lorries, dark wagons besieged by the darkness which the light of
flickering lanterns only serves to emphasize.
The quartermaster calls to us and leads us along a shadow-filled
passage-way. The earth beneath our feet is greasy and slippery.
"To the left, turn to the left. I am holding the door," exclaims our
guide.
He strikes a match and lights a bit of candle he takes from a pocket
at the bottom of which a hundred other similar objects are constantly
accumulating. Then, raising the light, and with a magnificent gesture:
"Here you are, gentlemen! You are at home!"
Our home for that night! That which once was a home! It is no more now
than a soulless hovel, a camping-place for casual wayfarers like
ourselves, who halt there for a few hours in passing to warm their
frozen bodies, and then go on their way, indifferent, unregretful,
leaving no trace of their hearts behind them within these old walls,
old walls which enshrine the memory of hearts now still, the memory
too of hearts not still, but far away in exile, who, remembering the
old home, suffer!
Not long elapses before our haven is invaded. The fatigue party
appears bringing up the rations for distribution. On a piece of tent
canvas spread on the earth, coffee, sugar and rice are heaped in
little piles. The corporal on duty, coatless, vestless, with his shirt
opened to display a muscular white chest, calls up the sections one
after the other. As the men approach, he indicates one of the little
heaps with an almost imperceptible movement of his forefinger. Growls
and reproaches move him not at all.
"That the sugar? A fat lot, isn't it? Why, you gave the third twice as
much as this! It's a bit too thick!"
"There were five extra in the third," replies the corporal. "If you
are not satisfied, you had better go and complain to the Ministry.
That's all about it!"
During this time, Martin, a miner from the north, busies himself
hacking to pieces on the table a huge quarter of beef. To assist him
in this undertaking, he has no more than a pocket-knife, a
pocket-knife with a safety-catch and a solid blade, which he has
possessed since Vauxmarie. He tells us it was given to him by a Boche
prisoner overjoyed at finding himself a prisoner, that it is a famous
piece of goods, and that there is not another knife in all the company
for chopping up a bit of beef to equal that Boche knife handled by
him, Martin.
But Martin is a virtuoso where carving is concerned. He perches
himself on top of the enormous mass of flesh, slices away at it with
long straight strokes, hacks away savagely at resisting tendons,
hunching his shoulders, clenching his teeth, flattening still more his
polecat-like nose, handling the knife in a very frenzy, grunting,
slashing and swearing. And when finally the task is achieved, a
profoundly deep sigh of relief escapes Martin. He turns, screws up his
eyes, widens his mouth with a smile distorted by the quid he is
chewing, squirts a jet of brown saliva from the corner of his mouth on
to the ground, and says in a self-satisfied tone, in the tone of a
conqueror who, the fight finished, wishes to forget any asperity which
may have marred it:
"Some butcher!"
In the fireplace, vine branches hiss and splutter; the flame leaps
high, lighting up the chimney plaque, the lines and reliefs of which
are deeply buried beneath an accumulation of soot. The fatigue party
is gone; there remain with us only the messengers and orderlies.
Pannechon investigates a dish, and approaches with some pieces of
smoking meat on the point of his knife. Presle wipes the table with a
cloth. The others, sitting on the floor, backs to the wall and knees
drawn up to chins, smoke their pipes and expectorate.
Rice soup, broiled meat with cooked rice, boiling coffee: the dinner
alone is worth the march to Mouilly! And there is a bed for us! A
mattress and an eiderdown! We get into it quickly. On the floor beside
us our empty boots yawn wide. The dispatch-rider, ensconced in a heap
of straw brought in armfuls from the barn, is sleeping heavily and
fairly rocking us with his measured snoring. In our turn, we too fall
asleep, well replenished, the body at ease, feet unhampered, in a
dense atmosphere compounded of the fumes of burnt fat, tobacco and
human beings.
_Saturday, September 26th._
Beneath the big trees behind the plateau.
Another company of our battalion has taken over our position beside
the road. The morning is fresh and limpid. The men are shouting,
singing, or laughing. The cooks have set themselves down near us and
are busy preparing the morning meal. Around each of the fires men are
sitting, absorbed and grave, holding slices of bread on pointed sticks
improvised as toasting-forks, before the flames.
Toast! At once the joy and delectation of the campaigning soldier.
Rusked, golden and brown, it crunches deliciously between the teeth;
it melts in the mouth. There is not one of us but loves it. As soon as
a fire is lit, wheresoever it may be, soon a dozen or more men are
sitting around it, watching with almost touching seriousness the white
bread on the end of their knives or sticks gradually assuming a
delightfully warm colour, as if reflecting the flames and stealing
something of their golden light. Some of the men vote for those thin
slices which become crisp right through; others are all for the thick
slices which, between crackling surfaces, still retain some of that
steaming humidity as of loaves just withdrawn from a baker's oven. But
in any shape or form, one and all love toast!
The coffee circulates. We are sitting, Porchon and I, at the foot of a
giant plane tree, our backs against the smooth bole of it, our hips
between two moss-covered roots which rise out of the ground like the
arms of an armchair. We have stolen a branch from a cherry tree and
are trying to make pipes for ourselves. "Necessity is the mother of
industry;" and hence our labours. The making of a pipe, however,
requires some skill.
Bernadot, the cook, has carved himself one which is quite a
masterpiece: stem straight and drawing well, bowl smooth and deep. He
has even gone so far as to carve a comrade's face out of the wood:
enormous eyes in a small head, grimacing mouth, and aggressive beard,
thrust well forward like the prow of a ship.
Porchon, by sheer force of will (he is scarlet, and the veins on his
forehead stand prominently forth!) has so far obtained rather
indecisive, but nevertheless encouraging, results. His piece of wood
is slowly shaping and deepening, and unmistakably assuming something
of the appearance of a pipe.
As for me, I have already been compelled to excuse three spoilt
attempts by pointing out that cherry wood is hard, my knife blunt, and
my fingers sore. Undeterred by these failures, however, I am starting
once more, when, without the slightest warning, three high explosives
burst simultaneously close to us, but rather too short. Others follow
immediately, flying high, and three plumes of black smoke rise from
the shattered earth a hundred yards behind us beyond the wood; range
too long! Yet again come a third batch, but this time they drop far
from us, exploding away to the right, uprooting a few small pines and
throwing them into the air together with tremendous lumps of earth.
Before us; behind us; to the right of us! It seems almost prophetic.
We rise and pass through the undergrowth without haste, away to the
left.
We are now out of all danger and can even afford to enjoy ourselves.
One would say that the Boche artillerymen are trying to make their
last shells fall in the holes dug by the first; they must be firing
without any other object than to consume the regulation amount of
ammunition. All that remains for us to do is to lie low until they
have finished.
There is the noise of branches being thrust violently aside, of
someone running over the fallen leaves, followed by a long-drawn call
which resounds through the wood:
"Hullo!..."
Someone in our ranks cries: "Here!"
The steps approach, and very shortly the face of a man emerges from
the cover. He is breathless and greatly upset.
"A doctor," he says. "Where can I find a doctor? One is wanted
instantly...."
"What has happened?"
The man replies hurriedly, almost incoherently:
"It is Favreau ... cyclist of the 8th ... a leg almost shot away about
a minute since ... the first three shells which fell behind the road
... he is bleeding to death ... his leg must be tied up ... he is
going out, he is certainly going out...."
The doctor whose services the man has impressed, tells us when he
returns that he found the wounded man in a dying condition:
"The femoral severed, the leg almost torn away. I made a ligature and
got him away on an ambulance; but he will never arrive alive at
Mouilly."
It is five o'clock in the evening. We are on the way to the advance
posts.
We march through a narrow clearing which is no more than a ribbon of
black earth between piles of dead leaves on the one side, and
all-invading moss on the other. The thickets are dense and filled with
a sea-green penumbra. The sinking sun is directly behind us. Its
failing light streams over the moving file of men, leaving golden
reflections in the tin bowls fastened to their packs. The heads of the
men rise and fall with their unequal steps, causing an undulation to
pass from one end of the section to the other.
There is no talking. Our feet make no noise on that moist earth, in
which each nail leaves a clear imprint. Occasionally, a timid
twittering is heard amid the silence, as faint and self-effacing as
the failing sun-rays gliding into the undergrowth between the leaves
of the trees.
Suddenly the surly detonation of a 75 shatters the peace; soon all the
guns hidden in the wood intone a brutal chorus; the clamour envelops
us; each shot seems to hurtle past with a violence sufficient to burst
the gun firing it. Then a murmuring echo flies from valley to valley,
gradually becoming weaker and weaker until swamped by the tremendous
outburst of another salvo. To all this noise, however, we are
strangely used. It seems in some curious way to mingle with the
material things about us, to harmonize with them, to belong as it were
to the melancholy of the dying day. We no longer jump as the guns
speak; we no longer hear them; we are conscious only of the curious
melody of the echoes which decrease and decrease, then sound anew with
increased force, decrease again and increase again, finally to die
away in a sad, tremulous murmur which spreads far away over the earth.
The evening draws on. We are approaching the edge of the wood. Beside
the road lie some tattered knapsacks, some shattered bayonets; a
little further on blood-stained bandages are lying on the moss,
shirts, a flannel waist-band, some nameless rags, the lining of a
waistcoat; further on again the body of a dead man appears stretched
to his full length, face turned to the earth.
All along the edge of the clearing are shell-holes at almost regular
intervals; enormous roots which have been shattered display their pale
wounds. Then the shell-holes concentrate, all of them being still
within the clearing, mute evidences of an admirably-directed fire. The
men affirm that our artillery placed a barrage along this marked line
on the evening of the 24th. They have such simple faith, these men, in
the power of our guns! It may or may not have been so; personally I
prefer to believe that it was so.
We halt a little before attaining the edge of the wood in a clearing
surrounded by giant trees whose waving tops are lost to sight in the
darkening sky.
There is a vague odour of corpses, which from time to time becomes
oppressive. A few steps from our little shelter a corpse is resting
against a pile of faggots in an attitude of relaxation and peace. The
man was eating when killed instantaneously by a shell; he still holds
in his hand a little tin fork; his waxlike face reveals no sign of
pain; at his feet lie an opened tin of meat and an iron plate--an
object which reminds me of those in which day-scholars at communal
schools bring their dinners, and which have letters of the alphabet
and figures engraved round the edge.
Flimsy and singularly draughty is our little shelter. Two pointed
stakes support a branch as centre beam; other branches, cut at random
and of all sizes and shapes, rest against this central beam and so
make a hut. I should call it a roof without walls, decorated with
disconcerting gaps, admitting the light of heaven where least
expected. Someone has commenced to fill in the interstices; lumps of
clay have been plastered on the framework, from the ground to halfway
up; thus, when one lies down one is protected a little; we would, in
fact, be quite snug if this plaster or clay covered the whole hut.
To do that will be our task to-morrow. This evening it is too late;
the night is already upon us. Our last duty is to eat our cold repast,
a slice of bread, a morsel of meat, which we have brought with us.
_Sunday, September 27th._
I resolved this morning to go and see the adjutant whom I am due to
relieve with the fall of the day. I leave the clearing towards midday,
taking with me a dispatch-bearer. The weather remains the same as
yesterday. The cold dawn mist has evaporated little by little; a few
dewdrops still remain scintillating in the sun's rays.
A big boundary stone, covered with lichen lies in my path; two tracks
branch away from this stone. My companion, who stumbles against the
stone, looks at me in doubtful perplexity.
"But there are two ways! Which is ours?"
I reflect briefly. The left of our line extends until it joins the
6th. On the right we touch the 5th, which guards the road. The road is
some distance away, but that must be our direction, and so I stride
along the path to the right. Ah! Ah! Stop a little ... it is
uncomfortably open just here. I did not know we were so near the edge
of the wood. From a trench, two heads have arisen, as well as a hand,
waved violently. The combination has proved sufficient to induce me to
moderate my gait. Stooping and half running, I come up to the line of
infantrymen. A joyous voice reaches me:
"Ah! there you are, Lieutenant! It is quite all right here. Only one
must be careful not to show oneself because of shrapnel ... you want
to see the Adjutant? He is over there with Gendre and Lebret."
"Thank you, Lormerin. Nothing has happened during the night?"
"What do you think! All they have done is to lie still. As I tell you,
we are quite blissful here ... you will find him ten or fifteen yards
away to the right."
Of course I have to cover at least fifty, stumbling over feet, and
doing the acrobat to pass the men squatting in the trench. At last I
see Gendre and Lebret. Gendre, who perceives me first, points out to
me a man lying down.
"Don't ask him to make room for you," he says. "He would not hear you;
he is dead. You will have to step over him."
Then, stooping down, he calls along the trench:
"Adjutant, the Lieutenant is here."
From the earth rises a groan; a formless mass of straw moves and
rises; the head of the Adjutant appears, his hair dishevelled and full
of pieces of straw, his eyes weary from lack of sleep, his beard
untrimmed and also full of dirt. The Adjutant seems very ill! The
thinness of his cheeks is marked; a brown stain colours his eyelids; a
dirty livid tint has spread over his face.
"Hullo! What is this then, Roux! Are things not going well with you?"
"I? I am about done, that is clear. Aches all over, chest stove in, a
horse fever ... it won't be long before I am sent down."
He rises to his feet, groaning again, his hands pressed to the small
of his back, his chest huddled together, and seats himself on the edge
of the trench at a spot which is protected by a bush.
"Sit here beside me," he says, "and I will point things out to you."
Before us extends an untilled plain bounded on the further side of the
valley by steep heights. Without doubt the village lies at the bottom
of the valley, but from where I am sitting it is not possible to see
the houses; only one or two isolated farms. To the left, the wood
forms a pronounced salient which attracts the eye. A dense cluster of
pines has thrust its way right into the middle of the plain, where it
forms a splash of sombre colour, opaquely green, but astonishingly
fresh and distinct against the seared yellows of the surroundings.
"It is not occupied," says the Adjutant. "A patrol beat it out last
night; it is quite quiet this side. From here I should say it is about
six or seven hundred yards distant. The Boches must be just at the
edge of the valley. I should say they are a thousand yards away, so
there's plenty of time to see them coming if they should take it into
their heads to attack.... That's nothing--I am more worried about that
clump of pines. I don't think it would be a bad idea to send out a few
men every night to prevent the Germans stealing up in the darkness and
falling right on top of us one morning. That, at least, is what I
think."
He raises his forefinger as a rifle shot rings out from the enemy's
lines, followed a moment later by a second and fainter detonation,
echoing the first.
"Ping.... Pang!" he says. "That is some idiot who has been amusing
himself since day-break. Every ten minutes he sends four bullets to
four different points in our line. The second should come over here."
And sure enough the Boche's rifle speaks again. The faint crack echoes
while the leaden messenger flies high and whistling through the still
air.
"You see what sort of a fool he is," comments the Adjutant. "He must
be firing at the larks! But there is something more serious I must
point out to you. Follow me closely. That corner of the pines to the
right there ... you see it? ... Good! Now three fingers still to the
right, there is a large bush in a hollow with some brambles before it
and two solitary trees behind it. You see it?... Good! Well, raise
your glasses and watch for a few moments. You will probably learn
something."
I level my glasses and cover the bushes as directed. I see the under
part of the leaves, bright and brilliant; the upper surface, sombre
and dead. The upper ones are clear-cut and distinct against a sky,
almost white; below there are open spaces which permit the light to
filter through, but lower down, nearer the earth, the leaves are
incredibly thick, presenting an impenetrable curtain.
The Adjutant continues: "You will see to the left of the bush a kind
of natural screen; it is there he waits."
Scarcely had he finished speaking when I saw at the precise spot
indicated by him, a head surmounted by a flat helmet. It rose swiftly
and disappeared even more quickly, plunging down behind the leaves. I
turn towards the Adjutant, who is silently laughing.
"So you have seen them!" he exclaims. "Or rather you have seen one of
them ... there are two of them hidden there. Since I first marked them
this morning, they have become almost like old acquaintances; at any
rate, I have been able to gather what their little plan is. The man
who just showed himself is the spy. His companion is squatting on
the earth beside a field telephone. All the spy can ferret out with
his eyes, is transmitted _illico_. When evening comes, the telephonist
will pack his little box, tuck it under his arm, wind the wire on to
its bobbin and the day's work will be done. You can send men out to
the nest during the night, but you won't find those cunning blackbirds
there."
"But why," I ask, "do you not clear out the bush? Isn't it rather
thick to let those brutes play their dirty game right under your
nose?"
"Why? It is a case for consideration, you understand. If I fire upon
those two Boches, within five minutes shrapnel will be hailing down
upon us, and I am certain to have wounded and killed upon my hands. I
prefer to keep my men well hidden and undisturbed while the Boche
twists his neck out of joint, running the risk always of picking up a
bullet, without discovering more than the tail of a blue coat. But all
the same, if you are here to-morrow and the bush is still occupied,
you can fire if you will, and perhaps you will be right. To-day,
however, I am ill, and, with your permission, I vote for
tranquillity."
"We'll let it go at that, on the understanding that not one of your
men shows himself while it is still light. You are not permitting
smoking, of course?"
"I do know at least a little about the business," answered the
Adjutant with melancholy. "If I could only scotch one or two of them
to cure them I would be content. Ping! Pang! do you hear it, there's
my brother idiot recommenced! Ah, well, let it pass. Peace until
to-night, anyhow! I am going to crawl into my straw again."
A shell bursting in the clearing heralds my return to the little
shelter. The Quartermaster calls out from the interior:
"At least, Lieutenant, no one can say you don't announce yourself!
Something like a gong that!"
He turns his back to a veritable volley of shells which falls into the
open space. The fracas is terrific, fragments of metal fly in all
directions before the opening to the shelter with a remarkably
unpleasant "frrt."
"Oh! Oh!" cries Porchon. "Those are 105's. They are serving us well!"
"If they continue," jokes the Quartermaster, "they are going to
demolish our little house. This roof is only proof against 77's. Look
out!"
Yet another avalanche behind us. A volley of fragments strikes the
branches sharply, followed immediately by an immense creaking and
cracking, a violent agitation of high branches, and the reverberating
crash of a tree falling.
We are about to be called upon to endure a scientifically regulated
bombardment. The men are not pleased. I put my head outside to see
them lying upon the moss, scattered in widely-separated groups of two
or three. They all have their kit on their back and await unmoved the
end of this sprinkling.
The shells in their fury shatter the undergrowth, laying bare the
black soil beneath. They create an ear-splitting din, flying across
the clearing, now growing distant, now returning to burst directly
over our heads, tearing down entire trees, hurling roots into the air,
scattering the thicket to the four winds. But they strike blindly and
unseeing like maddened, unintelligent brutes; their fury, which should
be terrible, becomes simply grotesque, a mere impotent frenzy.
When the inferno about us dies down a little, one can hear the
shrapnel mewing over the first line of our section. And when I
remember the Adjutant and his extravagant precautions, I feel an
almost irresistible desire to laugh.
The moment comes when, the last shell having sent its leaden charge
over us, complete silence again falls over the woods. There follow
several seconds of inaction, during which one becomes conscious of
muscles still instinctively shrinking, of the throbbing of the blood
in the arteries. Then here and there heads pop up. Soon the men are
sitting up ridding themselves anew of their equipment, rising to their
feet, and stretching themselves. That little interlude is ended!
Night overtook me in the cutting while I was leading my poilus to
relieve the Adjutant. Beneath the trees darkness reigns supreme, a
blackness that seems almost palpable, which our eyes strive vainly to
pierce. It is as if a wall surrounds us which advances with each step
forward we take; it amazes us that we do not strike either feet or
face against it; we thrust forth an arm to touch it, but we never
succeed in touching it, for it recedes and vanishes before our very
finger-tips. Always beyond our reach, yet always there before us,
imprisoning us.
I halt my men at the edge of the wood. The shadows here are less
dense. Immediately before us is the unpeopled space of the open. As
one by one we pick out the vague forms of the bushes, it almost seems
as if they had moved to look at us before recomposing themselves to
slumber.