them, a deafening, stunning explosion takes place. The rush of air
almost knocks me over; my head seems to have been shattered and my
ears tingle painfully. A gunner laughingly calls out to me:
"Hallo, Lieutenant! Have you heard our 90's yet?"
So these are the 90's! One of my men growls bitterly:
"What idiocy! To put these mechanics here with their two machines
simply to make a noise! They would have something better to think
about than making us jump if they had to go and do some fighting!"
We are in the heart of the wood. We scale a slope and descend the
further side. Everyone is silent, a prey to that instinctive feeling
which proximity to the Boches causes. It can hardly be described as
uneasiness; rather is it a complex sensation which compels action even
before the impulse behind it has formed in the mind. One instinctively
walks on tiptoe, holds one's bayonet to prevent it rattling,
suppresses a cough. It is as if someone had said: "Be careful! I can
smell the Germans!" There are, of course, some men who do not feel
this sensation as keenly as others, but the soldier who is a complete
stranger to it is a rarity; time only quickens it, and with some it is
an unfailing indication of the enemy's presence.
How thick these woods are! Beneath the giant trees whose lower
branches begin to spread at least sixty feet above the earth, the
exuberant undergrowth runs riot. It stretches across and over the path
in wonderful confusion, branches twining with branches, until they
seem designedly to have combined to check our progress. Thick and
flexible, we have to thrust them aside with our hands before we can go
on; while tenacious offshoots, wrapping themselves about our legs,
send us stumbling constantly.
To right and left are green depths, as far as the eye can reach.
Green, too, is the moss, fresh and velvety in the shadows; tinged with
russet and gold where the sun has caught it. Green are the trunks of
the age-old trees, with the humid, unhealthy greenness which betokens
rot; green the countless leaves, changing and varying with the caprice
of the breeze; green, yet gold-flecked, are the leaves already touched
by autumn's finger.
I raise my head while we march along, seeking the sky's limpid blue
for relief; but I can see only a few patches of the heavens, tranquil
and serene above the restless quivering of the woods, which lighten
the way for us, prisoners of this prodigious multitude of trees, of
this unpitying sea of undergrowth.
We have almost fallen into the trenches, which open unexpectedly at
our feet. The heads of men appear above the soil; then the men hoist
themselves out of the deep cutting, with the aid of their rifles, and
the relief is effected, very swiftly and without noise, in broad
daylight.
These trenches are splendid, deeply sunk in the chalk, with low
parapets supported by wattles. Above them, a roof of leaves droops
almost down to the parapet, leaving only a narrow opening through
which we can survey the terrain, without being seen. It is not
possible to see far, because the visible field of fire extends only
eighteen feet or so beyond our rifles, thirty feet at the most at the
widest part. This zone, too, is covered with the stumps of felled
trees. Beyond it there are more, as dense as those behind us, and
therefore more redoubtable than the Germans they hide. The terrain
slopes steeply away from us for a hundred yards or so, then rises
again to a summit, which marks the horizon a mile away. The side of
this rising is covered with undergrowth and, here and there, high
trees. The sinking sun bathes the wood in a crimson light, which
ruddies the leaves on the higher branches of the trees. And while the
pungent odour of the woods rather oppresses me, my eyes weary not,
until the darkness of the night extinguishes the colours, of
contemplating the trees, which seem to touch the sky, whose leaves
tremble in the failing light and which appear beautiful beyond
description on this fading autumnal day.
_Sunday, October 4th._
Porchon has reassured himself. While we sit, plunging our
pocket-knives in the same tin of beef, he enunciates considerations
which have tended to induce this happy frame of mind.
"When we arrived here yesterday, I don't mind confessing that the
place gave me a cold shiver up the spine. It appeared to me a
cutthroat sort of hole, this little corner. However, I have
reconnoitred the ground, and on my return I have found myself as comfy
as formerly I had been disturbed. Have you tried to walk through the
thicket over there?"
"Yes."
"Did you get far?"
"I gave it up after advancing a few steps."
"Naturally. I, too, attempted it, and, like you, decided it was better
to abandon it. Under the circumstances, then, there seemed nothing for
me to do but to obey the advice I received when we arrived--to guard
the clearings and send out patrols from time to time. A very nice
type, the lieutenant who was in command here! He saw me raiding his
cigarette-papers, and in a flash offered me the book. 'You want some?
Take those, then.' It is a long time since I have been so well off....
Ah, well! What do you wish for most? I only hope we have a night as
calm as that of yesterday, a day of fine weather such as this, and
return to our quarters for dinner--
"'The valley of my dream where I sleep in a bed.'
"You notice, old man, I possess some genius for improvisation!
Meanwhile, however, my bit of foresight should carry us on comfortably
until the 8th. After that, who knows? But it is at least something to
be grateful for to have four days before one."
"Touch wood!" I say. "Touch wood! We are not back in the valley yet,
nor in our beds."
A quartermaster coming up at this moment interrupts us. It appears
that one of us two must go to the battalion headquarters to receive
instructions. I set out, the messenger acting as guide.
The major's dug-out is situated near a fairly wide cross road. A
forest alley prolongs to right and left a level perspective; the sun,
which at this hour is directly overhead, appears as a magnificent
avenue cutting right through the heart of the forest. The company in
reserve is stationed here, but not a man is visible in the sunlight.
When one gets nearer, however, heads pop up out of a trench among the
brambles which cover it. In some astonishment, I ask myself what
inconceivable folly has led these men to hide themselves in their
trench on such a day, and why they watch me passing with such
astonishment in their eyes.
I encounter several old comrades at the entrance of the hut in which
the Captain is lying sick. It appears that an attack by the Boches is
anticipated. Consequently, certain dispositions must be arranged
before nightfall. I take down all instructions in my note-book, and
after a few words of general advice we each depart in our respective
directions.
I was approaching our trenches, walking musingly through the clearing,
watching the splashes of sunlight playing over the moss, when a
strange sound impelled me to halt transfixed. The sound took the form
of light, aerial music, as silvery and as transparent as the sky which
carried its waves to me. That welcome music had wings; it went high,
higher even than the great trees, higher than the trilling of the
lark. There were instants when it seemed to draw far away, being heard
then only with difficulty; then it recovered force and sounded clear
and distinct though limpid and immaterial. A breath of wind shook the
leaves and brought a flood of the melody down to me, before it was
dispersed far and wide.
It was the voice of bells in some village church.
I stood there, unmoving, listening to this chant of the bells wafting
through the woods, where night and day men faced one another, seeking
to kill each other.
Their message was not sad. From the heights of the heavens wherein it
resounds it spreads widely over earth and men alike. The Germans in
their trenches hear it, as we hear it, but the bells speak not to them
as they speak to us.
To us they say:
"Hope, sons of France! I am near you, the voice of all the firesides
you have left behind. To each one of you I bring a vision of that
corner of the earth where the heart remains. Confidence be with you
for ever, sons of France, confidence and strength for ever. I sing the
life immortal of the Fatherland."
To them they say:
"Madmen who believed that France could die! Hear me! Above the little
church, whose stained-glass windows lie in fragments on the pavements,
the belfry still stands. It is the belfry that sends me to you,
laughing and mocking. Through me it is the village that defies you. I
see.... I see ... whatever you have done, I see. Whatever you may do,
I shall see. I am not afraid of you. Because I know that the day will
come when the cock on the steeple, staring unflinchingly towards the
far horizon, will see you in desperate flight, while the innumerable
bodies of your slain shall lie thick over the land!"
Night. Letters have been brought to me. One of the envelopes contains
sorrow for me. I have learnt that a friend is dead.
And I welcome the darkness. Its blackness cannot be too black for me;
I have even hidden myself at the bottom of the trench, because a
diffused light wanders amid the boles of the age-old trees before it;
and welcome also is the silence of night. Near me an occasional
furtive movement reveals the presence of men who are watching. Nothing
else. Not even firing in the far distance. I open my eyes in the
blackness and see again the living face of my friend, frank, eyes
clear and loyal, mouth slightly disdainful, beneath a closely-clipped
moustache.
The news has shocked me greatly. A torpor steals over me; the blood
beats violently in my temples; I am fevered. And suddenly I hear a
murmur, very low, very far away, indefinable. Am I dreaming? Two
soldiers, perhaps, gossiping somewhere close at hand. Yes, they are
the voices of men I hear, but now they are silent. My head is burning,
and still the blood thunders in my temples without a pause. Then the
murmur recommences, the same as it was before. It increases; someone
is speaking. I cannot distinguish the words, yet the voice is familiar
to me: I know it well. But how distant it is! It seems to resound far
away in space, beyond the reach of my senses; it rises from obscure
depths within me; it awakens in me what is most intimate in the dead
past! Low and soft, it is the voice of my friend!
"Lieutenant!"
That is a raucous voice which causes me to raise my head.
"Lieutenant!--Lieutenant!"
"What's the matter?"
"You hear that firing away to the left?"
Firing!--Firing!---- It is true; the woods; the night; the advance
posts; the attack that was anticipated.... A few stars shine between
the trees; it is very cold; a branch creaks, while somewhere away to
our left resounds a prolonged and continuous crackling, which echoes
from one end of the ravine to the other. Can they be fighting further
away down the line? Is this the attack?
I leave the trench and walk slowly from one end of the line to the
other. My men are standing at attention, their rifles resting on the
parapet; the non-coms. are in their places; we are ready. Gropingly I
enter the narrow passage-way opening into the undergrowth away in
front and beyond our trenches. At the end of this, the clearing
starts. I count my steps, eight, nine, ten; here is a giant beech,
marking the entrance. Little by little my eyes grow accustomed to the
darkness. I walk forward more confidently, almost quickly. I should
have arrived at my destination by now. Three times I whistle
cautiously, three times a whistle rings out in reply, and at the same
time a fugitive ray of light gleams on a bayonet in the clearing and I
can make out a dark figure. The sentries are keeping good guard!
"Nothing before you, Chabeau?"
"Nothing, Lieutenant!"
"Who is with you?"
"Gilon."
"That's all right. Keep your eyes and your ears open, but do not start
firing if only a leaf rustles. Remember there is wire before you to
which we have fastened empty meat-tins with a few pebbles inside. A
Boche has only to touch the wire to set up a deuce of a rattle. Also,
do not fire if you should hear crackers going off to the right or
left. Just guard your particular corner to the very best of your
ability. Understand?"
"I understand, Lieutenant."
I am just going to leave him, when a gun fires a little behind us, not
twenty yards away; we saw a flame spurt out of the muzzle. A moment
later there is a second report; then the thunder of a squall, and
bullets rush and whistle a short distance away.
"Lieutenant? You heard?"
A cry has vibrated through the night, coming from far away to the
right, and as if it had been intended for us alone, it echoes and
re-echoes through the trees around us, with poignant, tragic force.
"To arms!"
A glimpse of light, quickly extinguished, passes from one end of the
French trenches to the other. A crisp outbreak rends the darkness;
branches, bullet-shattered, fall to the earth. We have flung ourselves
flat, face downwards. Fortunately our men are firing high; the slope
of the earth saves us. Still lying flat, we crawl with difficulty
through an entanglement of brambles. Chabeau and Gilon are so close to
me that I can hear their laboured breathing. Often a whining bullet
grazes us; but most of them fly above us right across the hollow, to
embed themselves in the further side.
"We had better shout out, Lieutenant," Chabeau suggests.
"No, no! Follow me!"
I recollect that between two stretches of trenches there remains an
unexcavated interval, and it is towards that spot I set my crawling
course, followed by my two men. I peer into the darkness intently, and
gradually my eyes acquire an amazing keenness. Jets of rifle fire
serve to guide me. They flash out constantly on the same line, in the
middle of which there remains a patch of darkness. We are directly
opposite that patch, which represents our haven. More bullets sing and
whine about us, falling harmlessly to either side. Chabeau, with his
mouth close to my ear, says:
"I think we are all right now, Lieutenant, but we have had a warm
time, haven't we?"
"Rather!" I reply. "And it is not yet finished. Some terrified idiot
may still serve us dirtily, when he sees us coming from the same
direction as the Boches!"
The two echo in chorus:
"Ah, yes!... Ah, yes!... It is possible!..."
"Wait for me here without moving an inch," I command. "I am going
forward alone to try and rejoin the men. When I have warned them, I
will return for you."
I rise deliberately and dash with all speed across the open space
separating me from the trenches. How easy it was! The noise of the
rifles changes abruptly; when I sprang to my feet, the firing sounded
harsh, almost sharp; now the voice of the bullets is deadened and
dulled. A few leaps suffice to carry me well to the rear of the
trenches. But how of those two others, lying flat on their faces in
the open? Each second is of urgent importance.
"Lieutenant!--Lieutenant!--who is there?"
A big man rushes up to me, stares through the darkness into my face,
and then:
"Ah! So it is you, Lieutenant! But that lifts a weight off my heart!
You are not hurt? I told myself that you could not be wounded. I knew
you had gone out; I held up my fire and no one about me fired, and we
were directly in front of the cutting. But, name of a dog! how the
time dragged!"
The man who addresses me in this way is Souesme, one of my sergeants.
This is my opportunity.
"Listen to me, Souesme. Gilon and Chabeau are still out there before
the trenches. I am going out to fetch them in. Meanwhile, you remain
here and wait for us."
A few moments later I am safely back again among my men, accompanied
by the two men and the sergeant. It is as Souesme affirmed. My men on
the right, where the sergeant was stationed, have not fired a shot.
Still further to the right, however, in the neighbouring trench, the
spitting of the rifles does not cease for a second. The fusillade,
disordered, breathless, betrays the anxiety of the men. And my half
section to the left is creating a similar ridiculous din.
The Germans are replying vigorously, but their efforts are just as
wild and valueless as our own. Almost all the bullets fly high over us
towards the top of the slope behind us. They must be falling much more
thickly among the company in reserve than they are here. Only every
now and again does a stray shot tatter the leaves which form the roof
of our trench or send up the pebbles before our eyes.
As speedily as possible, I get among the men composing the left wing
of my section. They are still firing madly and blindly. I roughly
shake one or two of them and command volley fire. They obey me. And at
each word of command others imitate their example, while the resulting
volley increases and my voice carries further and further. In this
way, I gradually regain grip of my men. Then, with them well in hand,
I let one more volley go, before shouting the "Cease fire!" The word
passes from man to man right along the line, and peace descends on my
trench. The example seems contagious. In the trenches right and left a
similar command rings out and silence descends.
The Boches also put a term to their fusillade. Two or three bullets
still fly amid the trees, fired from one knows not where, but that is
all.
The smoke clears away, enabling us to see more or less distinctly. To
our fevered imaginations the underwood before the trenches appears now
to be less distant than earlier in the night; we think, too, we can
detect dark forms coming and going amidst it.
The silence endures--a silence so intense as to seem almost palpable.
It swallows us as the floodgates of a mill-pool engulf the waters. I
strain my ears to catch the slightest sound. The woods, lashed no
longer by the frenzy and fury of man, regain their usual mystery.
Breezes almost imperceptibly rustle the leaves and set the shoots of
the brambles swaying; a little round living thing appears suddenly on
top of the parapet, glides to a corner of the trench, climbs a stake
and vanishes amid the leaves which form our roof--a field-mouse
searching for scraps!
From time to time the breeze momentarily increases, until the whole of
the woods are alive with rustlings and tremblings. It comes from the
north behind us, and is bitterly cold and biting; then it passes
onwards, awakening the trees from their slumber right up to the
hilltop. We feel like lost souls, surrounded by a thousand hidden
menaces, so weak and fearful that the advent of real danger would
surely find us unarmed against it! Some prowling night beast moves in
the thicket.
"There are Boches there right enough!" a man exclaims.
"They must be plotting some pretty mischief seeing how quiet they
keep," adds a second. "They are stealing up one by one, and when there
is a sufficient number of them, they'll rush down on top of us in a
flash. We shall be done for!"
Another man seizes my arm impulsively and says in a low tone:
"There are two of them there--quite close--behind that bush. I can see
them right enough! They have helmets; they are standing close to one
another. Oh, Lieutenant, we must fire!"
I am about to reply when someone moves behind me. A man is bending
down towards the trench calling:
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"
"I am here. What do you want?"
"Ah, Lieutenant, you will have to remain all night. The wood is full
of Boches. From our side, we can see them hiding not ten yards away.
We must fire...."
"No, return to your place instantly! I forbid you to fire, do you
understand? You will fire only when I give the word."
But still another man approaches me. I recognize him as Boulier, one
of my best men, a stolid, cool-headed peasant, who has been fighting
since the first day of the war. He jumps down to the trench beside me
and says in a calm voice:
"Lieutenant, I have marked two Boches spying upon us. They are hidden
behind that big beech at the entrance to the cutting over there. There
are hundreds and thousands of them a little further back. In a moment
or two they will charge. But the two of whom I tell you--it is certain
they are there. Look for yourself!"
Despite myself, I look. Boulier continues in a babble:
"Behind the beech, nowhere else. One is taller than the other, or else
one of them must be stooping. Every now and again the big one bends
forward, as if stretching his neck to look about. The other keeps
still. Ah, the scum!..."
Intently I watch the beech tree pointed out by Boulier. What he
affirms is true, perhaps. I listen calmly to all he has to say, his
face so close that I can feel his warm breath on mine:
"There, the other has moved a little; the big one wants to speak to
him. He is stooping down. Good! There you are, he is rising again. Ah,
the camels!"
Peering so constantly into the blackness wearies my eyes. Lights begin
to dance before them; rings of flame begin to whirl vertiginously. I
close my eyes for a moment. And when I open them again, I can see
behind the beech two unmoving human beings, bending low in a listening
attitude. I shake myself, look at my hands, at the wattles supporting
the parapet, and then once more at the beech. I can see nothing now
but beeches and leaves.
"There are no Boches there," I tell Boulier. "You also have lost your
head."
I jump up over the front of the trench. The man calls me back.
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Don't go! You are going to get yourself
hurt!..."
At the first step I stumble over the stump of a tree and almost fall.
When I have regained my balance, I can see the two Germans behind the
tree again. And on the instant I detect them, a conviction seizes me
that they too have seen me. A storm of fear assails me. My heart seems
to become empty of blood; my flesh grows icy cold and trembles
violently. In desperation I get grip of myself, fighting back an
impulse to cry out aloud or to take to my heels; the effort of will
causes my nails to enter my palms.
Drawing my revolver, I continue to advance. Instead, however, of
moving without haste in complete self-possession, I rush blindly and
furiously towards the right.
Suddenly I find myself amid the undergrowth and stop. Turning, I find
the beech immediately behind me so close that its roots protrude from
the earth at my feet. I run fingers up and down the bark, stamp on the
very spot where I thought I had seen the two Boches; I push on into
the clearing, beating the bushes to right and left. I find nothing,
nothing at all. And I the leader of those men, I to whom that night
had been confided a portion of the front behind which lay France and
its well-being, I had almost abandoned myself to a lunatic's frenzy.
Panic had made of me a brute among brutes. I was grateful now for the
darkness, which veiled me and my actions from the eyes of my soldiers.
When I returned to the trench Boulier on the parapet extended his hand
towards me. I jumped down beside him. I had nothing to say to him.
A few minutes later a volley bursts out from the opposite lines, to
which our men reply, and the fusillade starts again.
This time the Boches fire lower. Every instant bullets bury themselves
in the earth about us, striking sharply. I hear one of my corporals
swear when a bullet smashes the upper part of his arm. I am master of
myself again now. No longer are my senses subject to illusion;
lucidly, one after the other, I check my impressions; all my
confidence returns to me.
Above all can I hear the crackling of the enemy's rifles. They sound
sharply, exactly opposite us; but the bullets seem to come from a
great distance, which serves to thin them out. I recall Vauxmarie, the
firing at thirty yards, then at ten, then at point-blank range. The
present fusillade is not like that, and I feel sure that up to the
present the Germans have not yet left their trenches. More than that,
I feel convinced they will not leave them. On the other side of the
ravine, taking cover in a trench similar to ours, behind a similar
breastwork, they, too, tremble at every rustling of the leaves. The
night was the same for all men in the wood; like ourselves, the Boches
were afraid.
A star shell rises high in the sky and bursts into startling
resplendency; so strong was the light with which it flooded the earth
that the shadow of each branch, of each leaf, was projected in minute
perfection of detail upon the whitened surface of the parapet, on our
faces, on our hands.