"Is there a bed for him?" asks the latter.
"Yes."
"Well, let him have it at once, and don't let him be moved. If no complications show themselves to-morrow, he will be on his feet in three days."
They hoist me into the loft. "The Spy" has left, and so I take possession of the folding-bed. Verrier, who has come running up, tucks me in.A corporal, who knows all about drugs, briskly rubs turpentine into my skin.
"Anything fresh here?" I ask.
"I should think so. Two days after you left a new detachment was sent out, including 'the Spy,' Raoul, and Lefranc."
Lefranc was first violin at the Colonne concerts. He would sometimes come up into our loft and play Ravel and Stravinski for us. Down below in the stable slept a couple of muleteers. They shouted out—
"Haven't you nearly finished up in the loft? How do you expect us to sleep with all this squeaking overhead?"
Thereupon Lefranc played a slow drawling valse, and the muleteers calmed down.
Reymond continues—
"Roberty comes here every day now. It will soon be our turn to leave. Within a week Humes will probably see no more of us."
"Do you belong to Class 4?"
"Yes."
"Then I must make haste to get well, in which case I may accompany you."
CHAPTER III
AT THE DEPOT
Saturday, 29th August.
I am now able to rise, and, with the aid of a stick, go to all four musters of the company. I recognize the heaps of dung, the geese, ducks and cows, and the snivelling little children. My comrades in the section regard me as "the one who has seen fire."
Sunday, 30th August.
We are assured this morning that the Germans are in Amiens.
Monday, 31st August.
I go to Langres to restore my outfit, for I have nothing left. All I had so carefully prepared or bought in Paris the few days preceding my departure—foot-gear, linen, repairing materials, field-dressing, tobacco, chocolate, toilet bag and writing-paper—utterly disappeared in the Vosges on the 25th.
I take a real bath in a real bathroom, and the sensation is glorious. Former baths I hadalways taken in mechanical fashion, without thinking, but now I savour and relish the joy and delight of it.
The most contradictory rumours are abroad; some proclaim great victories, others a rapid advance of the Germans by the north. There is entire confidence, however.
Tuesday, 1st September.
Réveillé at three o'clock. The men who are well trained and ready to leave, and those who are weakly and more or less raw, are divided out into separate companies.
The lieutenant delivers an energetic little discourse on the subject of discipline; the new-comers, unaccustomed to being harangued by their commanders, regard him as some bloodthirsty tiger.
They murmur sadly to one another—
"What beastly luck to fall in with such a tartar!"
Useless to explain that the lieutenant is a charming fellow, and that this is only his way, the new-comers sorrowfully shake their heads.
Five hundred men are to leave to-day. Verrier is one of the number, so we make due preparations for his departure.
At seven in the evening the detachment leaves Humes. Shall we ever see Verrier again? Where is he going, and what is taking place? Reymond and I return to the hotel with downcast mien. Just one drink before climbing the ladder upinto the loft. Assuredly it is sadder to stay behind than to depart.
Wednesday, 2nd September.
Whenever we are free we have interesting conversations under the apple-tree with Lieutenant Roberty. The month of September will decide the war. On the 1st of November we shall all be back home.
In the Paris journals of the 29th August we read of "the situation of our front from the Somme to the Vosges...."
The Somme! We thought this phrase was simply a localcanard, that by a typographical error the wordSommehad replaced the wordSambre. We imagined that fighting was still going on in Belgium. And the communiqué of the 30th states that the Imperial Guard received a check at Guise....
We read, without any great interest, details upon the constitution of the new ministry. No doubt the situation is serious. There is no infatuation here. We are still in quarters, with just the ordinary drill.
Thursday, 3rd September.
We muster. The 27th is drawn up for marching, so we shall not be here long.
Three from the 28th pass into our squadron: Varlet, an electrician, a short, dark fellow with a large, pointed nose and faithful, intelligent eyes; Jacquard, a little man who vainly tries to shoutas loudly as Varlet, whose voice is that of a mob orator; lastly, Charensac, who comes from Auvergne, and resembles Sancho Panza in being as broad as he is tall. The latter man has a roguish little dark moustache, and a beard that covers his neck. He wears hisképion the back of his head, over his neck. His paunch protrudes in the same extravagant fashion. The fellow seems determined to treat the war as a huge joke. These three march in the second rank; Reymond and I in the first, along with Corporal Bernier and a Doctor of Law named Maxence.
The latter four have rather long legs, whereas Varlet, Jacquard, and Charensac have short ones.
The result is that we hear them grumbling as they march—
"Not so fast; we cannot follow you. One would think you had been feeding on gazelle's flesh!"
The tall ones take longer strides than ever. When we halt for a moment words are bandied about, and a quarrel seems imminent.
Friday, 4th September.
This morning I was able to march twenty kilometres. I have regained my old form.
Out in the streets there is talk of a possible departure for Paris. The depot may be transferred to some town in the centre of France.
We learn that the Government has left Paris for Bordeaux.... This is rather astonishing news.
When will this life in depots and barracks come to an end? When others are fighting and being killed, to mount guard by the watering-trough for the purpose of preventing soldiers from washing their socks is intolerable.
Saturday, 5th September.
No marching or drill to-day, since the order to leave may arrive any moment.
The English, says the communiqué, have taken ten cannon in the forest of Compiègne....
The Germans at Compiègne?... The train from Paris did not arrive this morning. It is becoming quite stifling here.
What is worse than the official dispatches is the multiplication of fantastic news. A famous airman has been shot as a spy; a mined forest in the neighbourhood of Lunéville has been fired, destroying three German army corps....
From Brittany a telegram reaches me dated 31st August. It has been only five days on the road!
Just now there returned to the depot with a bullet in his arm a man who left on the 23rd August, like myself. He has been a sergeant-major, belonging to Class 1886, who gave up his stripes and joined again. As I had seen him fall, I imagined he was dead. Like a couple of old soldiers, we recall the plain strewn with projectiles and all the incidents of that day on the battlefield. On the evening of the 25th he counted seventeen villages in flames.
Whilst boasting of our campaigns, Reymond, who is just behind us, recites—
Dost remember, Viscount, that half-lune we captured from the enemy at the siege of Arras?What's that thou say'st? A half-lune indeed! It was a full lune, I tell thee....
Dost remember, Viscount, that half-lune we captured from the enemy at the siege of Arras?
What's that thou say'st? A half-lune indeed! It was a full lune, I tell thee....
Sunday, 6th September.
At the seven o'clock muster the quartermaster reads out the orders for the day—
"Sunday, rest and labour [travaux] incidental to the cleanliness of the body."
The wordtravauxwill give some faint indication of the trouble needed to get the dirt out of one's skin.
Washing of clothes and a bathe in the Mouche. Eager perusal, beneath the apple-tree, of letters and journals three days old.
Endless discussion and jokes on the "considerable factor" of which Lord Kitchener can say nothing more than that it will come to the help of the Allies. At Humes the watchword is "Cherchez le facteur!" ("Find the postman!")
No defeat has been announced, and yet the Germans are at Senlis! No use trying to understand, as we used to say in barracks. Fighting and killing is going on whilst we are doing nothing but chatter beneath the apple-tree.
Monday, 7th September.
A comrade receives a letter from his mother telling him of the possible entry of the Germansinto Paris. Most improbable; how are we to believe such a thing? And yet the terms of the letter are most distinct and detailed. By common consent we leave this subject of conversation and begin to speak of the Russian victories.
Tuesday, 8th September.
We now form part of a detachment of five hundred men with our friend Roberty in command. We shall proceed to the front either this evening or to-morrow.
This morning an engine-driver told us at the station that in the neighbourhood of Reims the French have made great hecatombs of Germans. He saw the corpses heaped up in piles. One piece of good news at all events.
I take my leave of the Girardot family; we shake hands and drink healths. Then I fondle and caress the huge dog, thechien à sonnettes, whose bell gives forth a more melancholy tinkle than ever.
The campaign at Humes is ended.
CHAPTER IV
EN ROUTE
Wednesday, 9th September.
The order to leave came this evening. Our detachment is to join up with the 352nd.
Final preparations: all the tins of preserves we had piled up in Girardot's loft are divided out amongst the men of the squadron; these tins—foies gras, tongue, knuckle of ham, corned beef—are calledRimailhos, because of their calibre.
At seven in the morning we leave Humes. The entire depot is present, and the people of the district bring us flowers with which we adorn our rifles. Roll-call. A short address by the commander of the depot. Shouts of "Vive la France!"En routeas we thunder forth theMarseillaise.
At Langres station we pile up our rifles. A few innocent fellows scribble postcards, whilst we poke fun at them.
"Do you mean to say you're writing? You know it will never reach its destination!"
There is a sense of satisfaction, however, in sending a thought to those at home.
The train is ready. Our haversacks are strappedon and we line up on the platform. The regulations order silence, but each man is shouting with all his might. When the train begins to move, there are ten heads and shoulders pressing out at the windows. We again shriek out theMarseillaise. In point of fact, where are we going? Where is the 352nd? No one knows, not even Roberty.
He has chosen our squadron to supply a police guard for the train. This is a sign of favouritism: the police guard fills three first-class compartments, whilst the other poor fellows are piled in tens in third-class carriages, or even in vans. At each station the guard jump down on to the platform, bayonet fixed, and helmet strapped round the chin. Theoretically they must see to it that no one leaves the station. In reality they say to their comrades, who disperse in every direction—
"Fetch me a quart, old man! See, here's my can! You understand I cannot go myself as it is my business to prevent any one leaving."
Belin, our corporal, has served nine years in the Foreign Legion, and so he knows the ropes. The gentlest and pleasantest of companions. In the two first-class carriages, besides Roberty, are Reymond and myself, Maxence, whom I have already mentioned, a handsome fellow from the Franche-Comté, head taller than the rest of us, a lawyer and big landed proprietor, who knows Verlaine by heart, and lastly, Jacquard, Varlet and Charensac.
The day is spent in eating preserved food,smoking pipes, playing cards, and roaring out songs and jokes.
Sometimes the train stops for a couple of hours in the open country. Men go off into the fields for the sheer pleasure of disobeying orders and stretching their limbs; when they see the train once again on the move they come running up like madmen and soon overtake it, for the driver carries us along at a jog-trot pace.
A comic alarm during the night: sudden firing in the neighbourhood of Troyes. Is the train being attacked, in the way we read about in a schoolboy's romance? Our valiant men, leaping up from sleep, immediately cram cartridges in their rifles and jump out on to the track. Simply a few petards exploded on the rails. Now we can sleep.
Thursday, 10th September.
Corbeil. Six hours' forced inactivity! We make some coffee along the track. A train full of wounded enters the station. We hurry to the doors of the vans and find that they are packed with soldiers of all sorts, lyingpêle-mêleon the floor, arms, legs and heads intertwined. The uniforms are unrecognizable and in rags, covered with dust and blood.
And we, who are proceeding to the firing line, gaze open-mouthed on those who have just come back from it. Evidently there is terrible fighting going on, but the wounded have little to say. With a shake of the head they remark—
"Yes, yes, things are progressing ... but it's a tough business!"
"We are winning, are we not?"
"Yes, but it takes time!"
Bayonet charges, frightful whirling gusts of shot and shell, fields and woods strewn with dead, the moaning of the wounded; such is a summary of what each man has witnessed, just a tiny corner of the battle. No clear general impression. Unshaken confidence in the final result, along with a consciousness of the difficulty of the task.
A carriage filled with German prisoners. We elbow one another to catch a glimpse of them. One of them, his shoulder and arm all twisted up, asks—
"Are you reservists?"
Some one nods assent.
Thereupon he says—
"I, too, am a reservist like you."
Anxious to create a feeling of sympathy, he exhibits his wound.
I say to him—
"Mon garçon, you shouldn't have gone to war."
No sooner has one train left the station than another steams up; for several hours the wounded file past without a break.
At five in the evening the lieutenant, after a long conversation with the station-master, announces that the detachment is to cross Paris. Delirious joy.
We reach the Gare de Lyons and, shouldering arms, proceed in columns of fours to the Gare Saint-Lazare.
Our men hail every taxi-cab driver they see.
"I say, old man, just go and tell my wife ... or my mother ... or my sister, will you? She lives in such a street, such a number. Hurry up and bring her along."
"All right!"
Off goes the chauffeur. Half an hour after he is back with the whole family, and, amid the emotion and excitement of so unexpected a reunion, slips away without a thought of payment.
Halt in front of the Cirque d'Hiver. We pile our rifles and take off our haversacks. The crowd collects around and proves very emotional. Useless to say to one's friends or relatives—
"Don't carry things too far, we are not coming back, we are only going!"
The good-natured public will listen to nothing; they give us credit and treat us as heroes just the same.
A second halt at Rue Auber. The crowd around grows larger and larger. It appears that Paris has been really threatened. This morning's communiqué, however, states that the enemy has retired a distance of forty kilometres.
At the Gare Saint-Lazare more than two hundred out of the five hundred men belonging to the detachment have their family around them.
At nine the train is waiting and we have to leave. We embrace and shout, laugh and cry, promise to return soon and to write.
Roberty, Reymond and I have made up our mind to travel first-class. In one of the compartments a very stylish, gentlemanly-looking individual has installed himself. Strapping my helmet under my chin, I assume a tone of voice at once firm and courteous, and say—
"I beg pardon, monsieur, but you are occupying a seat reserved for the chief."
The gentleman, abashed, vaguely stammers some excuse or other, hurriedly snatches up his valise and travelling rug and looks for another seat.
When he has gone, I remark—
"What a bouncer!"
The three of us sprawl at our ease over the six seats, posing as well-to-do persons off on a holiday.
We walk along the passage. A wounded corporal, belonging to Class 12, promises us victory, and is intoxicated at the prospect.
In reply to our questions, he says—
"You ask if we have got them? We're simply sweeping the ground with them! I killed one this afternoon, a sergeant. Here's his shoulder tab and his belt clasp. Read the words on it:Gott mit uns. What brazen effrontery!
"Just think, he was running away. I caught him up and gave him a dig with my bayonet between the shoulders. Then, do you know what the cur did? He actually turned round and wounded me. I gave him another thrust and finished him off.
"I could never have thought it would give one so jolly a feeling to kill a man."
After a moment's reflection—
"After all, this is an ugly cut in the thigh. He might have maimed me for life."
"That's perhaps what he wanted to do."
The wounded man sinks into a meditative mood. All through the night we roll along until we reach our station, when we descend and march away for the front.
Friday, 11th September.
About noon we enter the devastated zone at Dammartin: the telegraph lines have been torn down. Right and left of the road trees lie stretched on the ground; heaps of ashes are all that remains of the hayricks. In a ditch lies a corpse in red trousers and blue coat. Most of the men of the detachment have not yet been in the fighting line, and this is the first dead man, left lying on the ground, that they have seen. They are considerably moved, and even surprised.
We reach Nanteuil-le-Haudouin. The station has been destroyed. A convoy of provisions and supplies passes, escorted by cuirassiers. A glorious sunset.
A prolonged halt in front of themairie. The place is full of troops and the mayor is at loss where to put us up.
"Go to Wattebled's farm," he says to the lieutenant.
This is a fine farm, though situated at the farther end of the town. The farmer is serving. Officers of the enemy have lodged in the building and have left the place in a dreadful condition.All the cupboards and wardrobes have been ransacked, and the contents flung about the rooms. The cellar is empty; broken bottles lie in every corner.
The beds, however, have been left intact. We quickly stretch ourselves at full length, delighted to rest after travelling for two nights and three days. The dinner has been nothing to boast of—neither bread nor wine, and scarcely any light.
Saturday, 12th September.
Whilst awaiting fresh supplies, which postpone our departure several hours, we explore the district. Those stores whose proprietors were absent have been methodically pillaged; whatever could not be carried away has been broken to pieces. In the wine and tobacco shops nothing but the walls are left standing.
On the doors, chalk inscriptions indicate which German troops were quartered there. The inhabitants are still somewhat scared; they can hardly believe in their good fortune at finding themselves safe.
We obtain as much rum and wine as we want from a wholesale wine dealer! The Germans had had time neither to remove nor to destroy his barrels and hogsheads. The news spreads like wildfire through the quarters.
Each squadron delegates a man laden with cans slung over his shoulder. They press around the barrels in an endless file. An artillery officer wishes to prevent the infantry from approachingthe wine store, especially his own men. Howls and protests. Lieutenant Roberty has to intervene before we can enter the place.
Meanwhile, the stores have arrived. Whilst the pots are boiling we improvise a lunch for twenty-five in the large dining-room. The manager lends us napkins and a tablecloth, plates and glasses, and even ajardinièrefor putting flowers on the table. Our ordinary fare includes a fillet of beef and we have bought three fowls. Each man brings his own wine and bread.
This sybaritic life, however, cannot last indefinitely. At two o'clock we make our way through a district which has witnessed terrible battles. Arms and equipments,képisand helmets and cloaks strew the ground. The smell of decomposing bodies passes in whiffs; it proceeds mainly from dead horses, still unburied, rotting away, their bodies all swollen and their legs rigid. By the side of a stack of hay three German corpses await the services of a grave-digger. Their greyish-green uniform seems to harmonize with the colour of the hay.
At the halt, in a carriage left behind by the enemy, we find Berlin journals telling of victories in Belgium, along with a confused mass of note-books, night-lights—very convenient articles, these,—a broken phonograph, and German postcards all containing wishes that the recipients may have a good time in Paris, etc.
Peasants come along with tales that uhlans are lurking in the neighbourhood. We waste acouple of hours in sending patrols to scour the woods. Not a single uhlan to be seen. We are caught in a shower of rain and reach Lévignen at nightfall, wet through. The silence and solitude are intense. Enormous gaps in the houses have been made by shells. The gamekeeper—perhaps the only inhabitant—proposes to the lieutenant that the detachment be lodged in the church. By the light of candles which are speedily lit, the men make the best of the situation, only too pleased to be out of the rain. The church, however, is too small. Half the detachment wanders about the abandoned village as the downpour continues.
At all hazards we enter a house. No one is there, but we find beds, a stove and wood. There is no water, however, for making coffee, so I fill a large bowl with the rain streaming from a spout. A few tins of preserved meat and some wine have been left behind, so the lieutenant, Belin, Reymond, Maxence and myself easily manage to make a good meal and to sleep under a sheltering roof.
Sunday, 13th September.
It appears that there is a dead German at themairie. We go to look at him. There the fellow lies, stretched on the floor. His head is concealed beneath his arms; his sides, back and legs have been stripped bare by a shell explosion and he has evidently dragged himself here to die. A smell of decomposing flesh puts us to flight.
The detachment again starts off early across a devastated land. We are gaily received by the inhabitants of Villers-Cotterets, who, delivered from the enemy a couple of nights previously, fête the French troops incessantly marching into the town.
We quarter ourselves in the goods station, already partly occupied by wounded soldiers awaiting evacuation. Two Red Cross ladies, who had remained during the occupation, are kept busily employed. One of them appears behind a huge pot filled with coffee, from which the wounded help themselves. A German, his field-grey uniform in tatters, his jaws contracted and arms and legs all twisted up, is dying in a corner between two men attendants who do their best to relieve his agony. Other Germans, more or less wounded, liepêle-mêleon the straw near our own men. No disputes or quarrels, victors and vanquished are alike exhausted.
The town gives more than ever the impression of a grand review. This is the headquarters of the Sixth Army; motor-cars rush up and down; in the streets are soldiers of every description, staff officers, generals. A 40-h.p. motor-car, flying the Stars and Stripes, stops in front of themairie: immediately we imagine that the United States ambassador has come to offer peace on behalf of Germany, and we discuss the terms and conditions we must lay down.
Flanked by gendarmes, a knot of prisoners files past. They are in rags, covered with dust, andappear worn out. Soldiers and civilians line the road and watch them intently; not an exclamation is uttered; on every face is a look of radiant gaiety, forming a striking contrast with the surly expressions of the beaten Germans. Some of the latter have humble-looking, sensitive, fresh-complexioned countenances; these are the ones who must have committed the worst atrocities of all.
We profit by the general confusion and good humour to slip into a hotel reserved for officers and indulge in a luxurious repast.
It is also by dint of cunning and astuteness that Reymond, Maxence and myself manage to find lodging with some honest people who place at our disposal two bedrooms and a dressing-room. Only the previous week they had boarded a Prussian colonel who daily explained the mathematical reasons which would ensure the triumph of Germany. And then, only two days ago, he galloped off without finishing his demonstration. He was so hurried that he kicked down his bedroom door. He was daily in the habit of locking it himself, but in his excitement he had forgotten where he had put the key ... perhaps even where the lock was! My host points to the broken panels, quite pleased to have such a proof of German disorder and confusion.
Monday, 14th September.
When shall we see white bed-sheets again? Such luxury has turned our heads, and Villers-Cotterets, intact and full of life, in the midst of a scene of ruin and desolation, seems to us the very capital of the world! The dull growl of the cannon is heard away in the distance.
An abundant supply of fresh meat, preserves and wine.En routefor the headquarters of the Army Corps, where directions will be given us for joining the regiment.
A long march through the forest. More dead horses and that intolerable stench of decomposing flesh which strikes one brutally full in the face like a lash.
The roar of cannon draws nearer. We halt in a field. A detachment of prisoners passes along the road.
Still the wounded come; in groups of twos, threes and fours they make their way, after a summary dressing of their wounds, in the direction of the ambulance, hobbling along, leaning on sticks or on a comrade's shoulder.
They ask—
"Is it far to Villers-Cotterets?"
"Fifteen kilometres."
"Ah! Là là!"
Amongst them are men of the 352nd. Having met at the depot we recognize one another, and ask—
"Are the enemy retreating?"
"No, it seems as though they were determined to halt by the river."
We also learn that shells are beginning to fall a few hundred yards distant.
At the entrance to Ambleny, near the Aisne, a staff captain stops Roberty: it is impossible to cross the bridge in the daytime; the headquarters have been transferred to Vic-sur-Aisne, which place it is too late to reach to-day. We are quartered in an abandoned saw-mill.
Our lastRimailhossupply us with a solid meal. There comes a knock at the door—a lost soldier in search of food and lodging. We invite him in. On seeing our repast, a broad smile illumines his face, and he remarks—
"How lucky I fell in with you!"
As the lieutenant gives him a copious portion and pours out a generous bumper of wine, the man says, his mouth full of food—
"Merci, Monsieur Roberty."
"What! Do you know me?"
"A little. And you also (indicating myself). I am a waiter in Lavenue's restaurant. I served you at lunch the day following the mobilization."
Greatly moved, we grasp his hand effusively, and say—
"Excuse us, old man, we did not recognize you."
He quite understands, whereupon Roberty adds—
"Now just remain seated; I'm going to serve you myself."
Dinner over, we offer him the corner containing the most abundant supply of straw, and fall off to sleep.
Tuesday, 15th September.
A long detour to reach Vic-sur-Aisne. Halt in front of the keep by the castle moat. The lieutenant goes for orders to the staff at headquarters. Whilst awaiting his return we watch German prisoners as they come and go in the enclosure.
A hostile aeroplane is hovering above the town. Received with a brisk fusillade and exploding shrapnel, it disappears. The general in command of the corps passes by on horseback, followed by a numerous staff. Lined up, behind our piles of arms, we salute. A fine subject for an Academy picture.
Roberty returns; the regiment is in the first line, between Fontenoy and Port-Fontenoy.En routeto join it.
We proceed along the Aisne in Indian file over a bombarded road. On our left, behind the hill, fighting is taking place; always the same sound, as of carpets being beaten or planks being nailed down. Here comes a battalion of our regiment; the other is in the trenches. A bivouac is installed on the side of a hillock in a meadow surrounded by trees. Evening descends. We build huts made of trusses of straw, torn from a neighbouring stack. The stack melts away and finally disappears, having been transformed into a little negro village. The fire needed for the cooking of our meal sets up great flares of light, ... too great, in all probability, for a hail of bullets whistles about our ears. Where does it come from? Mystery!
"Put out the fires and lie flat on the ground!" shout the officers.
The bullets continue; some strike the ground with a sharp, cracking sound, others ricochet and glance off!Piou! Piou!
I lie there and wait until this storm of iron, more irritating than dangerous, has passed. The thought enters my mind—
"How bothering! It has even lost the attraction of novelty for me now."
As one who has already seen fire, I feel impelled to address a few words to my neighbours, Maxence and Sergeant Chaboy. Curious to gather their impressions, I crawl up to them and slyly ask—
"Well, raw ones, what do you think of the stew?"
They are both asleep. As I receive nothing but a snore for an answer, I do not insist.
Firing ceases as suddenly as it began. We rise to our feet; one man is wounded and agamelleshot through. That's all.
After fire comes water; an implacable shower beats down upon our poor straw shelters, penetrating right through and laying them flat on the ground. The place must be left.
At the foot of the hill, the village of Port-Fontenoy. Every house is full of troops. Not the tiniest shed or loft is available. And here stands the colonel, buried beneath his hood, his face lit up by the intermittent lights coming from his pipe.
"Those who have just come from the depot," he says, "had better make shift in the yard here."
We make shift.
Reymond and Roberty slip away under a cart; I follow suit. Two others join us. Here, at all events, we are somewhat sheltered from the rain. I feel the ground: it is a bed of dung, and soft to the touch. Somebody's muddy shoe is pressed against my face; my back is being used as a pillow by the lieutenant. Huddling together, we feel the cold less. We have had no dinner, merely somepâté de foie grasspread between biscuits as hard as wood. There is a strange odour about our hands, and the dining-room is anything but comfortable.
Wednesday, 16th September.
The night has been a long one, rain falling all the time. We burst out laughing when we discover how dirty we look.
The order comes to cross the wood and reach the crest of the hill, beyond which something is happening—something serious, to judge by the noise. On the other bank of the Aisne, scarcely a kilometre distant, the small station of Ambleny-Fontenoy is being bombarded. The volleys pass over our heads, making a noise like that of a tram skidding over the rails. A flaky patch of white smoke indicates where the explosion takes place.
We make wagers as to where the next shell will fall.
That one—looking in the air to see the snorting projectile pass—will be for the station.
Pan!The red roof crumbles in. At that moment a train enters the station. The Germans see it; a projectile falls twenty yards in front of the engine; another, ten yards in front; a third, well aimed, but a little short. The engine-driver does not lose his head; he reverses the engine. Four consecutive explosions on the very spot the locomotive has just left.
Applause and shrieks of joy.
Both train and station seem very much like Nuremberg toys. One must reflect if emotion is to be genuine.
The sun's rays speedily dry our coats on our backs. Some of the men sleep, whilst the artillery duel redoubles in intensity.
Varlet has gone into the village to make lunch. He returns, furious, with dishevelled hair and empty hands.
"Well! Where's lunch?"
Varlet vociferates—
"Lunch, indeed,Zut!You'll have to tighten your belts a little more. Amarmitefell right in the middle of it all."
Varlet tells his tale: he heard the whistling sound, and knew that he was in for it. He had just time to plunge head first into a dog's kennel.
"When the thing exploded," explains our cook, "there was only my head inside, the dog prevented me from entering farther."
Good-bye to lunch and the toothsome dishes. Belin is exasperated.
"How will my squadron manage for meals now?" he wonders.
Prowling about, we discover a little grotto, a comfortable shelter in case of bombardment. Meanwhile, each man makes his own conjectures. Shall we attack this evening or to-morrow? Manifestly we have not been brought here to take an afternoon nap in the sun.
Suddenly an order comes that we are to be quartered at Port-Fontenoy. The deuce! This is the point of impact, the magnet that draws all the shells of the district.
A barn full of hay and straw. We fling ourselves on to the ground and sleep comes instantaneously.
About two in the morning Jacquard, whose turn it is to stand sentry before the door, shakes Roberty, who is soundly sleeping.
"Mon lieutenant, shells are falling in the yard, we shall all be blown to pieces if we stay here!"
Roberty, whose capacity for sleep is quite out of the common, turns over on to his side and growls—
"All right! don't disturb me. To-morrow I will look into the matter."
Jacquard, offended, returns to his post.
Thursday, 17th September.
Standing on a slight eminence, we watch the shells, from early dawn, falling on to the station.
In the evening we return to Port-Fontenoy. This time the squadron lodges in a goat-shed. It is very warm and intimate.
Friday, 18th September.
The 6th battalion comes down from the outposts. What a state they are in! They have just spent four days and nights in the first line, in trenches improvised and devoid of shelter. And yetwethought ourselves dirty!
They look haggard and dazed, and are covered with mud from head to foot. We crowd around. Their first words are—
"Have you any tobacco? All ours is finished."
We supply them with tobacco, even with a superior brand of cigarette.
Thereupon interest in life returns, and they consent to talk.
"And what of Verrier? Is he alive?"
"Yes."
"Which company?"
"The 23rd."
Reymond and I run off in the direction indicated.
In front of a grotto some men are lying on the ground.
"Is this the 23rd?"
"It is."
"Is there any one here named Verrier?"
Then Verrier himself, pale, emaciated and in rags, rises from the grotto, like Lazarus from the tomb. A Mephistophelean goat-beard, which he has grown, makes his long face appear longerthan ever. He sees us holding out our hands to him, but he bursts out, without the slightest greeting—
"Tell me, a war like this can't last a fortnight longer, surely, can it?"
This question puts us into a jovial mood.
"The war, old fellow? It will last a couple of years," we assure him.
"Well, then," sighs Verrier, "let me sit down."
We carry him off to Lieutenant Roberty. Then we place him in the sunshine, bring him coffee and tobacco, and lend him a brush. He feels better.
This evening the men of our detachment are distributed out amongst the various companies. The whole of our squadron becomes the first squadron of the 24th. Roberty is in command of the first section. He obtains permission for Verrier to be transferred from the 23rd to the 24th. How fortunate to be shoulder to shoulder again! It is so much easier to fight with one's friends by one's side.
CHAPTER V
A BACKWARD GLANCE—THE BATTLE OF THE MARNE
This evening, in the goat-stable, Verrier shows us his coat, pierced by seven shrapnel holes. Two of the rents are repeated in the seat of his trousers. There is a hole in his pants; the shrapnel discreetly proceeding no farther.
"I've had a rough time of it," affirms Verrier.
"Tell us what you've been doing."
Verrier, however, is no prattler.
"I will read from my note-book," he says; "that will not take so long." And he begins—
"Left Langres September 1st, nine in the evening. After sixteen hours in the train, reached Noisy-le-Sec on the 2nd. The station is filled with wounded from the north. Some moan and lament, others, with half-closed eyes, seem on the point of death. All have enormous dressings, stained with blood. Nurses eagerly attend to their needs.On the platforms,pêle-mêlewith the soldiers, stand groups of families, refugees from Belgium, the Ardennes and the Aisne. Women, seated on enormous bundles, weep all the time, though theykeep an eye on the urchins as the latter play with the soldiers.At Argenteuil-Triage we cross a train of English infantry: open, clean-shaven, boyish faces, laughing heartily. They are in spick and span condition. We shout greetings to one another. In the distance I perceive the Eiffel Tower, which seems to me the finest monument in the world. At Argenteuil, Archères, and all the stations, stand women, children, and old men along the line, cheering us as we pass, and sending kisses after us.On the night of the 3rd we are stillen route. The lines are blocked, causing detours and occasioning delays. At Mantes we learn that the German cavalry have put in an appearance at Compiègne and Senlis. We are informed that the Government is leaving for Bordeaux. We descend at Bourget, and at Chennevières-les-Louvres rejoin the regiment, which has been put to a severe trial at Proyart, in the Somme. It is then sent to the rear and entrusted with the duty of protecting the retreat. I am transferred to the 23rd company.On the 4th we take up our quarters at Moussy, Seine-et-Marne. The army headquarters have been set up here. Not a single inhabitant; shops all closed and houses abandoned. Impossible to procure anything, even by offering gold. On the other hand, there is considerable military animation; troops file past on their way to take up new positions.On the 6th of September we are up at one inthe morning and depart at two. The road is obstructed: an artillery regiment, teams of pontooners, stretcher-bearers, a supply train. The cannon is rumbling in the north. We have the impression of being at drill; the same gaiety andinsouciance. We think of nothing but singing, eating, and drinking.Arrival at Dammartin, where scarcely a hundred out of fifteen hundred inhabitants are left.At noon,en routein the direction of Meaux, across ploughed land. A scorching sun.Only at six in the evening does the regiment form in battle line. The two battalions, under the protection of strong patrols, form a solid front; the companies in sections, four in a line, at a distance of fifty paces. The officers have left their mounts. The advance is very slow; not a word is said. The cannon make a deafening din. Numerous stacks of straw are aflame.Night comes on. The order is given to fling away our cigarettes. Shortly afterwards: Supplies ready! Fix bayonets!On the horizon, light appears all around.The regiment reaches the border of a village which, after a violent fight, has just been retaken from the enemy. Ours the mission to keep it at all costs.Supper at ten. We sleep in the open air.We are up at four in the morning of the 7th of September. The German artillery opens a violent fire on the village, which we cross at a run, bent double, Indian file, keeping close to the walls.Not one of us is wounded. We come down into a ravine, above which hover a couple of Taubes. At no great height they pass to and fro, without appearing to suffer from the violent fusillade directed against them. They are trying to find the very batteries in aid of which my section has been sent out.The shells begin to rain down upon us in uninterrupted streams. We rush into a wood skirting the ravine. We form a carapace. Two hours on the ground, without stirring, crouching up against one another, our haversacks over our heads. Each explosion covers us with dust and hot smoke. Stones, clods of earth, branches of trees fall on our backs and set ourgamellesclanging. The company loses five dead and a score wounded. Corporal Marcelin has his head torn off by my side. During a pause we lunch. At one o'clock the performance recommences. Again a carapace is formed. An artillery officer shouts to us as he passes—'You are in a very dangerous zone.'No doubt of that!This evening we bivouac out in the open.The 8th of September,en routeat four in the morning. We are massed in reserve behind stacks of straw, where we see something of the battle. The Germans appear to have the advantage. Their guns shower upon us huge projectiles which, on bursting, release a heavy black smoke. Violent replies by our 75's. A village to our right is aflame. Gusts of artillery fire on Fosse-Martin andthe farm of Nogeon. Conflagrations are seen on all sides. An ambulance is girdled with flames.General Joffre's order of the day is read aloud by a sergeant: 'Die rather than retreat.' The impression it leaves is profound. The paper passes from hand to hand, each man peruses it in silence. We are given a few explanations on the battle being fought, and the arrival of the 4th Corps is announced. In effect, we soon see a number of regiments advancing.In the afternoon, an endless stream of wounded, coming for the most part from the village which has been burning ever since morning. Fighting is going on from house to house. Some of the men have terrible wounds, still undressed, from which the blood is streaming. A dragoon, who remains on horseback, has his left foot blown away, with the exception of the heel, which still hangs to the leg. An infantryman, his shoulder almost torn from his body, has abandoned his coat and converted his shirt into a sling to support his arm.The village on the right has had to be evacuated by our troops. We must recapture it. The 5th battalion of the regiment is retiring, with standard unfurled, the 18th and 20th companies, in front, forming two successive lines of skirmishers; the 17th and 19th a short distance behind. Anxiously we watch them leave. At six o'clock the battalion returns, having made good the loss. The village has been retaken without a struggle, the Germans, driven back in other quarters, having had to abandon it.We spend the night in a barn at Fosse-Martin. Distribution of provisions and tobacco. We make ourselves some coffee. Close by is an ambulance: broad streams of blood flow from it on to the road. The stretcher-bearers set out with dark lanterns in search of the wounded.One o'clock in the morning, bustle and confusion. A sentry calls out: 'To arms!' Everybody rushes out with fixed bayonets. A false alarm, it was only a fire: a stack of hay aflame about two hundred yards away. The company spends the rest of the night in a neighbouring field of corn, but there is no more sleep for me.On the following day the 23rd is appointed to support the artillery. This time we dig trenches. These we cover over with straw and beetroot leaves; and whenever a hostile aeroplane is signalled we disappear. Everybody laughs and jokes. Games of cards are started down in our holes. We have ravenous appetites.The firing sounds farther away. There is a rumour that the enemy is retiring.We remain where we are until the following afternoon, the 10th September. Everything is perfectly quiet. After a gay lunch we stroll about a little. We notice French aeroplanes returning to headquarters at Brégy.In the evening we are quartered at Bouillancy, abandoned on the 7th by the Germans after a severe struggle: roofs and walls knocked in, windows and blinds broken and torn down. A few houses are still burning, but all the inhabitants have fled. I try to start a conversation with an old fellow and his wife who are obstinately bent on remaining behind and have lived here several days, hiding in their cellar. They are quite stupefied with the recent events, and it is impossible to obtain any information from them.Out in the fields stretcher-bearers are picking up the French and German wounded; in many cases gangrene has set in, as they have been lying there for five days unattended.On the morrow we start again and cross a corner of the battlefield. In the trenches lie piles of German corpses. The French dead—all belonging to the 4th—have their faces covered with a white cloth. Bands of territorials pour petrol over the dead horses and set fire to them; they exhale a pestilential odour.Rain begins to fall and the dust is converted into mud. The regiment reaches Villers-Cotterets by way of the forest. There are manifest proofs that the German retreat has been a very disorderly one. The ground is strewn with rifles and loaders, outfits, yellow haversacks, and broken bicycles.A few of the inhabitants have already returned to the villages. They are beginning to become more reassured, but they are very hungry. The Germans have emptied the cellars and carried off everything eatable.At ten in the evening we reach Villers-Cotterets, which the enemy occupied for eleven days, and from which he fled this very morning at half-past nine. At eleven our light cavalry entered. The damage is insignificant.We leave Villers-Cotterets on the morning of the 12th. At the exit of the town the road is strewn for three or four kilometres with the most diverse objects, mainly broken bottles.We halt at Cœuvres. A convoy of prisoners. They scarcely utter a word, remain aloof, and seem contented with their lot. They are ignorant of the fact that England is at war with Germany.On Sunday, the 13th, we return to the danger zone. On both sides the cannon is thundering away. North and south, east and west, hayricks and farms are aflame. The regiment quarters at Ressons-le-Long.On the 14th, at four in the morning, alarm. We cross the Aisne on a bridge of boats, near Fontenoy. The church steeple threatens ruin if it falls. We climb a steep hill; the ground is strewn with the dead bodies of French and Germans. Last night a terrible hand-to-hand fight with bayonets took place here, and the road is dotted with pools of blood. Many of the bodies have remained in the position in which they received the death-blow: an officer is kneeling on the ground in the attitude of reloading his rifle. His complexion is waxen, his eyes glazed, and his mouth open. Another lies stretched full length across the path, his arms outspread in the form of a cross. We have to stride over the body.On the top of the hill the company deploys along a footpath in skirmish line. We nowdiscover that the enemy is less than four hundred yards distant. A German battery pours in a raking storm of shells. No holes anywhere about, not the slightest hillock behind which to shelter. I am hurled into the air and fall back on the same spot. Wounded men shriek for help or die in agonies of convulsion; others run to the ambulance. The man by my side is shot dead; from his skull flows a stream of blood which gradually covers the whole of his face. I remove his haversack and use it to protect my own head. Then I fall asleep. When I awake I find that I am surrounded with dead bodies. The few survivors lie there absolutely motionless, for no sooner does a head rise than a bullet hisses past and artillery firing recommences. I pretend to be dead.At five in the evening, what remains of the company crawls away in the direction of a little wood, a few hundred yards in the rear. For a whole hour, in the darkness of the night, I hear a wounded man moan piteously: 'Maman! Maman!'During the 15th, 16th, and 17th, we are favoured by the uncertain shelter of the wood. The rain is pouring down in torrents. The cannonade and rifle fire continue without interruption. A few more men are wounded. On the evening of the 17th, the relief is effected to the accompaniment of a hail of bullets."
"Left Langres September 1st, nine in the evening. After sixteen hours in the train, reached Noisy-le-Sec on the 2nd. The station is filled with wounded from the north. Some moan and lament, others, with half-closed eyes, seem on the point of death. All have enormous dressings, stained with blood. Nurses eagerly attend to their needs.
On the platforms,pêle-mêlewith the soldiers, stand groups of families, refugees from Belgium, the Ardennes and the Aisne. Women, seated on enormous bundles, weep all the time, though theykeep an eye on the urchins as the latter play with the soldiers.
At Argenteuil-Triage we cross a train of English infantry: open, clean-shaven, boyish faces, laughing heartily. They are in spick and span condition. We shout greetings to one another. In the distance I perceive the Eiffel Tower, which seems to me the finest monument in the world. At Argenteuil, Archères, and all the stations, stand women, children, and old men along the line, cheering us as we pass, and sending kisses after us.
On the night of the 3rd we are stillen route. The lines are blocked, causing detours and occasioning delays. At Mantes we learn that the German cavalry have put in an appearance at Compiègne and Senlis. We are informed that the Government is leaving for Bordeaux. We descend at Bourget, and at Chennevières-les-Louvres rejoin the regiment, which has been put to a severe trial at Proyart, in the Somme. It is then sent to the rear and entrusted with the duty of protecting the retreat. I am transferred to the 23rd company.
On the 4th we take up our quarters at Moussy, Seine-et-Marne. The army headquarters have been set up here. Not a single inhabitant; shops all closed and houses abandoned. Impossible to procure anything, even by offering gold. On the other hand, there is considerable military animation; troops file past on their way to take up new positions.
On the 6th of September we are up at one inthe morning and depart at two. The road is obstructed: an artillery regiment, teams of pontooners, stretcher-bearers, a supply train. The cannon is rumbling in the north. We have the impression of being at drill; the same gaiety andinsouciance. We think of nothing but singing, eating, and drinking.
Arrival at Dammartin, where scarcely a hundred out of fifteen hundred inhabitants are left.
At noon,en routein the direction of Meaux, across ploughed land. A scorching sun.
Only at six in the evening does the regiment form in battle line. The two battalions, under the protection of strong patrols, form a solid front; the companies in sections, four in a line, at a distance of fifty paces. The officers have left their mounts. The advance is very slow; not a word is said. The cannon make a deafening din. Numerous stacks of straw are aflame.
Night comes on. The order is given to fling away our cigarettes. Shortly afterwards: Supplies ready! Fix bayonets!
On the horizon, light appears all around.
The regiment reaches the border of a village which, after a violent fight, has just been retaken from the enemy. Ours the mission to keep it at all costs.
Supper at ten. We sleep in the open air.
We are up at four in the morning of the 7th of September. The German artillery opens a violent fire on the village, which we cross at a run, bent double, Indian file, keeping close to the walls.Not one of us is wounded. We come down into a ravine, above which hover a couple of Taubes. At no great height they pass to and fro, without appearing to suffer from the violent fusillade directed against them. They are trying to find the very batteries in aid of which my section has been sent out.
The shells begin to rain down upon us in uninterrupted streams. We rush into a wood skirting the ravine. We form a carapace. Two hours on the ground, without stirring, crouching up against one another, our haversacks over our heads. Each explosion covers us with dust and hot smoke. Stones, clods of earth, branches of trees fall on our backs and set ourgamellesclanging. The company loses five dead and a score wounded. Corporal Marcelin has his head torn off by my side. During a pause we lunch. At one o'clock the performance recommences. Again a carapace is formed. An artillery officer shouts to us as he passes—
'You are in a very dangerous zone.'
No doubt of that!
This evening we bivouac out in the open.
The 8th of September,en routeat four in the morning. We are massed in reserve behind stacks of straw, where we see something of the battle. The Germans appear to have the advantage. Their guns shower upon us huge projectiles which, on bursting, release a heavy black smoke. Violent replies by our 75's. A village to our right is aflame. Gusts of artillery fire on Fosse-Martin andthe farm of Nogeon. Conflagrations are seen on all sides. An ambulance is girdled with flames.
General Joffre's order of the day is read aloud by a sergeant: 'Die rather than retreat.' The impression it leaves is profound. The paper passes from hand to hand, each man peruses it in silence. We are given a few explanations on the battle being fought, and the arrival of the 4th Corps is announced. In effect, we soon see a number of regiments advancing.
In the afternoon, an endless stream of wounded, coming for the most part from the village which has been burning ever since morning. Fighting is going on from house to house. Some of the men have terrible wounds, still undressed, from which the blood is streaming. A dragoon, who remains on horseback, has his left foot blown away, with the exception of the heel, which still hangs to the leg. An infantryman, his shoulder almost torn from his body, has abandoned his coat and converted his shirt into a sling to support his arm.
The village on the right has had to be evacuated by our troops. We must recapture it. The 5th battalion of the regiment is retiring, with standard unfurled, the 18th and 20th companies, in front, forming two successive lines of skirmishers; the 17th and 19th a short distance behind. Anxiously we watch them leave. At six o'clock the battalion returns, having made good the loss. The village has been retaken without a struggle, the Germans, driven back in other quarters, having had to abandon it.
We spend the night in a barn at Fosse-Martin. Distribution of provisions and tobacco. We make ourselves some coffee. Close by is an ambulance: broad streams of blood flow from it on to the road. The stretcher-bearers set out with dark lanterns in search of the wounded.
One o'clock in the morning, bustle and confusion. A sentry calls out: 'To arms!' Everybody rushes out with fixed bayonets. A false alarm, it was only a fire: a stack of hay aflame about two hundred yards away. The company spends the rest of the night in a neighbouring field of corn, but there is no more sleep for me.
On the following day the 23rd is appointed to support the artillery. This time we dig trenches. These we cover over with straw and beetroot leaves; and whenever a hostile aeroplane is signalled we disappear. Everybody laughs and jokes. Games of cards are started down in our holes. We have ravenous appetites.
The firing sounds farther away. There is a rumour that the enemy is retiring.
We remain where we are until the following afternoon, the 10th September. Everything is perfectly quiet. After a gay lunch we stroll about a little. We notice French aeroplanes returning to headquarters at Brégy.
In the evening we are quartered at Bouillancy, abandoned on the 7th by the Germans after a severe struggle: roofs and walls knocked in, windows and blinds broken and torn down. A few houses are still burning, but all the inhabitants have fled. I try to start a conversation with an old fellow and his wife who are obstinately bent on remaining behind and have lived here several days, hiding in their cellar. They are quite stupefied with the recent events, and it is impossible to obtain any information from them.
Out in the fields stretcher-bearers are picking up the French and German wounded; in many cases gangrene has set in, as they have been lying there for five days unattended.
On the morrow we start again and cross a corner of the battlefield. In the trenches lie piles of German corpses. The French dead—all belonging to the 4th—have their faces covered with a white cloth. Bands of territorials pour petrol over the dead horses and set fire to them; they exhale a pestilential odour.
Rain begins to fall and the dust is converted into mud. The regiment reaches Villers-Cotterets by way of the forest. There are manifest proofs that the German retreat has been a very disorderly one. The ground is strewn with rifles and loaders, outfits, yellow haversacks, and broken bicycles.
A few of the inhabitants have already returned to the villages. They are beginning to become more reassured, but they are very hungry. The Germans have emptied the cellars and carried off everything eatable.
At ten in the evening we reach Villers-Cotterets, which the enemy occupied for eleven days, and from which he fled this very morning at half-past nine. At eleven our light cavalry entered. The damage is insignificant.
We leave Villers-Cotterets on the morning of the 12th. At the exit of the town the road is strewn for three or four kilometres with the most diverse objects, mainly broken bottles.
We halt at Cœuvres. A convoy of prisoners. They scarcely utter a word, remain aloof, and seem contented with their lot. They are ignorant of the fact that England is at war with Germany.
On Sunday, the 13th, we return to the danger zone. On both sides the cannon is thundering away. North and south, east and west, hayricks and farms are aflame. The regiment quarters at Ressons-le-Long.
On the 14th, at four in the morning, alarm. We cross the Aisne on a bridge of boats, near Fontenoy. The church steeple threatens ruin if it falls. We climb a steep hill; the ground is strewn with the dead bodies of French and Germans. Last night a terrible hand-to-hand fight with bayonets took place here, and the road is dotted with pools of blood. Many of the bodies have remained in the position in which they received the death-blow: an officer is kneeling on the ground in the attitude of reloading his rifle. His complexion is waxen, his eyes glazed, and his mouth open. Another lies stretched full length across the path, his arms outspread in the form of a cross. We have to stride over the body.
On the top of the hill the company deploys along a footpath in skirmish line. We nowdiscover that the enemy is less than four hundred yards distant. A German battery pours in a raking storm of shells. No holes anywhere about, not the slightest hillock behind which to shelter. I am hurled into the air and fall back on the same spot. Wounded men shriek for help or die in agonies of convulsion; others run to the ambulance. The man by my side is shot dead; from his skull flows a stream of blood which gradually covers the whole of his face. I remove his haversack and use it to protect my own head. Then I fall asleep. When I awake I find that I am surrounded with dead bodies. The few survivors lie there absolutely motionless, for no sooner does a head rise than a bullet hisses past and artillery firing recommences. I pretend to be dead.
At five in the evening, what remains of the company crawls away in the direction of a little wood, a few hundred yards in the rear. For a whole hour, in the darkness of the night, I hear a wounded man moan piteously: 'Maman! Maman!'
During the 15th, 16th, and 17th, we are favoured by the uncertain shelter of the wood. The rain is pouring down in torrents. The cannonade and rifle fire continue without interruption. A few more men are wounded. On the evening of the 17th, the relief is effected to the accompaniment of a hail of bullets."
Verrier has finished his reading.
CHAPTER VI
BEFORE FONTENOY
Saturday, 19th September.
The regiment is appointed to be an Army Corps reserve. We cross the Aisne early in the morning and prepare support trenches three kilometres in the rear. This is the first time we play at digging holes in the ground. It appears that the Germans dig them, and that they prove useful. Navvies' picks and shovels are distributed. We work in twos; one digging hard and the other clearing away the earth whilst the first man is resting. By the end of the day the section has dug up a trench deep enough for one to walk in without being seen.
This evening we are quartered at Ressons-le-Long, in an old round tower, of venerable aspect, adjoining a farm.
The regiment has left the east and proceeded northwards, before coming down in the direction of Paris. Then it took part in the battle of the Marne, and finally stopped on the banks of the Aisne. Still no letters!
The battalion claims the services of a postman, a busy, anxious-looking man. From time to time he stops and opens his bags in some quiet corner and blurts out about a hundred names, which he reads from envelopes chosen indiscriminately. A few of the men are there.
Sometimes there is a Dubois who answers: "Present."
The postman looks up sternly.
"Dubois what. What's your other name?"
"Dubois, Charles."
With a scornful shrug of the shoulders—
"The letter I have here is for Dubois, Emile. Why do you make me lose my time?"
The same thing happens with the Duponts, the Durands, and the Martins. The one present never possesses the right Christian name.
The postman throws back the letters into his big bag and continues his round.
"They're always asking for letters," he grumbles, "but when I bring any they never come for them."
"They" frequently have a good reason for not coming, they may well have met their death between two posts.
The postman finds his bags swelling in bulk a little more every day; he becomes more anxious and careworn than ever.
Sinister rumours are spread regarding his intentions.
"He says that if the men are not there when he calls out the names to-morrow, he will burn everything left in the bag."
"The deuce! But did he mention where the distribution was to take place?"
He has done nothing of the kind; the hour and place of distribution are the postman's secret.
Sunday, 20th September.
We are up at three in the morning. The guns begin to boom. Gradually day appears. Returning to our trenches we see flashes leaping from the cannons' mouth along with tiny puffs of smoke.
The view extends over the valley of the Aisne. The Germans are making desperate efforts to cross the river.
From our position in reserve we watch cyclists rushing along the road. The colonel comes and goes, and gives orders, smoking his huge pipe the while. A telephone has been fitted up in a haystack, from which he does not wander far, as the tinkling call is continually being heard. It is raining. We cover our trenches with sheaves of straw gathered from the neighbouring field and await events, crouching deep in our holes.
Roberty keeps us posted in what is taking place. Being a lieutenant, he is privileged to apply for the latest information from the colonel. At two o'clock the enemy takes Fontenoy, and his vanguard has descended right to the bridge of boats. He is stopped short by a company of engineers. The Germans are decimated by a well-directed fire; those who are not killed return in disorder. Our regiment is charged with the task of recapturing Fontenoy.
We fix our haversacks, take in a supply of provisions anden route. The descent into the valley is through a wood. Roberty roguishly declares—
"Boys, our chances of death have gone up ninety per cent."
Halt at a crossing, near the Aisne, as we await the order to attack. We place our haversacks on the ground, rest our rifles against them and sit down. An hour passes. Two batteries of 75's are firing away behind us without a pause. The rain continues.
The lieutenant is summoned to the colonel. He returns with a smile and announces—
"Our chances of death are down; Fontenoy has been recaptured without our help. The artillery have compelled the Germans to evacuate. We shall spend the night at Gorgny."
Monday, 21st; Tuesday, 22nd; and Wednesday, 23rd September.
Three days well occupied. We are quartered in a wretched-looking farm, reeking with manure and filth of every kind.
We rise at a quarter to three. It is quite cold. We hurry to the kitchen, where Varlet and Charensac, the cooks of our section, are preparing coffee and cooking beefsteaks. They have not slept at all; in fact, they only received supplies about ten at night, for revictualment carts can approach the line only in the dark. The fire flames up in the vast country chimney, lightingup the whole room. The farmer and his wife, grumbling and blink-eyed, are seated in a corner.
The coffee is very hot; already we feel better. It is followed by a quart of broth. Then Varlet portions out to each man a small piece of calcined meat: the beefsteak for the noon meal.En route. And now begins what Reymond calls the "noble game of the beetroot field."
I am fully convinced that in times of peace beetroots are extremely useful. This year, however, they poison the very existence of the foot-soldier, already sufficiently embittered. Ploughing one's way through fields of beetroots is enough to make one hate the war. Your foot twists and slips about in all directions. Hurled forward, you bruise your nose against the haversack of the man in front. Pulled backward, you receive from the man behind a blow in your ribs with the butt-end of his rifle. The night air is filled with groans and complaints. Where are we going? How can the officers find their way in the dark? One after another, feeling our way, each man runs in the wake of a fugitive shadow. On reaching the edge of the wood, we lose the path. The column is broken. Which direction are we to take? The wrong one, of course. Then heart-breaking rushes to and fro; we find every company except our own. Finally, day appears.
Arrival at the trenches. Distribution of shovels and picks, and quick—to work. A very pleasant form of exercise: if it is raining you wallowabout in mud; if it is dry you swallow sand all the time.
Close by us belch forth our 75's, which the Germans would fain dislodge. Gradually the enemy's artillery riddles the entire plain with shot of every calibre.
Nothing lessens that noisy good-humour peculiar to ourselves. The only thing that troubles us is with reference to eating and drinking. At such times as these, this is no easy problem to solve in the case of persons endowed with a good appetite. Only a few days ago we had scruples about cleanliness, and seized every opportunity of washing ourselves. Now we never think of it. It takes an effort to imagine what life must have been like in the good old times of peace and civilization—forty days ago!
I have not had my shoes off since we left Villers-Cotterets.
Roberty dispatches Jules, his orderly, to hunt about for something fit to eat. Off goes Jules; he is a man of poaching instincts, and being of seductive manners, receives unlimited credit. Along difficult paths, known to none but himself, he reaches Ambleny, or Ressons, or Gorgny. After several hours' absence he returns in triumph, bringing a large pot filled with an abominable cold stew which the squadron tastes.
"It is made of a rabbit and an old hen," he explains. "I had them cooked together, along with some potatoes to make it more consistent."
In a hugemusette, Jules has also brought somewhite bread just baked, a number of pears, two pots of preserves, and a few bottles of wine. "This is good cheer!" we say.
And so the day passes. If there is nothing to do we carve fantastic animals out of beetroots: one way of obtaining our revenge on that odious vegetable.
At twilight we give up our picks and shovels and go down towards the village. A second edition of the noble game of the beetroot field.
It is nine o'clock before we reach the farm. We receive our provision supplies, have them cooked, and eat our supper; it is nearly midnight before we are asleep. And we have to be up before three in the morning!
During the night of the 23rd, Roberty awakes us to give news of the war. In the first place—and this explains the French retreat after Charleroi—the enemy attacked us with no fewer than thirty-three corps. Then again, it appears that the Germans have recaptured oriental Prussia.... Consequently, we cannot trust too confidently in the Russian steam-roller.
We drop off to sleep again.
Thursday, 24th September.
The regiment crosses the Aisne along the bridge of boats, and passes through Port-Fontenoy, which the recent bombardments have severely tested. Those killed last Sunday have been removed by our engineers. Our goat stable is in ruins. It was indeed time for us to remove.
We reach a ravine close to the first line. The cannonade is more violent than ever.
The most recent news brought by the cooks state that Generals Castelnau and Maunoury, to be precise, have decided on a general offensive. The regiment is to take part in it.
What kind of special wire is it that connects a kitchen with headquarters? It is round the fires on which dinner is being cooked that we receive the most minute information regarding the slightest intentions of the heads of the army. This is due not only to the power of divination possessed by cooks, but also to the fact that these latter, when they go every evening to the train for a supply of eatables, are brought in contact with the drivers who have come from the rear.
Milliard, the postman of the company, arrives with two bags full of letters. Everybody rushes up to him. These are the first letters that have reached us since we left Humes. Milliard calls out the names. All round him are the chief corporals of the squadron who answer "Present!" for the men, and often, alas! "Dead!" "Wounded!" or "Missing!"
Regarding the letters, a brilliant idea has at last entered Roberty's brain. He says: "If each company's letters are called out before the men of the company, instead of shouting them before an indiscriminate mass or before nobody at all, the letters themselves and those for whom they are destined would have a better chance of being brought together." The commander has sanctioneda trial of the system. Sergeant Milliard, of the 24th, searches in the bags. Knowing us well by name, he finds our letters. Wonderful! Some of the men burst into tears; others slip away, their trembling hands grasping the precious missives on which the familiar handwriting is seen.
Such excess of happiness emboldens one, and Milliard is asked, though in somewhat hesitating accents—
"Suppose I entrust you with a letter, what will become of it?"
"I will take it to the postman's van for you."
The deuce!
"And you think it will reach its destination?"
"Certainly; I can promise you that."
Thereupon the letter is timidly placed in Milliard's hands.
About five in the afternoon, Charensac assures us with a knowing air—
"Castelnau has put off the attack."
Friday, 25th; Saturday, 26th; Sunday, 27th September.
We recross the Aisne and again begin to dig holes. The trenches are soon deep enough, covered with foliage. We rest, surrounded by picks and shovels. It is very hot. Some write or talk; others roll about on the grass.
The shells mostly pass far above our heads. Of a sudden, however, three of them burst too near to be pleasant. Quickly returning to our holes, we form a carapace. Is it over? No, a fourth explosion is heard. But no harm is done.
Monday, 28th September.
The night is spent guarding the bridge of boats so heroically defended on the 20th by a company of engineers. No incident worth mentioning; a few spent bullets fall near the sentry-box.
In the morning we mount to the trenches and the day is spent idling about the grass. We have surrounded a corner of the meadow with branches of trees, sharpened and driven into the ground. No enemy, however excellent his observation glasses, could possibly discover our whereabouts. It is almost as peaceful as under the apple-tree ofPère Achille. A fencing match, with sticks for swords.