twinkling of an eye, we plunged into its depths. And instantly it
wrapped us from head to foot in a sweet, gentle embrace. Then in our
turn, little by little, detail by detail, we took possession of it.
There was no end to our surprise; each second produced some new
discovery; in vain we sought with the whole of our body for some
hardness, but there was no corner that was not soft and warm. Our
bodies, which remembered all the stones of the field, all the gaps in
the soil, and the greasy humidity of the woods, the harsh dryness of
the stubble-fields; our bodies, bruised by nights of bivouac, by the
straps of our equipment, by our shoes, by the weight of the knapsack,
by all the harness of wanderers who know no roof--our bodies at
present were unable swiftly to accustom themselves to so much softness
and pleasure, all at one and the same time. And we broke into shouts
of laughter; we expressed our enthusiasm in burlesque phrases, in
formidable pleasantries, each one of which provoked new laughter which
knew no end. And the man laughed at seeing us laugh, and his wife
laughed, and the urchins laughed; the hovel was full of laughter.
Then the woman stole out, and when she returned she was escorting five
or six of the neighbouring villagers. And all these women, too,
watched us laughing, and exclaimed in astonishment and chorus at this
phenomenal spectacle--two poor devils so far scorned by death; two
soldiers of the great war who had fought often, had suffered much,
delirious now with happiness, laughing with the abandonment of
children because they were sleeping for that one night in a bed!
_Wednesday, September 30th._
A happy party are we, up above Amblonville valley. A tempered sun, a
sky intensely blue, with a few little white clouds idling by. Near me
on a slope the men are digging a trench; I have brought them almost up
to a summit where clay gives way to chalk. Their task is easy; the
picks loosen huge flakes of soft stone which scarcely adhere to each
other, and which part at a single stroke. Earth such as this does not
blunt or spoil the tools, and the work proceeds without pause. It is
not like clay which sticks whatever one may do, compelling one
constantly to scrape pick and shovel with a knife or a sharp stone.
Far away below, in a meadow beside a stream, the cooks have lit their
fires. About _pots-au-feu_ which crown the flames are gathered a
few men in blue and red. The whole picture is so clear-cut and
distinct that by concentrating my attention I am able to recognize
each one of these pigmy-like men.
A few yards from the stream, and because camp-buckets are heavy to
carry when they are full of water, Lebret is holding his particular
assizes. The Adjutant is squatting close to the flame, and Gendre,
stripped of his equipment, and in his vest, is balancing himself and
walking on his hands.
In the middle of the meadow, I can easily distinguish the cooks of my
section. The man who is kneeling down and puffing at the green wood
and half vanishing from time to time in the smoke, is Pinard, hairy
among the most hairy in the company; Pinard, who grumbles incessantly,
but who always works like any other four men put together. That other,
bending so solicitously over certain dishes, is Fillot, the fatigue
corporal, inspecting some particularly choice morsel which he has
carefully placed aside before the distribution of rations, as every
corporal of ordinary intelligence and respectful of traditions, does
do.
Further to the right, on the other side of the road which descends
from our hill to rejoin the main road, the Captain is sitting on an
old tree-trunk and drawing designs in the dust with the point of his
lance, chatting at the same time with the doctor, who is standing near
him. Behind them lies an overturned, rusty plough.
I have carefully sharpened the point of my pencil, and, using my
map-case as a desk, I scribble a few letters. A few words only: "In
good health; best wishes." I cannot permit myself to tell them all
that is in my heart. And why should I tell them? Shall I repeat again
and again what is in my heart: "Please write me. I have received
nothing from you since I set out. I feel all alone and that is
hard----" I know well that not a day has passed without their sending
me words of courage and tenderness, in the hope that they may find me,
that I may read them, and that by them my courage will be strengthened
and sustained. I should be ill-advised to destroy that hope. I must
wait and wait, consecrating all my powers to preserving intact that
confidence which I so essentially needed, which up to the present
moment has never deserted me. So my pen moves swiftly, setting down
those banalities which nevertheless are so eagerly awaited: "I am in
good health: Best wishes!"
I have ended; my pen flies no longer. But that melancholy I
experienced a few hours ago is still with me, and gradually it
increases, tempting me to abandon myself to it entirely. Most
miserable of men! Am I too weak, then, boldly to face the crisis and
to overcome it with an equal mind? It would indeed be true courage to
grapple with it and triumph over it; the worst form of self indulgence
would be merely to pander to it and take melancholy pleasure in my own
suffering.
I jump to my feet, rush down the slope, leaping the shell-holes, and
go from fire to fire, questioning, joking, inspecting the various
dishes.
"Good-day, Roux! What are you grilling there?"
"You do not know, Lieutenant? Is it possible? It is a biscuit, pure
and simple. Try them. But dip it in water before toasting it, if you
want to make it really toothsome. Or dipped in milk, it is delicious.
Better still is it if you split it in two and make a butter sandwich
of it. In the early days, we were able to get fresh butter from the
Amblonville farm. But to-day!..."
Presle, advancing with tremendous strides, comes running towards us
from the top of the hill.
"I was looking for you, Lieutenant," he exclaims. "I thought you were
still up there. A cyclist has just come to say that you are wanted at
the paymaster's office. They are sending for all the officers, one
after another.... It must be your turn now!"
The paymaster? Of course, this is the last day of the month!
And I am in such frame of mind that I am not at all ill-pleased I
should have to go alone. Striding rapidly down the road, I amuse
myself watching the larks settling and pecking away in the dust. They
let me approach them until I am able to distinguish their sharp, black
eyes, their slender claws and their quaint little crests. Then, with a
flutter of feathers, a stroke of their wings, they flash away almost
from beneath my feet. But they do not go far; lightly they glide down
into the nearest field, perch on the top of some molehill, and with
head on one side, tranquilly and mockingly watch me. When I have gone
on far enough, they return to the road and settle on the spot from
which I drove them.
It is midday when I leave the paymaster's office, my money safe in my
pocket. I discover that the walk has made me hungry, but the prospect
of returning to the valley to eat the inevitable boiled meat and
cooked rice--it will already be more than half cold--does not please
me. I find the prospect not at all inviting. A sudden longing for
dishes dainty and rare, for savoury dishes to be masticated at
leisure, seizes me. My liberty of the morning, the comparative freedom
of action of which only a short time remains to me, is in itself so
unusual and pleasurable a sensation, that I feel the occasion demands
some adequate form of celebration. Had I known in advance what was
going to befall, I would have made all the essential arrangements,
fittingly to mark the occasion. Being a victim of the unforeseen, no
choice remains to me; I must extemporize. And since the abnormal
yearning for meats tender and juicy obsesses me, I must seek, solitary
and alone, to satisfy it.
Fortune is good to me. A white house with sunlit façade attracts my
attention. On a garden seat near the door an old man sits, placidly
warming himself in the sunshine. No complications bar the way to
complete mutual understanding. He invites me to step into a perfect
little kitchen; and there his daughter-in-law makes me an omelette
never to be forgotten. This is followed by smoked ham, which she cuts
specially for me. I eat like a glutton; near my left hand reposes a
long baton of new bread, to which I help myself at will. Again and
again the old man replenishes my glass with Toul wine, rosy, sparkling
and dry. The fresh ham on my plate has a sheen; before me, near my
glass, in which the bubbles foam, there is a stone jar of golden jam.
And when the ham at last only too obviously reveals the force and
verve of my attack, when the jam-pot is half emptied, I light my pipe
with a sigh of deep satisfaction. It is I who have enjoyed these
delicacies, I alone. Through half-closed eyes I watch the blue smoke
mounting to the rafters, swamped in a sensation of physical
well-being, and evoke a picture of my comrades back in the valley,
sitting down to the eternal stew and cooked rice--something of
remorse, I must confess it, mingles with my self-satisfaction!
_Thursday, October 1st._
We received a surprise yesterday evening on returning to our
quarters--the regimental band has been playing Two-Steps and dreamy
valses on the village green. We had just unbuckled our straps before
the barns when the first strains burst forth. The immediate effects of
this unwonted clamour were somewhat remarkable. Less than a minute
after one of the men had cried "There's a band!" the German centre had
been broken! A minute later and we had made eighty thousand prisoners.
By the time I arrived on the scene, the Russians were in Berlin.
Outside the saw-mill I met an old dame who informed me with an air of
great mystery: "That the Kaiser was dead of a stroke, but no one would
be allowed to say anything about it until to-morrow!"
On investigation, however, I learn that this concert is not intended
to celebrate a manifestation of national joy, but is the result of an
idea of our Major. Battalion orders handed to me as I leave duly
enlighten me. I read that: "The appearance of the regiment is
slovenly" ... that it "shows only too plainly the effects of a
prolonged stay in the wooded regions where man displays a tendency to
revert to a condition of nature" ... that "it is essential to return
by degrees to a more healthy and regulated style of living." So
apparently a reasonable ration of music, Two-Steps and dreamy valses,
is destined to tame for ever that ancestral savagery in us which the
war has awakened.
And this morning at daybreak we are departing from the village once
again to bury ourselves in those wooded regions where man becomes a
wolf!
It is misty and the leading files of the battalion vanish from sight
in a white cloud. The company preceding us is no more than a moving
mass in which only the rifle barrels swaying above a crowd of heads
can be distinguished. At a lesser distance forms are visible, all dull
grey, but it is only when quite near that we can recognize different
colours in the uniforms and see the men's breath as white puffs which
quickly dissolve.
Amblonville, Mouilly, and then a narrow ravine. The slope we are
mounting is covered with shrubs, hazel, cherry trees, dwarf oaks and a
few big trees; at the bottom of the ravine is a lake of greenness
which has retained its freshness despite the autumn. In it countless
shell-holes form miniature archipelagos. The opposite slope is covered
with a thinly-sown wood of pines.
The fog has disappeared and unveiled the sky. Idly I watch several of
our men lounging near the pines. Three of them are sitting playing
cards and smoking, two others standing behind them watch the game
closely, commenting from time to time. A little higher up the slope a
man is lying flat on his stomach, supporting his chin on his hands,
and reading absorbedly, digging his toes in the soil the while.
I was watching, and I saw in all its brutal horror the thing that came
to pass. A shell swept over the edge of the hollow, passing so close
above us that we felt its breath in our faces, and dropped plumb in
the centre of the peaceable group of card-players. We heard them cry
aloud; then beheld two of them running madly. In the crater made by
the shell the black smoke hung, and drifted for some time; little by
little it disappeared. And when it was gone we saw a human trunk in
bloody rags hanging between two branches of a pine. A second wounded
man lay on the earth beside the mutilated legs of his comrade, and he
was waving his arms and screaming. The stretcher-bearers came up at
full speed.
I can see them now at the bottom of the ravine, carrying the wounded
man on a stretcher; can follow their course through the high grass.
And while they are making for the road, other men dig a grave in the
hole dug by the shell. In a few minutes all is over; no deep hole is
necessary to receive those poor human fragments!
I watch them get the soul-sickening débris down from the tree, and
gently place it in the hole, together with the two legs: then the
earth falls in heavy lumps. Two branches to form a cross; a name, a
date. How simple it all is! After our departure to-morrow others will
come as smiling and indifferent before the constant menace of death as
ourselves. And perhaps near that grave which the shell dug, other
card-players will seat themselves on the moss, and throw down their
cards and laugh amid the fragrant bluish smoke of their pipes.
_Friday, October 2nd._
To Mouilly, all alone, hands in my pockets. I have been ordered to
supervise the clearing up of the village, have all the rubbish buried,
and hunt looters and deserters out of the houses.
I conscientiously accomplished this delicate mission of marshal,
dustman, and police officer. I formed several fatigue-parties, each
with a definite task. I sent out patrols and walked up and down the
streets myself.
The results are praiseworthy. Bones, empty meat-tins and other
indescribable things have disappeared beneath the earth. The roadway
has been well brushed with birch brooms. Never before, not even in
pre-war days, has the village been so aggressively clean. It looks as
if it has been an object of tender care. Even the shattered roofs and
holes in the walls now appear less desolate. Perhaps, however, I look
on these things with a prejudiced eye; I am rather pleased with myself
and my men; maybe that I exaggerate.
A dozen soldiers are kneeling side by side before a trough, bending
over the soapy water, washing their linen in silence. But where is the
washing and the babbling washerwomen of a year before? One hears
nothing now but the slapping of palms against the wet clothes, and the
noise of the trickling water wrung from them.
"Hullo, Pannechon? Almost finished?"
Pannechon looks up. Still kneeling and resting his hands on the
inclined plank before him, he turns his head to look at me.
"Yes, Lieutenant. I have only this flannel waistcoat to finish. I have
put everything to dry in the cupboard behind the chimney-piece in the
house."
The house! He means the one that sheltered us last night. It resembles
that in which we slept on the night of September 25th; it resembles
all the other houses in the village; only certainly it ranks among the
least dirty of them. In my frenzy of organization and cleansing I have
had the greasy dishes washed which littered the chairs and the bed; I
have scraped the stained table with a piece of glass; not even the
kneading-trough have I forgotten. Moreover, I have put back the faded
family photographs I found lying about in confusion; closed all the
yawning drawers, and arranged in the linen-chest coarse shirts and
wearing apparel, a riding coat, a green dress, and some chintzes.
Pannechon has hung a cloth before the window, so that I am no longer
compelled to look on empty window-frames and the shell-holes
desolating the meadows.
Now that the door is closed and I am alone with him and Viollet, a
taciturn and devoted lad, I no longer feel the depression which always
overwhelms me at the sight of the desolated and shattered homes. This
one, for the time being at least, is barred against the intrusion of
passers-by. Peace has descended upon it; I do not want that peace to
be disturbed. If anyone comes prying and poking his nose around the
door, he will quickly find himself in the road again.
Sitting before the table smoking my pipe, I am writing and making
notes of events worthy of remembrance. My pen runs well; my pipe draws
well. From time to time the distant sound of guns makes the walls
tremble and blows our impromptu curtain into the room. That troubles
me but little, however; it signifies nothing to me. On the other hand,
the crackling of the wood burning in the grate fascinates me and holds
my attention. I love this song of the fire and the dancing of the
flames. Pannechon and Viollet are sitting opposite each other beside
the fireplace; Pannechon, with swollen cheeks, is blowing with all the
force of his lungs through a long metal tube which branches at the end
in the form of a lyre; his efforts send the glowing sparks up the
chimney. Viollet is carefully covering some onions with hot cinders.
The day is dying. The solid things about us grow more and more shadowy
as twilight descends. The guns fall silent. It almost seems to me that
the pendulum of the clock on the mantelshelf is going to start again,
steadily and rhythmically marking the flight of the minutes.
All at once Pannechon jumps to his feet so violently that he overturns
his chair. He rushes to the next room shouting:
"Fire! Fire! There's a fire!"
We run out, bumping against each other, to the door. A stifling smoke
envelops us. We choke, we cough, we weep.
"The pump, the pump! There's a camp bucket here!..."
The pump creaks; the bucket fills; a steady stream is directed on the
flames. Smoke swirls up in dense, choking clouds; we cough so
violently that we almost vomit.
"The door! Shut the door!"
What idiot has just come in? There came a violent gust of air at the
very moment when we were getting the fire under.
"Hullo!" says a voice. "What's all this about? You're making a bit of
a hullabaloo, aren't you?"
It is Porchon.
"Come along, old man," I cry. "You must help if you wish to sleep here
to-night. Pump, pump--like the devil!"
And the four of us fly about as madly as devils in holy water. The
pump nearly bursts itself; we wallow in a black flood and tread on
each other's toes; but little by little the clouds of smoke die away,
the air becomes breathable, our eyes cease to run.
"Bring the candle from that table," I say to Pannechon, "and let's
have a look at the damage."
The inquiry is short. There is no stonework behind the chimney-piece.
One side of it formed the back of a cupboard with wooden doors, which
was used for drying linen. The side had cracked and the flames had got
through and set fire to the cupboard doors.
What about the linen inside? Has the worst happened?
"Pannechon, our linen?"
Pannechon smiles, Pannechon is well pleased with himself.
"Ah! Lieutenant, I'm a smart fellow. I had just got it away when the
fire broke out. It was all aired--ah, no, there was an old pair of
socks which were still wet, so I left them. Yes, there they are--socks
no longer, but cinders! It must have been those that smothered us,
together with a bundle of rags left at the bottom."
So everything is all right then. Porchon approaches the bed and
caresses the eiderdown.
"Ah! old friend, but that was a narrow escape," he says
affectionately. "You shall wrap us up snugly shortly." Then raising
his voice, he addresses me: "Come along, it is time to mess. Do not
forget that I bought some pork yesterday evening from that old man
back in the valley. There are also some apple fritters, and still one
more of Presle's famous fowls."
_Saturday, October 3rd._
Letters at last! Forty letters at once! And the postman tells me
there are still others to follow! I plunge into the mass. I read
voraciously, until I am a being intoxicated. I take them from the
heap, just as they come to hand, slit the envelope open with my
finger, and absorb the contents of the whole letter at once. How short
a time it takes, after all, to read forty letters!
Then I re-read them slowly, line by line, as one sips an exquisite
liqueur of whose bouquet one's palate never tires. My letters no
longer swamp me; I select now, guided by a sure instinct.
And of all those letters, I preserve a few only--those each separate
word of which bears a message of hope and encouragement for me. They
are the more intimate, hopeful, brighter ones; they are the letters
for which I have looked so long in vain. Having read and re-read them,
I place them where, at any moment, in any place, they will be
available. Meanwhile, because of them and through them, I have become
more confident of myself....
Since the dawn, we have been in a steep-sided ravine, whose fresh
green is most refreshing to the eyes. The guns are firing irregularly.
A German battery is shelling some position out of sight; the shells
fly over us at a great height, singing queerly and accompanied by the
usual rustling of a heavy object flying through the air.
The older and seasoned soldiers laugh constantly while they banter and
twit some new recruits who have just rejoined the colours, and who,
each time a shell sails past, search the sky with anxious eyes,
seeking to follow its course.
"Don't let them worry you, my boy! They are only rubbish!"
"They never explode, those big shells, as you will see for yourself.
At least, that's what we have been told."
"Ah, là là! Are you sure?..."
"You shut up and leave them alone! You want to try and make them
believe that they do explode, perhaps. Don't believe them! They are
only trying to frighten you!"
Another man good-naturedly adds:
"I shouldn't take any notice of what they say. One says this; another
that! Let them go on talking and wait and see for yourselves. You
won't have long to wait!"
A true prophecy that, for we leave for the advance posts in the woods.
The march is a pleasant one. We are not shelled; what rifle fire there
is, is far away; we hear the crackling distinctly, but no bullets go
humming past us. We march along in single file by one of those damp
tracks where the sunlight, streaming through the leaves, takes to
itself a greenish hue. Porchon is busy amusing himself by letting
small branches fly back at me as he moves onwards. With a jump I place
myself alongside him and so stop his little game.
"Have you seen the Captain of the 8th?" I ask him. "He has come back
with his cheek still in bandages. His wound cannot be properly healed
yet."
"Yes, I have seen him! He certainly doesn't make a fuss about his
wounds!"
"What do you think of the new men?... Do they impress you well?"
"Er ... yes!... Oh, yes!"
Porchon's tone is doubtful; he appears to be rather preoccupied.
"What is wrong with them?" I ask. "I can only speak for my own section
of course; but they have at least sent me two corporals and a sergeant
who seem to me sound, well-meaning sort of fellows."
"Well-meaning enough, I grant you. You can always expect that. But it
is true I am rather worried. You see, the new contingents seem to be
comprised of nothing but non-coms., sergeants and corporals. What's
the good of them? However hard you try, you can't be everywhere at the
same time. Of course, while you are looking after your right, the
left, unsupported, gives way.... I am sorry indeed Roux has been sent
to hospital!"
"What! The Adjutant in hospital?"
"Yes! The day before yesterday. He'll be out of harness for some time.
A good section leader lost!"
Two cannon shots, thundering out almost simultaneously, impel us to
look up quickly. Those shells were not 75's or 105's. And where are
the guns? They seemed to be under our very noses, yet they are not to
be seen. Thirty yards away some gunners are coming and going, busying
themselves with some business whose nature it is difficult to grasp at
a glance. We approach them and, suddenly, almost at our feet, we see
the guns, admirably hidden beneath a pile of brushwood, with a
palisade of branches all round. An artificial thicket is the result,
capable of deceiving the eye ten paces away.
"Oh, that's something like!" I exclaim. "It is an artistic triumph. I
am going to congratulate the gunners."