave the orders. I suppose they weren't carried out. I must go out
and see about it in a minute."
And forthwith he again sets to on the bird, happy, comfortable and
serene. He really is a good fellow, but what a strange commander for a
company!
Having left him, I hurry back through the village and overtake my men
at the moment when the column halts opposite the last houses of the
village, on the already familiar road to the Amblonville farm. The
supply wagons are waiting for us there, and the issue of rations takes
place without the usual disputing and grumbling. Huge fires flame
clear and high. The men squat about them, bathing their hands in the
warmth, watching with idle eyes the steaming pots suspended above the
brazier, roasting their faces, chests and legs, while the cold night
behind them freezes their backs. We receive at last greasy steaks
which burn our fingers; we drink coffee, hot but innocent of sugar;
the grateful warmth of which runs through our whole bodies. Under
these beneficent influences the aspect of affairs brightens a little.
We may even be able to sleep a short while. My watch tells me it is
only half-past one, so there is still plenty of time before day-break.
We stretch ourselves out on the earth, ignoring the fact that our
clothes want to freeze to us. How icy are the nights towards the end
of September! Heavy eyelids droop over eyes which retain a vision of
the jumping and leaping flames of the camp fires. And sleep so
grateful to our weariness steals down gently, stilling the tumults in
our hearts. A sleep well earned....
"Get up!"
There is to be no sleep for us to-night; to-night we must march. Our
legs do so from sheer habit, we accompany them. Here before us is a
hill; we ascend it; it is steep. Here now are fields; the earth is
very soft; everywhere there are holes which cause one to stumble or to
fall prone with all one's weight, which is increased by the weight of
the equipment.
Where are we going? No one knows.
Endless, these fields ... apparently we are never going to arrive at
our destination. Only the leader of the detachment knows where that
is, and apparently he has gone and lost himself somewhere. We wander
at large. The ranks break up; we march in groups, in a herd, a herd of
most miserable animals. To the right: to the left: straight ahead. Our
legs move onwards from sheer habit. We are out of the cultivated
fields now and passing over land covered with broom, stunted pines,
and brambles which merge finally into dense woods. For a long time we
follow their edge, a curiously capricious edge. It brings us to the
side of a road. We halt there; that is our destination.
The men, already half asleep, positively fall down. In a moment their
numbed, overwearied bodies are at rest.
Scattered dark masses: a deep silence broken occasionally by loud
snores.
VII
THE ARMIES GO TO EARTH
_Friday, September 25th._
Where are we? Mouilly should be over there to the right opposite the
woods. I find that we have passed the last hours of the night on a
plateau stretching far away behind us, sterile, and half swallowed by
the forest. Before us, on the other side of the road, there are a few
fields, a dip, then more forest. Towards the west is Mouilly, Rupt,
the valley of the Meuse, all calm with that peace which reigns far
away from the enemy. Towards the east, beyond the wood, is the last of
the "Heights of the Meuse," the final barrier before the plain which
they command; then the marshy Woëvre, Fresnes, Marcheville, Sceaux,
Champlon. Away over there somewhere are the Germans forming a human
carpet at the foot of the hills, waiting a favourable moment to rush
down again to the attack. They have gone south too, and captured
Hattenchatel, Saint Maurice; their line runs right through the
undergrowth between the old forest trees. They hold Saint Remy,
Vaux-les-Palameix. Yesterday they advanced almost to the road from
Saint Remy to Mouilly. Where are they this morning? And what is to be
our rôle? We have not been told a word.
(Censored)
? We are ordered: "Go there." We go there. We are commanded: "Attack."
We attack. At least during the battle, we know we are fighting; we
know what our immediate mission is, and knowing it, accomplish it with
a better heart. But before? And afterwards? Often it is only the sound
of firing close at hand or an avalanche of shells which heralds the
fray.
(Censored)
(Censored)
(Censored)
This morning the men keep constantly on the move, trotting up and down
the road, hands in their pockets, tramping and stamping to restore the
circulation to their frozen feet. Their moving silhouettes can be seen
at a great distance, but I do not interfere. It is very cold to-day
and, besides, the Boches were thrust back several miles yesterday
evening; between us and them lie dense woods which cut off their view.
There is a certain gaiety and verve animating all this brisk movement
in the fresh morning air.
Very soon the men gather in circles on the grass and loud bursts of
laughter interrupt their conversation. Naturally, the incidents of the
last fight are canvassed and, as always, when danger is no longer
close at hand, made to appear a mere joke.
Yesterday's bullets were erratic and achieved fantastic results. A
corporal exhibits his pocketbook split right across, the papers in
which have been cut in two.
"When that bullet gently tapped me," he says, "I firmly believed I
was done. My heart actually ceased to beat. As I found myself still
standing upright, however, I began to examine myself. I found the hole
with the pocket-book behind it. Là! Là! What an achievement! Quite a
beautiful bit of work. But the one who got it worst, was my old
woman--cut clean in two!"
From the mass of papers he draws forth a woman's photograph,
displaying a long tear. Then laughs and loud-voiced pleasantries ring
out:
"You are a nice sort of chap, my buck! To let your old woman take the
knocks to save your own skin!"
"My boy, who can blame him? She's no further use to him!"
"Tell me, then! Seeing that it was a Boche that made the mess, doesn't
it make you hot?"
The corporal, replacing the photograph in his pocket-book, replies:
"You shut up! The model of that photograph is safe enough. I can trust
her a bit more than I can trust myself. Understand?"
A second man passes around two cartridges which a German bullet cut in
two. Another voice says:
"It is the lieutenant that had the luck. I have seen his coat; I can't
understand it at all."
A little while earlier I had shown Porchon my "wound." He agreed that
I now held the record for what he called "the death graze." Fifteen
days ago, during a night attack, he had the advantage over me. On the
morning of the 9th, while we were crossing the open to occupy our
positions as advance posts, a bullet had struck him in the left side,
passed through his bag, cutting through a tin of meat, and finally
slipped down his leg. He had recovered it from the top of his boot.
Later, in the middle of the fight, seeing a soldier running through
the darkness towards the rear of our lines, he had seized him roughly
by the arm, crying:
"Right about face at once."
At which the other, a big, helmeted brute, had jumped back, raising
his bayonet. And most undoubtedly that Boche would have spitted
Porchon, whose revolver was empty, had not Courret, a corporal of the
company, brought the man down with a shot fired at point-blank range.
The sun, already high, gently warms the plateau. Towards ten o'clock,
the cooks appear from the ravine behind us, where they have more cover
from enemy eyes. They move along placidly, carrying buckets and cans,
or piles of plates suspended from poles slung between them.
"Shall we eat now with the men?" I asked Porchon.
"Not for me," he replied. "The cyclist is foraging for us as well as
for the captain. He has promised to bring up his loot as soon as he
can."
We wait an hour, two hours, our stomachs protesting, never moving our
eyes from the ravine where the rest of the battalion is resting beside
the fires. Down there is our portion of beef, rice and soup, which is
so comforting when swallowed hot. It is so near, scarcely a mile away;
and yet so far, since we have been stationed at the side of this road
and dare not move.
"When I think," groans Porchon, "that that animal of a cyclist may at
this very moment be snoring in the shadow of the trees, lying on the
soft moss, his stomach well filled, and his conscience at ease...."
"The cyclist," I interrupt him, "is an inferior beast, but if you had
only followed my advice a short while ago, we now should also have our
stomachs well filled; and the cyclist would still remain in our eyes
an admirable, serviceable and dependable man, as he was this morning
before this question of food arose...."
"Rub it in!" snaps Porchon. "I agree that I was a fool and that is
enough. Now please leave me in peace with the memory of that pot of
honey I obtained at Rupt, of which you, chuckling with concupiscence,
gorged at least a half, the other night before Saint Remy,
notwithstanding the fact that the bodies in the ditches were smelling
sufficiently vilely to destroy the appetite of any normal respectable
being."
At this moment, M----, the old volunteer from California, approaches,
cap in hand. In tones deliberate and grave, pronouncing each syllable
distinctly and meticulously, he says:
"I beg the lieutenants to pardon me. I could not, however, help
overhearing a few words of your conversation, and I gather you have
had nothing to eat. Before leaving for the front, I provided myself
with a considerable amount of chocolate, and as some of it is still
left, I should be very happy indeed...."
"Not at all, M----. You must keep it. You won't be able to get any
more, you know, and it is a thing of which one can never have too
much."
He insists, however, with such cordiality and sincerity, that in the
end we are compelled to accept half the chocolate he offers us. We
divide it and carefully nibble at our respective portions to make them
last as long as possible.
"Have you any tobacco?" asks Porchon, when it is finished.
"You know quite well I have, also that I have no cigarette papers,
since you helped me to finish up the last four this morning."
At that M---- calls aloud:
"Gabriel!"
Little Butrel rushes up to us.
"You have some cigarette papers! Pass them around."
Butrel draws from his pocket a bundle of them, and slowly unfolds the
leather in which they are wrapped. Then he offers us a packet almost
intact, a treasure which he extends with a smile in his blue eyes and
about his thin lips. Once again we find ourselves compelled to accept
another's kindness.
"I know where to find more," Butrel assures us. "There are some good
friends of mine among the artillerymen over at hill X----, and they
can get as many as they want."
"But if we remain out here at the advance posts for long, how will you
manage then, when your friends the artillerymen are no longer
available?"
"Please do not worry about that! When my cigarette-papers are
finished, then I will chew or smoke a pipe. Take what you wish ... one
packet, because that will give me pleasure; a second one because that
will please old grandfather. Is that not so, grandfather?"
M---- shakes his head, smiles and turns to us:
"I must tell you that he has been kindness itself to me since I
rejoined. And yesterday in the woods, he saved my life. He stood up in
the clearing to fire at the Boches, thus giving me time to get to the
hilltop. It lasted quite five minutes, and all the time he was firing
he was moving down towards them.... Name of a joke! but one would have
said that he was playing to get himself killed."
Butrel shrugs his shoulders and begins to hum to himself. Sitting on
the ground close to us, he busies himself rolling a cigarette between
brown, nicotine-stained fingers. He is a splendid little soldier, this
Butrel, once in the Foreign Legion, highly intelligent, straight as a
die. For those to whom he takes, he would do anything, but he takes to
few, however. Willingly would he die for those who succeed in winning
his affections. Wherever he goes he obtains universal respect,
sometimes not unmingled with fear. The hardest cases in the company,
the bullies who reign over their squads by force of physical fear,
give a wide berth to this thin little man, whose head scarcely reaches
their shoulders. Those who attempted to molest him in the early days,
suddenly found themselves uncomfortable before blue eyes which became
unwontedly dark, and they flinched before the nasty threat lurking
behind the cold concentrated stare.
Butrel fears neither God nor man. He enters into his proper element
when under fire. Let what will happen, it finds him cheerful and all
unperturbed. Joking without nervousness or bravado, he moves about as
unconcerned amid a tempest of bullets as a fish swimming through the
water. No one has ever seen him voluntarily take cover. When trenches
are to be dug, he digs with his comrades, "he does his bit!"
Nevertheless he finds the task none the less disagreeable; he doubts
the utility of such labour. The unforeseen and adventurous fascinates
him. Yesterday it pleased him to try and get himself killed in order
to save "grandad," because long ago he had decided that grandad was a
"stick," and also because it was amusing to stand upright and fire at
the Boches in the clearing, precisely as if he were at target-practice.
The fact that each of those Boches was armed with an automatic rifle
as precise and effective as his own, Butrel ignored. He found the
situation amusing, and that was enough.
He hankers after his African wars, those fights of one against five,
when one plunged into the midst of wheeling horsemen teeming like
wasps, or when the two 75's, set to point-blank range, spat forth
their shrapnel to cut long lanes through the massed ranks of
rebellious tribesmen; those nights spent beneath canvas, superb nights
white with stars, rendered all the more stimulating because the
surrounding blackness probably veiled a hundred ambushes; the long,
still hours of sentry-go when the eyes sought to scrutinize the dark
earth in fear and quaking lest the next instant might reveal the
blacks stealing forward, knives between their teeth--those were days
and nights after Butrel's own heart.
The present methods of warfare, the endless struggle with an invisible
enemy, the shells hurled over miles of countryside, seem to him both
tiresome and disgusting.
If it be true, as has been rumoured for several days past, and even
more confidently affirmed this very morning, that we are going to
entrench and sit down as the Boches have already done, perhaps to
remain in sheer idleness with nothing better to do than to watch each
other's trenches, Butrel will go to pieces, fall ill, unless.... But
the man is a very devil! As sure as the sun shines he will discover
some highly intelligent way in which to quench his thirst for danger,
and to amuse himself while plunging us into amazement and compelling
our admiration! The style of life has not yet been created which will
serve to bring Butrel down to the common standard; there is nothing
sufficiently dull and depressing to extinguish the ardent flame
burning within him, which makes of this little, thin, pale-faced man,
with frail limbs, a soldier worthy of an epic!
Towards evening, the men scatter over the fields in quest of straw to
provide at least some protection against the night. They set off
quickly, spreading out towards the woods over stubble fields in which
piles of corn are standing to dry; they return heavy-footed, bending
beneath the weight of tremendous sheaves, the stalks of which trail
out behind them like a pig-tail; a soft rustling follows their steps.
But when the darkness of the night and deep silence enfold the
bivouac, loud calls suddenly ring out. Sharp brief orders bring us
quickly to our feet; the sections form up with some difficulty, for
the men are still to some degree in the grip of their first sleep.
Then the whole battalion moves down towards Mouilly, where, so we are
informed, we are going to billet.
What time is it then? Ten o'clock already! We shall have to distribute
rations, settle the men in the houses and barns, cook our meat and
make coffee--it will be midnight before we shall be able to get to
sleep again! And we must go back to the same trenches before dawn!
There is, however, some consolation in the thought that we are going
to occupy a solidly-built house, to light a fire, a fire in a real
grate for a change, to stretch ourselves out perhaps beneath an
eiderdown. We may even be able to take off our boots--those boots of
mine, those narrow boots which I have not so far been able to replace,
and which torture me inexpressibly! To be warm, to sleep without one's
equipment, one's toes quite free in one's socks!... It certainly won't
be for long, but that is all the more reason why one should hurry up
and get to sleep.