We dine with an old Alsatian woman, a neat clean old woman, rosy and well preserved. She wears a bonnet, round and very white, so white that never before in the whole Meuse district have I seen one quite so chic and prepossessing. A doorway of bricks, newly washed, clean and as red as one's face after a wash in cold water; furniture which shines as does the top of the table covered with brown oilcloth. Above the sink a brass bracket reflects the light of our lamp and sends a pencil of light through the darkness.
"Cabbage soup!" announces Presle, "and after that we have roast fowl."
Oh! that roast fowl! A consumptive hen, a lamentable thing, lying on its back in the middle of an immense dish. To the head with its closed eyes was attached a body about as big as a fig, and the claws, which Presle had neglected to remove, were crisp, black and contracted as though in agony.
"It is certainly not a Bresse fowl," explains Presle in self-extenuation. "And, at the same time, I believe that her flirtations must have made a long-distance walker of her before I wrung her neck. All the same, it is fowl."
After dining, I inspect a collection of shoes which the cyclist has picked up, I know not where. It is difficult to make a selection: these are too broad, those are too long; some are already worn; others, which fit exactly and appear on first sight to be made of soft yet solid leather, unexpectedly reveal a long cut. At length I choose a pair with welted soles, newly clumped, of which the cyclist says:
"I guarantee them for six months without repair, Lieutenant. They will carry you to the end of the campaign, of that you can be certain."
"Amen!" I replied.
We go out arm in arm, Porchon and myself. The night is not very dark. The piles of planks near the sheds rise in dark, geometrical masses. The village to the right is lightless and still; away to the left, towards the cemetery, a pale mist broods over the fields. An undulating line of willows marks the course of the stream which they veil. The line continues to the foot of an abrupt slope, rising to the south-east like a gigantic wall.
"Where are you taking me?" asks Porchon.
"Just wait a little and you will see."
We walk in silence, occasionally burying our feet in heaps of soft ashes, which mark the spots where braziers have burnt.
"Point of direction, that isolated house," I explain, after a time. "There are some steps and an iron railing. Hold on to me, old man! You are going to see what you are going to see."
I take the stone steps in three jumps and knock at the door. Children's voices die abruptly to silence, a step sounds over the floor, the latch clicks, and the door opening wraps us in a gust of warm air.
We are in a smoky kitchen, dimly lit by a single candle placed on the table. From a line across the room hang stockings, handkerchiefs, swaddling clothes, drying above a stove. The chairs, scattered here and there, are all encumbered with a heterogeneous collection of things—a wash hand basin, a pair of pants, dirty dishes. Beneath one's feet one crushes certain soft things, remains of food probably, or chewed tobacco.
Our host is still a young man, sickly, pale, thin as a skeleton, his moustache and hair light-coloured. He offers us his hand with a tired gesture; it is a feverish hand, in which one can discover no bones, but only cartilages; and which, when you release it, leaves some of its moisture on your palm.
"We have been awaiting you," says the man. "My wife has prepared beds for you in that corner there, against those sacks of bran."
The woman, who is also a blonde, but swollen and paunched, leaves her chair near the stove, shakes off three or four urchins hanging to her skirts, and raises the candle from the table.
We can see clearly now. Along the sides of the plastered wall sacks are stacked. In these sacks the miller has placed a plentiful litter of straw, and, what is still more important, of an even depth all over. On the top of the straw she has placed a feather mattress, blankets and sheets. To-night we're going to have sheets, a real bed, a complete bed. We're going to undress ourselves, to instal ourselves between two sheets, wearing nothing but our shirts. I steal a glance at Porchon from the corner of my eye; his face plainly expresses his unfeigned delight and joy. Suddenly he turns towards me, places his hand on my shoulder, and regarding me with warm, affectionate eyes, says:
"You brick!"
Our bed that night was a thing never to be forgotten. Undressed in a 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. Aboutpots-au-feuwhich 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."
The moment, however, I get near the guns, and slightly in front of 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.
The star streamed through the heavens until a gust of wind made it waver; then it commenced to descend slowly and leisurely until finally dying from sight. And then the darkness was more impenetrable than ever.
The fusillade had burst out from the enemy's trenches more violently than ever the moment the wan, pale light of the star irradiated the earth. Now the darkness has again descended, the firing does not decrease. Rather the whistling of bullets increases. Other star shells rise and burst; on each occasion I see the rank of my men, one pressing against the other, necks extended, watching closely the course of the star.
A bullet strikes a metal object behind me, doubtless some old water-flask. The sound brings me to attention again. I listen to the bullets, their whining, the dead thud they make against the trunks of the trees, the lash-like hissing they make when flying far towards the trenches of the reserve, the long-drawn, the musical note of those flying still higher and passing over the hilltop into space.
The steps of someone approaching are heard. Someone is coming, walking evenly and steadily, through the mortal hail. I see the man is erect; he is following the line of the trenches; from time to time he halts and bends a little, as though to speak to those in the trench, well sheltered from the shots. Then he rises and, quite erect, continues on his way, thrusting aside the brambles with a stick in his hand. In this way, with the same appearance of indifference and nonchalance, he passes through the leaden tempest raging about the terrain which separates us from the neighbouring trench. A few yards from me he seems to hesitate, moves back a little while looking about him, then in a low voice he calls my name.
"I am here," I say. "Can you hear me? Come towards my voice."
And Porchon, seating himself tranquilly on the parapet, his legs in the trench, his head and body exposed to the bullets, offers me his hand, saying:
"Good evening, old man."
And there he remains, joking and laughing and jeering at the fears of the men, which had not abated since sunset.
"You know Timmie, the deaf man, he saw about four hundred Germans in a heap. I took him by the arm and dragged him over towards the wood. He fought like a man possessed. I had to release him at last, as he would have screamed. And so I went forward all alone; and this cursed Timmie said—yes, my boy, he said: 'Oh! Lieutenant, God permits you to walk over there!'"
He lowered his voice to tell me that one of the sentries had been wounded by his comrades when the firing just started. He commenced to laugh again, relating how a sergeant, seeing him walking along the parapet when the firing was heaviest, began to call himself indescribable things, jumped out of the trench and swore he would remain outside until daybreak, and only after enormous trouble and threats of punishment had Porchon induced him to get down again with his men. He further confided in me that he was rather perturbed at the shortage of cartridges and that he had dispatched a messenger to the commander for a further supply.
"I should not fire unless it becomes absolutely urgent," he said. "A strong Boche patrol entered the ravine a short time ago, when the star shells went up. I know it has returned now. Butrel has been to see. They won't budge again to-night. This firing means nothing. Let it pass."
With a quick jump he came to his feet again.
"Listen to me," I cried. "I am going with you."
He refused decidedly. "No, no! Your place is here. You must remain."
I watched him move away towards the left, halt several times again and seat himself to talk more easily. As soon as the men saw him they said to one another:
"It is Lieutenant Porchon."
In this way his progress is announced, causing calmness and confidence right along the line.
At last he returns and jumps down into the trench between Boulier and myself.
"Ouf!" he exclaimed, "but things were looking rather nasty with us. I believe I was right in making my little tour. Half-past two in the morning; time is drawing on. All will go well now until daylight."
Boulier suddenly exclaimed:
"All the same, Lieutenant, it is not an ordinary thing that you have done. There were a thousand chances of your being wounded. And that would have been my fault, the fault of we good-for-nothings. Yes, it would have been our fault—don't let us talk about it!"
"To every man his business," replied Porchon. "If I had been you, Boulier, I would not have risked my skin as I have done. Just reflect a little, and you will understand."
Then, laughing still that laugh of a twenty-year-old boy, he taps me on the shoulder and says:
"To-day is the 5th, the day of our relief. Unless I am very much mistaken we shall sleep to-night in our beds. Good-bye for the moment. I am going back to my men."
Boulier, near me, his elbows on the parapet, watched him vanish amid the shadows. And he repeated to himself softly and without ceasing:
"Ah! what a man!… What a man! Heavens!… What a man!"
An intense emotion seemed to grip him by the throat, and the feeling in his voice shows that he is stirred to the heart's depth.
"Ah! What a man!… What a man!"
And that was all he could say.