FOOTNOTES:

A BOCHE WHO HAD ENOUGH, THE GREAT DUNE.August, 1915.

It is night——

The sentinel is on duty at the extremity of the embankment of sandbags, which protects the pier from shells that are coming over fast.

It is almost midnight and the brave Territorial looks continually at the sea which splashes at his feet.

Suddenly the man hears an unusual sound in the water in front of him. He is all attention and cries out:

"Halt, there! Who goes?"

The night is clear and soon he sees two dripping arms stuck high in the air.

"What are you doing there—this is not the time to go in swimming—advance with the countersign—it's a boche!"

"Kamarad! Kamarad!..."

"Listen here, I regret it, but I can't accompany you, you understand—I can't leave my post. You seethat bridge? Take it! You will go to that house just over there, it is Marine Headquarters, and ask for the commanding officer. Is that clear? Now get along—good-night."

And the prisoner left alone——

A SPECTACLE OF THE WAR, NIEUPORT.September, 1915.

I lunched for the last time with my friend Reymond. He is accompanying me to Brigade Headquarters of the Marine Fusiliers, where I must say good-by, because, to-morrow, I leave for another sector.

We are in the principal street of Nieuport and are only a short distance from our objective when a frightful detonation rends the air a few steps away.

Dense clouds of smoke envelop everything. A few steps more, and we see a very sad spectacle. Four 105's, two timed shell and two percussion, break in the midst of a group of workers—forty or more Zouaves are on the ground, wounded or dead——

Parbleu!it was like a sight at the Great Dune, on a similar occasion; one could not help but see, like the nose on your face——What indifference!

A Zouave, short and stocky, yelling and waving his arms madly—he is all bloody—he must have gone crazy——

FOOTNOTES:[10]Trench vernacular for wine.[11]Coffee—Tr.[12]Jean Gouin is the personification of everything witty, brave and odd about the Marine Fusiliers, the French soldiers of the sea. One of them is always referred to as Jean Gouin. The Germans learned to respect him very deeply in the first days of the war.—Tr.[13]Singe—literally monkey. Vernacular for canned beef or meat.—Tr.[14]Petite Marmite—Soup cooked and served in a small earthenware or metal receptacle or pot. Also, term used for German shell of big caliber.—Tr.

[10]Trench vernacular for wine.

[11]Coffee—Tr.

[12]Jean Gouin is the personification of everything witty, brave and odd about the Marine Fusiliers, the French soldiers of the sea. One of them is always referred to as Jean Gouin. The Germans learned to respect him very deeply in the first days of the war.—Tr.

[13]Singe—literally monkey. Vernacular for canned beef or meat.—Tr.

[14]Petite Marmite—Soup cooked and served in a small earthenware or metal receptacle or pot. Also, term used for German shell of big caliber.—Tr.

Sub-Lieutenant Capart left the Flanders' sector for good. He arrived at Verdun during the first days of October.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE FANCIFUL IDEA OF MAJOR PETIT, VERDUN.October, 1915.

In the middle of the month of October, 1915, I was invited to dinner by General Coutanceau, Governor of Verdun.

Verdun, at this particular time, still retained its aspect of a little garrison city in times of peace, and, when I entered Bevaux Barrack, I felt far away from the war——

I found Colonel Masselin who awaited me in his office, busy as was his habit and who rose precipitately on seeing me enter the room.

"There you are—it is fine! The general is home and it is the hour to sit at table—he does not like to be late."

Some moments after, I was in the presence of the Governor of Verdun, a man very big, very cold, with a severe and glacial face.

We immediately entered the dining-room with its barren walls like those of a school-room, but brightened by a great wood fire, which burned joyously on the hearth.

We sat down and the general placed me at his side; the menu was excellent and the wines perfect. My neighbor, in spite of his severe mask, was a very fine and spirited conversationist, also this dinner, I felt, was for me a real luxury, inasmuch as I had the pleasure of finding myself in the company of this man ofesprit.

One spoke naturally of the war and I stated that in my opinion this epoch did not resemble the others from the point of view of the relations that could exist between two adversaries in the course of hostilities. In effect, it was our custom in youth to recite of truce-parties who came with bandaged eyes into enemy lines to make one or another communication to the commander of the adverse troops.

I added that the perfection of the art of destruction had killed the romantic side of war and that it was very regrettable.

The general protested, remarking that adventurous examples were not lacking, and as far as he was concerned, he was able to relate a story within his knowledge that was worth the trouble of telling.

This is what he told us and to which we all listened with very great silence.

Some months before war was declared, one of my old friends on his death bed urgently recommended his son to me.

The young Count de Marnac was a worthy youngster,and to his misfortune—and to mine—he was aCamelot du Roi.[15]

Nevertheless, a boy very daring and full of the best sentiments. I was convinced he would be an excellent soldier. Sergeant in a regiment of infantry, he fought like a lion in the Belgian campaign and immediately distinguished himself. His colonel proposed him for a sub-lieutenant and I transmitted the request to General Sarrail, under whose orders I then was.

Was it for political opinions or for some other reason, I know nothing of it, but the propositions I received from his colonel and which I hastened to send to the General, were held without reply——

So, during the battle of the Marne, the Division to which myprotégébelonged was on the right bank of the Meuse; I came, as you know, to be completely surrounded by the Germans for a period of forty-eight hours.

From that moment, I depended no longer on General Sarrail, from whom I was totally cut off.

So, an old order authorized generals commanding a besieged or surrounded spot to nominate officers up to a certain rank.

Having still in mind the last recommendation of young de Marnac, I hastened to send him his brevet of sub-lieutenant.

Up to here there is nothing romantic in my story, but you will see how this animal recompensed me for my kindness.

During the month of November, 1914, his Division was engaged in murderous fighting.

He had a battalion chief, named Petit, known in his regiment for his lack of mental equilibrium. He always had ideas more or less strange and fanciful, and he always caused comment by his eccentricities and hisbizarreries.

I had ordered an operation to commence in the morning of the 15th, and Petit told all his men, before the attack, that he would give one dollar for every pair of German trousers they brought to him!

Do not laugh, he had more extravagant ideas than that!

The attack was successful and ourpoilusstruck a hard blow; they took numerous prisoners and reaped a mountain of trousers!

This sight was absolutely grotesque; the boches did not know what we wanted with them and this "kilty" disguise did not go well with them at all.

Petit, himself, was literally jubilant, splitting his sides with laughter before the German column about to start for the rear trouser-less.

Lieutenant de Marnac was furious, because he could not admit he carried on war in this manner and took it upon himself to go into the German lines, on a truce, and present his excuses to the general commanding the Division in front.

He fixed a white handkerchief on the end of his cane, took a bugler with him and calmly started out toward the enemy trenches.

All went well enough; the Germans bandaged his eyes and as he conveniently spoke the language, he asked the first officer he met to be conducted into the presence of the general of that Division.

The latter lived in a little village ten miles back of the lines so de Marnac's journey was long enough.

He did not arrive, until darkness had fallen, at the farm which served as headquarters of the boche general.

The general was at dinner when they presented our young man to him. He received him courteously and spoke French to him, but with difficulty.

"Sit down—what have you to say to me?"

And turning toward the young girl who served him, he added, "Mademoiselle, will you place another cover for the lieutenant? Monsieur, I listen."

"General, I am the interpreter for General Coutanceau, Governor of Verdun, and have come to present his excuses for an event that occurred to-day.

"This morning, in course of the attack at Consenvoie Wood, a French battalion major ordered his soldiers to cut the suspenders of all German prisoners they might take and to bring him the trousers, in return for which they would receive a dollar.

"Matters happened this way: our soldiers cut numerous suspenders, removing quite a few trousers from your infantrymen——

"The Governor General charges me to tell you hedeplores this act as being unchivalrous and to present to you his excuses and his regards."

The boche general turned crimson because he had misunderstood de Marnac and when the latter had spoken of "cut suspenders" he certainly imagined some enormous thing——

He showed by his nervousness the lack of linguistic knowledge he possessed. He called an interpreter and it was explained to him.

He found then that the reason for the truce was very decent and his face flushed with pleasure.

During all this scene the little girl, who incessantly busied herself about the table and who had not lost a word, bit her lips to keep from giggling.

Dinner over, de Marnac requested of the German general that he be allowed to retire.

He got up and the general charged him with a thousand pleasant sentiments for me——

At the moment when he stepped out the door the little girl was lying in wait for him and whispered in his ear:

"We count on you for Victory!"

On leaving the German general's headquarters, his eyes were bandaged and he and his bugler were led back into our lines.

Having reached his post, he made out a complete report of what had taken place and forwarded it to me by the usual channels.

Judge my astonishment on reading the pamphlet, I cried:

"They are absolutely crazy, both of them? Ought to be put in a strait jacket."

Then, I thought immediately of the scandal this story would stir up and the consequences which would follow. I was absolutely astounded.

After having reflected for some time, I sent this report to General Sarrail—without comment, naturally, and then I awaited the tempest.

The storm broke!—Sarrail got me on the telephone and called me a lot of pretty names. He was furious, and I swear he had reason——

"Yourprotégéis doing nicely, I compliment you!—--"

"Yes, general, he is completely crazy——"

"You will have that fellow executed immediately——"

"You forget the story of the trousers, general——"

"It was a fine idea of yours to appoint him sub-lieutenant, I compliment you——"

"There is also the story of the trousers, general——"

General Sarrail sent Sub-Lieutenant de Marnac's report to great headquarters. Major Petit and de Marnac were arrested immediately and things were going entirely wrong——

I was able, nevertheless, to save the young fool, by repeating this:

"Yes, but there is the story of the trousers!"

Finally, Petit and de Marnac were given thirty days confinement, and I commenced to breathe.

You believe my story to be ended? Not at all! The most important episode was not long in coming, to my very great confusion.

January 1, 1915, at the break of day and in the same sector that the foregoing events transpired, a German lieutenant advanced toward our lines with a white flag and a bugler.

The officer carried an immense package under his arm, which was wrapped in pasteboard.

They bandaged the eyes of both and led them into our lines.

Conducted to the colonel, the boche lieutenant announced he had a communication to make to me. They reached me on the telephone and I gave the order to send him on.

I waited impatiently for an hour, I swear, and I was far from imagining what was coming——

The young man was brought into my office; he was a large and solid chap, who planted himself in front of me and saluted with respect.

"I listen——"

With a strong Teutonic accent he said to me in French:

"His Imperial Highness, the German Crown Prince, commander of the opposing army, has charged me to bring you this package!—--"

I slowly untied the string that bound the package,in which I found a framed photograph of the German Crown Prince and in the corner he had likewise written in French:

"To my loyal and chivalrous adversary! William, Crown Prince of Germany."

I was absolutely nonplused and I dismissed the boche lieutenant, whom I was on the verge of cursing.

"And the portrait?" I asked General Coutanceau——

"I forwarded it by the usual military channels. General Sarrail did not fail to notice the outcome, but I never knew what became of the picture——"

Turning toward me with his rare smile:

"You will agree that this story is averitableromance!"

RECOMPENSE, BEFORE ORNES.October, 1915.

All night we have worked in No Man's Land.

What a night!

We had to install certain wire entanglements andchevaux de frise[16]in front of our trench of the first line.

Happily the boche mitrailleuse in front of Moulin d'Ornes did not fire; otherwise we would have been riddled!

My men went at it vigorously and all the work had been terminated—I had divided them into several gangs and had recommended the new wire network be placed parallel to the old.

I went over the entire line to survey the work and to observe the patrols who protected the men ahead of the trenches.

One of my gangs just missed causing us a villainous adventure! They stumbled on some wire, which by shell-fire had been thrown out of line, and following it, they had worked directly toward the enemy——

They had placed theirchevaux de friseone after the other and I stopped stupefied on making this discovery. I had for a moment the impression that my men had been picked up by the boches. Fortunately not a shot had been heard and I said to myself it would probably be possible to repair the error committed.

First it was necessary to find mypoilus——

I followed the line ofchevaux de frise, my revolver in hand. Thus I arrived a few yards from the boche wire entanglements. My men were not there and it was likely they had gone taking the material to the village. An hour later I found them and started them again on the work.

All the rest of the night passed without incident——

At daybreak I brought my workers and patrols back to Ornes, all satisfied with the work accomplished. On reaching the cantonment I said to them:

"Mes enfants, you have done well to-night and I am very much pleased with you——"

One of thepoilusI had known for a long time, replied:

"Can I ask you a favor, lieutenant?"

"Certainly."

"Since you are pleased with us, we all would like to have god-mothers!"

"It is understood—you will have them!"

That is how the squad from Ornes got a very serious contingent of god-mothers to the great happiness of mypoilus, who received that winter woolen socks and warm slippers!

FOOTNOTES:[15]Royalist.—Tr.[16]A certain type of wire entanglement.—Tr.

[15]Royalist.—Tr.

[16]A certain type of wire entanglement.—Tr.

This period of the author's life begins during the first days of October, 1915, and ends on the eve of the battle of Verdun, February 20, 1916.

He directed certain works in the different sectors of the Verdun front, at Eparges, at Calonne Trench, in the Hauts-de-Meuse, at Chevaliers Wood, at Ornes, at Forges and Béthincourt, at Corbeaux Wood, etc.

He remained a greater part of the time at Eparges, which was then the bloodiest sector on the front. The episodes in mining warfare left an impression of horror with those who were lucky enough to survive.

Eparges Mill recalls the ruins of some ancient Abbey.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE DAY OF MY ARRIVAL, EPARGES.October7, 1915.

When I come here for the first time I cannot help but feel that I will pass the unhappiest moments of my life——

Upon arriving at Calonne trench and descending toward Mesnil-sur-les-Côtes, I perceive Eparges on the right. With its mine craters, its smoke, this barren hill, tinted red, appears like a kind of Stromboli——

The road all the way to Longeau is simply exquisite. Eparges mill, demolished almost completely, and overgrown with grass already recalls the ruins of some ancient abbey.

I have traversed the length of the sector with a friend—it is very active to-day. The boches, at break of day, exploded four mines simultaneously. A section of the trench is completely demolished and a hundred men have been killed——

We are on the verge of contact with the enemy and it is necessary to crouch over dead bodies and sandbags to observe what is transpiring in front of us——

GUNTHER DUGOUT, THE CORRUGATED IRON, THE RATS,THE MAP, THE LETTERS, EPARGES.November, 1915.

At the beginning our shelter was nothing more or less than a mole hole.

Little by little it is becoming habitable. The walls have been boarded and the ceiling made of corrugated iron.

A long, large, white table, with benches——. How many of us will no longer sit there! Everyone found in this little space is loved like a brother.

On the board wall which separates the room from our sleeping quarters, which is arranged like a sleeping-car, there is a map of Alsace-Lorraine. Gunther, with his big fist, has traced an arrow in ink, which points from Eparges to Strasbourg. He has written:

"The hearts and aspirations of the 14th Company of the 15th Corps point this way!"

At night the rats, with an unseasonable boldness, run up and down between the corrugated iron and the roof. One doesn't know if they're playing or fighting. These gallops on the metal awake us with a start.

A flash from my electric lamp and I discover an immense rat tearing across the room with a telephone message sent to me at the moment I retired.

Ménard and Foulu prepare the evening meal before the arrival of the post-sergeant. The little fireplace at the side blazes cheerfully and fills the dugout with the pleasant odor of burning wood.

Happiness is his who can relax completely after a rough day——

The post-sergeant arrives drenched, his package of letters and newspapers carefully wrapped. He seems ill at ease as if he finds himself in a palace.

"Ménard, give your friend a quart ofpinard."

The paquet of letters for Captain Gunther is always very large. Many of them commence like this:

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having given us details of the death of our boy. We are proud of him."

Then there are others cheerful enough, others very sad.

I found a short while ago some of the last wild flowers, while returning from the front line. I have slipped them into my letters that are about to go. Oh! you who will receive these flowers will never know what one can suffer here!

THE FILTH, EPARGES.November, 1915.

Deep in Eparges mud, sixty yards from the enemy——

"Look here, my friend, you know very well it is forbidden to wrap the legs in sandbags——"

"General, it's for the filth——"

"These sandbags cost the Government more than tensousa piece——"

"General, it's for the filth——"

"It is not permitted to waste material destined for the trenches."

"General, it's for the filth——"

"For what?"

"The filth."

"The filth?"

"Ah! general, it is all that you see here: the mud, the dirt, the bugs, with trampled boxes ofsingeand sardines under foot. This damned soil, which—which smells bad—general, all this is filth!"[17]

THE RETURN OF ST. ANDRÉ, EPARGES.November, 1915.

"Good morning, St. André—that you? Come in,mon petit, I'm glad to see you again."

"Yes, captain, here I am."

It is at Eparges, during the month of November, 1915. We are in Captain Gunther's dugout, who commands the 14th Company, 15th Corps of Engineers.

The weather is horrible. Outside the rain falls incessantly. The mud, the mud, the rotten, cursed mud is everywhere.

Captain Gunther, who commands the 14th Company, 15th Corps of Engineers.

Our shelter is damp. Water filters through the board walls and falls in large drops. A dim candle light. The sector is very quiet.

St. André stands in the threshold. He is covered with mud from head to foot. What a trip it is to get here! His stalwart face is dripping with rain; this brave young lad of nineteen radiates health and good nature.

"Did you spend a nice vacation?"

"Not very good, captain."

"Not very good? Where did you go?"

"To Rennes."

"Did they not welcome you as they should?"

"No, captain, they treated me like a slacker. They said, 'What! not wounded or killed—you're not a realpoilu!'"

"But,mon petit, you should have said you came from Eparges, the wickedest sector along the front."

"No chance to talk with those people. Our conversation ended in blows."

"At least, you have done your bit for France by giving her 'little St. André's,'poilusand sturdy like yourself?"

"Yes, captain, I'm not married—but I've got two sons."

"You are not married? You are going to marry her right away, my boy. You could easily have an accident here, and you would not embarrass your little friend——"

"That's true, captain——"

"I am going to give you two days' vacation so youcan marry her, but I will have to get the certificate from the mayor."

"Captain—I want to tell you—I would rather marry by proxy."

"By proxy! That's a strange idea—and why?"

"Because then it would only be good for the duration of the war."

THE PASSWORD, DIEUE-SUR-MEUSE.November, 1915.

It is night—I return in a covered automobile with Colonel d'Auriac. At the road which crosses that to St. Mihiel, a sentinel waves his lantern—the machine stops.

"The password?"

"Marne!"

"That's not it!"

"What! That's not it? Call the head of the post," said the colonel nervously.

In a few moments that seemed long enough to us, thepoilubrought the head of the post, who dragged his feet as if half asleep.

"The password?"

"Marne!"

"Pass!"

"Wait! How is this, sergeant, when I give the word to the sentry, he does not let me pass through; on the other hand when I give it to you, you permit me to continue?"

"Well, you see, colonel, neither the sentry or myself know the password!"

AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF AUSTERLITZ, EPARGES.December1, 1915.

It is the eve of Austerlitz. To-night and to-morrow we are going to celebrate the memory of our forefathers, the Emperor's Old Guard, who will shake in their graves with joy.

It is snowing. The night is bright with moon. Rifle shots resound loudly in the darkness. From time to time, are exchanged by one and then the other, rounds of machine-gun fire at fleeing shadows during the slow descent of star-shell.

I arrive from Verdun and my automobile is filled with everything I could hastily collect in the stores. We have a basket of oysters, fine white bread and fresh butter——

The florist in Verdun, a big fellow, always restless and uneasy, who will foretell the worst misfortunes until the end of his life, has given me an armful of roses and mimosas, that will look pretty there.

There will be cigars for our friends and for ourpoilus, and champagne, naturally——

We have been arranging for this little fête for a long time; there will be quite a lot of us: thirteen or fourteen infantrymen, sappers, artillerists, all old habitués of the sector.

We are taking with us all those who have been sentback for rest. When we pass Mont-sur-les-Côtes, the sentinel stops and becomes pensive at seeing seven or eight officers piled together in the little machine. It is terribly crowded. What loud bursts of laughter! How wonderful life is among young men of the same age who have made the supreme sacrifice of their existence and know the least of that fugitive joy that falls to a soldier's lot.

Each one brings something to the dinner, some havepâté de foie gras, otherspetits pois, and pastry.

How late it was when our automobile brought us a half-mile from the first line—this is what caused a reprimand from the "general staff" some days later!

The boches are very quiet: not a rifle shot, not a cannon shot. The St. Remy searchlight which generally plays on the Eparges road is out to-night.

We have climbed Eparges hill—we pass through the ruins of the village and they are silhouetted like Christmas eve decorations. The enemy is very near to us and it is drôle to think we have scaled the height to pass an evening, a real live pleasure party.

When we arrive finally at Captain Gunther's dugout, there are cries of joy—. All his staff assist us with the numerous packages. The brave Ménard, with his commanding presence, his flowing mustache and kindly eyes, spares no pains to see that we are settled.

Our dugout has become quite comfortable since the installation of electric lights. Everything is perfect; there is not a hitch.

It is so crowded, elbow to elbow, that we throw off our tunics.

What a dinner! The oysters and champagne are the best. Oyster forks in this region made us all think—Ménard had a Prince Albert coat on over his uniform. Where did he get it? Mystery!

There is singing, laughing. They become grave when speaking of the comrades who are no more——

From time to time the ruffled form of one of ourpoiluspasses out the door. They know we have not forgotten them. They carry a bottle, a pâté, or a box of cigars—and so the fête extends even to the advanced posts of the first line.

From the listening post to-morrow they will throw oyster shells at German heads. What faces they will make. Surely they will place them in their geological museum at Berlin.

The flowers on the table, a fantasy of color, cause some to weep with emotion. We have the most profound respect for them: "How come you here in the center of death and destruction—you come to us from the warm, beautiful countryside——"

I glance at my friends, Berthet, Blanc, Grabinski, the brave Grab, Flament, the doctor, and the staunch face of my captain——

We speak of the great Emperor and compare our army with his—How proud he would be of ourpoilus! What would he have done if he had had airplanes?

The time for champagne has come; Gunther drinks to all: the infantry, artillery, engineers, and the absent comrades. His voice trembles with emotion—"High Hearts! The road will be yet long. France has her eyes on us! Our lives belong to her. We will be happyto give them. If we are killed our children will be proud of us!"

In my turn, I speak to them of the Eparges—At this anniversary I feel the blood of my ancestors tingling in my veins, because I am a great grandson of a veteran of the First Empire.

I drink to Eparges, for each one of its letters is the beginning of a word representing the military virtues we must practice here:

Encouragement.Perseverance.Ardor.Resolution.Greatness.Energy.Sublimity.

Champagne and liquor have their effect—now the music commences!

First the "Marseillaise" rings out. Could the boches have heard us from the bottom of their pits they would realize we were all ready to conquer or to die.

Then each one sings his littlechanson—these pretty French songs full of verve and spirit. How odd it is to hear sung "The Marriage of Mademoiselle Fallières," here in this dugout, mute witness to so much drama——

The hour to separate has come. Each must take up his duties, save those who return to the rear.

It is midnight—and it is clear and calm.

I leave with Captain Gunther to go into the first line. It is well that ourpoilussee that we are at their side—are they not our brothers? We wish as well to know what the boches are doing!

We enter a mine gallery where the work goes on actively. Our sappers are digging fast for the enemy is working feverishly also. It is he who explodes it first—as usual!

"They are ahead of us—they're digging their hole," said one of Grenet's men.

He spoke with calm and indifference.

On the menaced part of the front the number of men has been lessened, save only in the little posts, where they wait events stoically.

Coming outside, apoilu, with an undefinable accent, says:

"Then they're going to spring it to-night?"

"Who told you that story?"

"Well, there's no need in hiding it—I'm not blind and I know what it means to go back there—On a night like this it wouldn't bother me a bit to be shot like an arrow up to the stars!"

Our rounds are finished. We can go back to our dugout and profit by the hours of quiet to get much needed rest.

In going into Sap 13 again, I look up at the heavens. My brain is so tired that I seem to see a cortège of soldiers. Are they the Old Guard and ourpoilus, our bravepoilus? Yes, decidedly, the Old Guard is feasting up there, the Old Guard of Austerlitz——

The earth, in this clear and luminous night, appears in bold relief and one sees between the torn tree trunks, arms reaching out of the ground, arms lifted to the German heaven, and our own dead fallen on this cursed soil of the Eparges—they seem to contemplate the great fête up there——

It is the morrow.

What horrible weather! It is raining in torrents. Everything is soaked. Again we shall have to flounder about in mud up to the middle.

However, it is impossible to complain of your fix when you have flowers in your dugout!

During the morning a heavy detonation shakes the entire hill. It is these German pigs, decidedly, who have exploded the first one. They choose their time well.

Everyone dashes down to lend a hand to our comrades who are on duty. We shall have to reëstablish the trench and evacuate the wounded.

If you attempt to go fast you get nowhere. The mud glues itself to your feet. The ground smells bad.

But it was not serious, only a warning, and soon I am back in the dugout, dripping from the neck down. It is the time to write.

I am alone with Cadet Flament, who, stripped of his tunic and wearing his blue jersey, has rather the air of a collegian. He is, however, a brave young fellow, our little Flament——

"Say, Flament, you had better write a letter home.It is three weeks now since you have given them any news."

"You're right, lieutenant."

And little Flament began at once to write a long letter to his mother. She must be proud of her son. He is the only child. She lives at Château-Thierry. But what uneasiness, knowing he is at Eparges——

After having written the first letter, Flament writes the second. This one also is to a woman! The smile on his lips when he writes leads me to believe that this young rascal has a little friend or a fiancée——

I am certain of it when I see him place in a little box an aluminum ring which he has made himself, and some flowers from the Eparges, mingled with those we had at our banquet last night——

"Lieutenant, when you go down to-night, it will be very kind of you, if you will take these letters and this little package——"

"Gladly,mon petit," and I placed in my pocket, the letter for his mother, the one for the "other," and the little box destined for her also.

Flament begins to put on his shoes which he has vainly tried to dry out—. It will be necessary to keep them in the stove for three days to obtain this result.

Without question he has written to the woman he loves—he grumbles at the weather, the rain, at the cursed mud, at the boches——

Ah! what wouldn't he give to pay those boches back for having began this holocaust——

Suddenly an explosion, more violent than the one before, shook us in our chairs.

It is they this time who have sprung the mine. There will be many casualties!

We jumped up and left the dugout.

It was raining; but at the same moment the cannonade raged. French and German shells tore through the air with frightful screams, an acrid smoke hung between Montgirmont and Eparges, machine-guns kicked up a deafening tumult—you damned coffee-mills—va!

Flament preceded me—he walked with his head high. How good-looking he is with his Tam O'Shanter cocked over one ear in the midst of bursting projectiles, face to the enemy——

A 77 hits him squarely, carrying away his thigh and half of his face——

My sergeant and two of his sappers collect the pieces. They carry this poor corpse, still heaving and stained with mud, into our little wooden chapel a few steps away——

An hour later, the flurry being over, I go again to see him with LeBlond. I have taken the flowers of the night before and placed them respectfully on his breast——

Poor young chap! He is unrecognizable. Can this be the happy little fellow of the night before?

On leaving the chapel, I notice that LeBlond is terribly affected and I say nothing to him. We arriveat the dugout where our brave captain, covered with mud, sobs like a child for his lost friend——

Taking LeBlond by the arm, I say:

"Mon vieux, you are down-hearted—go with me along the whole first line—we have our dead to avenge! we must not weep for them——"

During the night LeBlond and I return to Verdun. Before retiring I reach in my pockets to empty them. Two letters and a little box rest in my fingers. I think a long time of these souvenirs of death——

After hesitating some moments, I say to my friend:

"Decidedly, I will send them to-morrow. These poor people will not learn too soon the unhappiness they bring!"

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